#and though you know better it still stings

[zepskies]

Headcanon: Body Insecurity/Appreciation

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader

AN: This one was requested by one of my lovely Patreon members, @roseblue373. 💜 It's a special one to me personally, being plus-sized myself and having gone through my share of insecurities. Wish I had one of these guys to make it better lol!~

Prompt/Request: Great job with the latest Dean/Beau/Ben reacts vignettes! I'd love to see one where reader has put on weight and isn't happy with their body, and how each would make her feel better!! IF the muse agrees, of course! ❤️

HC: How Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to your body insecurity.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Established relationship, body insecurity (but also body appreciation), thicc thirty, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, spiciness/smuttishness.

Dean Winchester

You've started breezing past mirrors when you get out of the shower.

Because if you catch sight of your own reflection, you can't help but utter a sigh, your lips dipping into a frown.

In the privacy of the room you share with Dean in the bunker, you take a risk in unwrapping the towel from your body in front of the mirror.

You inspect yourself with growing dejection, noting all the places that are rounder, heavier, less firm than they used to be.

Looks like no amount of running down leads and killing monsters has been enough to keep you in shape.

Too much shitty fast food, too many times you indulged yourself with snacks and dessert alongside your foodie boyfriend.

"What'cha doin', sweetheart?" Dean asks. He steps into the room while wiping donut icing from the corner of his mouth.

Speak of the devil.

When Dean finally catches you frowning at yourself in the mirror, you inhale sharply and close the towel back up.

"Nothing. Just need to get dressed," you reply quickly. "Shower's open."

You try to offer him a smile, despite the pang of jealousy when you eye him.

He gave you the first chance at the shower after the latest case wrapped up, so he's still wearing most of his FBI suit, sans jacket. The white dress shirt is rolled up to his elbows, a few days of scruff neatly trimmed across his cheeks.

The man can cram an entire pizza down his gullet and wash it down with three slices of apple pie, not to mention countless beers. And still, Dean stays looking downright edible.

By comparison, you feel...fat. Like you've let yourself go.

You turn away from him to grab your well-worn sweatpants and an oversized shirt; you plan to change alone in the bathroom, but Dean grabs your arm.

"Who says you need to get dressed?" he says, popping his brows with a suggestive grin. He slips his arms around your waist, but your instinct is to shy away from his hold. You chuckle awkwardly and avoid his now curious gaze.

"Sorry, babe. Um...I'm wiped. I just want to get to bed," you say.

But Dean isn't fooled. His spidey sense is tingling, and his gut is almost never wrong.

His hand slides down your arm and grasps your hand, tugging you back into his arms. You utter a little gasp, but you ultimately smile at his familiar grin. There's a perceptive gleam in his eyes though.

"You know, seems like you've been pretty wiped lately," he says, raising a brow. "It's been a while since we, uh..."

He waggles his brows playfully, squeezing your hips. You want to smile, but you can't let yourself. You can't quite look at him either.

For Dean, it's another glaring red flag. His lips form a frown, and he dips his chin to find your eyes.

"Hey," he says. "What's goin' on? Talk to me."

His tone is so sincere, you have to blink against the sting of tears. Your lower lip wobbles, and Dean frowns in earnest. He presses a hand to your cheek and gets you to look at him with your watery eyes.

"Sweetheart, you gotta tell me what's wrong," he says, more gently, but serious.

Eventually, you're able to get it out. You can't bear the thought of him touching you, because lately, you can't even bear looking at yourself.

"I know I've been gaining weight, I just..." your voice breaks, and you gesture haphazardly at your body. "I'd get it if you're not really into this right now."

Dean's heart clenches. He's downright shocked at your confession, and more than a little disheartened. He presses a hand to your cheek and guides you to look at him.

"All right, hold up just one damn minute."

His calloused fingers gently brush away your tears, but his hands keep moving, slowly traveling down your body. They slide down your bare arms, skimming the sides of your breasts.

Your breath hitches. Your hand is still fisted over your beating heart, keeping your towel closed. His hands continue to move, molding to the curve of your waist over the fuzzy fabric.

"I'll admit, we've been pretty busy lately with everything we've got going on. But if you think that means I'm ever not into this delectable, sexy, voluptuous, goddess body you got rockin' the house?" he says, grinning that utterly Dean grin of his.

You bite your lip against a bubble of laughter. He's too fucking much sometimes.

Dean tugs you closer, until your hips fit snugly against his through his slacks. His tall, broad frame crowds you. His lips skim your cheek, then over your lips in a tease.

He squeezes the flesh of your hips, tender and sensuous.

Your heart flutters at the feeling.

"Mmm, I like you nice and soft," he murmurs against your cheek, close to your ear. "Feels that much better when I fuck you."

A small gasp gets trapped in your throat, while the gravel depths in his voice go straight to your pussy in a pulsing throb of warmth.

By the time he claims your lips in a devouring kiss, you're all too willing to let him peel your towel open, drop it to the floor, and guide you backwards onto the bed.

There he'll take his time, forging yet another mental map of every plush square inch of you.

Beau Arlen

Beau is a busy man. You understand that.

As Sheriff, his job demands a lot from him. He's also a father and has an ex-wife to contend with. (You knew that going in, and you've come to love Emily too.)

However, you can't help but start to take it personally when your sex life begins to suffer. He's often claimed being tired...but there's another suspicion that's been taking root in your mind, feeding your doubts and insecurities about how your boyfriend sees you, and about how you see yourself.

When you slip into bed at night, a kiss goodnight is all he gives you lately, before he's sighing deeply and closing his eyes, his soft snores soon filling the room.

One night, you try touching his shoulder, leaning in to kiss his bearded cheek. He hums at the pleasant feeling.

"You wanna...?" You trail the question in his ear, pressing more sweet kisses down his neck.

"Aw, sweetheart," he groans. "I'd like to, but I think I'd just smother you. I'm about to pass out."

You huff a laugh. You teasingly walk two fingers across his chest. "What if I make it easy for you?"

You shift onto your side. Resting a hand on his chest, you lean down to kiss him. He hums at the softness of it, but the more passion you try to imbue into each new kiss, Beau isn't as responsive as you would like. Eventually, you stop all together.

You frown, becoming disheartened. "You're not into this, I guess."

He opens his tired eyes, gazes up at you in apology. He opens his mouth to reply, but you beat him to it.

"You know it's been a month since we've had sex," you say.

Beau frowns, sliding a hand up your back. Only now does he notice, with appreciation, the familiar silky négligée you're wearing.

"Nah, that doesn't sound right," he says.

"Well, it is," you say. "I know you say you're tired, but I mean, you've had this job for as long as I've known you, Beau." Your eyes fall away from him. "So is the job, or...is it me?"

Beau's brows furrow. "Now wait a minute."

The mere thought dredges up what's been plaguing your mind recently, and it has your throat tightening. Tears of embarrassment and upset well up in your eyes, no matter how much you try to push it down.

You push away from him and turn away, crossing your arms. You try not to look at yourself in what used to be your favorite lingerie.

You can't stand the extra weight you've put on, mostly in your hips and ass, but in your middle and arms too.

You've gone through your own stress at work this year, with less and less time to try and take care of yourself, along with making sure Emily gets to and from school, cooking for the three of you, going to PTA meetings when Carla can't make it (since Beau often can't), and every other proverbial hat you wear.

Beau follows you, sitting up and laying a hand on your back. "Sweetheart--"

"I know I've put on a few. Hell, more than a few," you admit, hastily wiping under your eyes. "God, I can't even look at myself right now, let alone have you--"

"Hey. You stop right there," Beau says, more firmly. He gets you to turn around with his hand on your shoulder. He doesn't like the way you're curled in on yourself, as if hiding your body from his gaze.

That, and the sight of your tears damn well break his heart.

He cups the side of your face gently and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, followed closely by your lips.

You don't want to melt, but you just can't help it. You cling to the front of his shirt and lean into his kiss, like you've been lost in the desert, and his lips hold the breath of life.

You almost don't realize it when his arms slip around your waist. He earns a surprised yelp from you when he gathers you close against his chest and rolls you underneath him.

You land against the pillows in a huff. You stare up at his playful smile, his green eyes glinting with amusement, with fondness, and also with desire as they roam over your breasts, barely contained by dark green satin and lace.

"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" he says. His voice is a low, earthy drawl as his gaze rakes over you. His big hand runs down your side and over your hip, then down your bare thigh, squeezing soft, tender flesh. He slips that hand under the satin night gown.

His hand can't span your entire thigh, but it's not for lack of trying. Your heart beats a staccato rhythm at the way he looks at you, your breath hitching when his thumb dips between your legs, brushing against the damp, silky fabric of your panties.

"It's not because I don't find you sexy as hell. Believe me, darlin', I do," he says. "You're so fuckin' beautiful, especially when you're all laid out for me here."

And he means what he says. You know it by the hardness you feel pressing against your hip. You slip your fingers into his hair with a sigh.

He bows his head to press kisses along your neck; down and down, he noses at the thin strap of your night gown. His path of kisses continue, and he indulges himself by dipping his tongue between the valley of your breasts.

"Filling out this lacy little thing so nice," he murmurs into your skin.

Your upset has turned to abject relief, but you still have to blink away the remaining urge to cry.

You let out a slightly tremulous breath.

"Oh, yeah?" you ask.

Beau pauses. He pulls away, just so he can look up and meet your eyes. He still finds insecurity in yours, so he meets you with a kiss filled with heat and intent.

He's now wide awake. He plans to take his sweet time taking you apart, inch by inch.

In fact, in the back of his mind, he also plans to do better about letting his deputies help him out more at the precint so he can have a better work-life balance.

(Because going a whole damn month without the taste of you is "no bueno," in his words.)

Soldier Boy (Ben)

The man may not be very patient, or particularly perceptive, but he's not an idiot.

At least, not about sex.

He knows that you've been feigning tiredness, and generally avoiding his touch.

What's strange is that you haven't been avoiding him. You still cook for him, still share conversation with him, still insist on having him spoon you on the couch while catching him up on the past four decades of TV shows and movies.

But when he begins to sneak a hand under your oversized shirt (an old one of Ben's), caressing your hip, then dipping down to your softer stomach on the way to your panties, breaking your concentration from the movie as unease laces down your spine.

You grab his wrist on reflex, instead lacing your fingers together.

"What's the matter now?" he asks.

You look over your shoulder at him and find him frowning at you, a divot between his brows. You don't manage to hold his gaze for long.

"Sorry," you say quietly. "I'm just, um, tired."

Ben doesn't believe you, and he's direct when he calls you out on it.

Reluctant to put what you've been feeling into words, you pause the movie and leave the couch (and him) behind.

Ben is annoyed enough to follow you (and underneath, he hides an edge of concern). The conflict leads into the bedroom, where you're still unwilling to open up.

He finally stops you from walking away from him, pinning you against the dresser by your hips. He practically looms over you as he demands an answer. He knows you're hiding something — something that's had you reluctant to let him touch you.

"Is there something you wanna tell me?" he says, a raw edge of warning in his tone. "What, are you fucking somebody else?"

Shock flashes in your eyes, making you angry. "What? No!"

"Well, you seem to be getting your fill somewhere, and it hasn't been from me--"

"Are you fucking serious? I'm not..." Your lips purse. You're actually hurt that he would hurl that accusation your way--and it couldn't be farther from the truth.

You tug your long shirt downwards and cross your arms, but it's more like you're hugging yourself, shielding your body away.

Ben's brows furrow a little bit more.

Eventually you get it out; you haven't been feeling up to being intimate because you're having a hard time even looking at yourself lately.

"I know I need to, um, get back in shape," you say, taking in a shaky breath to try and steady yourself. Your throat constricts, the beginnings of tears stinging your eyes. You want to look at anywhere but at Ben. "I just haven't had much time, with everything going on. But Annie gave me this guide on some different diets, like intermittent fasting, Keto--"

"Fasting," Ben intones. "What, you wanna fucking starve yourself? What the fuck is Keto?"

You sigh, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

"No, not starve myself. And Keto's just..." The idea of trying to explain the new diet craze to your boyfriend is too daunting a task to consider. "Never mind. The point is, I have a plan. My hips, my thighs, my ass--"

Ben squeezes your hips at the mention of them. He happens to like the softness.

"Yeah, you've got a little extra. So fucking what?" he says, his voice deep and exacting as his gaze roams over your body. "Just gives me more to hold onto when I'm fucking you."

You utter a shocked laugh. "Ben!"

He grins lazily, and he turns you this way and that, admiring you from all angles. In his eyes, he doesn't find a side he doesn't like. You can't help but blush hotly under his gaze.

"Sweetheart, do whatever you want if it makes you feel good. But you don't need to starve yourself." His hands move to your ass, squeezing a bit harder on the plush flesh.

A yelp escapes you; he's pressing into you from the front as well, and you feel him heavy and already half-hard against you. You grab onto his arms for stability as your breaths quicken.

His attitude kind of surprises you, even though it soothes the frayed, insecure part of your soul that wants to be as beautiful and attractive in his eyes as he is in yours.

Ben is literally a super soldier. You're actually kind of jealous. The man can drug and booze hard and eat whatever the hell he wants, but his super metabolism just seems to absorb it into his washboard abs.

(The more you think about it, the more you want to smack him.)

Nothing about him isn't hard and lean, muscle and strength.

Only his hands have a measure of gentleless when they're holding you like this.

"I've just got so many stretch marks now," you begin to complain, in an emotional whisper.

He snorts. "And? You think it's anything I haven't seen? I'm not afraid of a little cellulite either."

At that, your head tilts in consideration. Butcher's Granny Fucker remark comes to mind. You bite your lip against a smirk.

Ben crooks a curled finger under your chin. He guides you to meet his eyes, before he lures you into a lusty kiss.

It's somewhat rough because of his beard, but you still smile afterwards, leaning against him now.

"Ain't nothing about you that I can't handle," he adds, all smirking and cocky. To prove his point, he hooks those strong hands behind your thighs and lifts you onto the dresser.

You gasp and cling to his shoulders. From there, he makes quick work of ridding the oversized shirt from your body, revealing you to the cool air and his hot gaze.

You take his face in your hands and bring him in for an even steamier kiss, your heart lighter and trembling with anticipation.

You've held yourself from him long enough, Ben thinks, and he has every intention of devouring you right on your old dresser -- before you two even get to the bed.

AN: 😮‍💨 I feel like each of these could've been even longer with their own one-shot loll. I wrote the Midnight Espresso-verse for Dean, partially to explore what his relationship would be like with a plus-sized reader. 💖💖

Let me know which one you liked most this time!

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[pandapetals]

hii!! i thought maybe you could do a little oneshot of logan giving reader a massage?? thanks :p

Hi! I love this. How could I not.

logan howlett x fem!reader - fluff, playful banter, logan giving a massage, no y/n used, no reader description

“I’m fine,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time, though the fifth roll of your shoulder betrayed you. The stiffness refused to let up, sending another sharp twinge of discomfort down your back. You winced but quickly masked it with a sigh. “I just slept wrong, that’s all.”

Logan cocked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was debating whether to smirk or argue. “Uh-huh.”

You shot him a glare. 

“You don’t look great pretending you’re not in pain,” he shot back, his gravelly voice tinged with exasperation. Before you could protest, he was on his feet, crossing the room with that unhurried, predatory ease he always carried. He plucked the book you were holding right out of your hands and tossed it onto the coffee table, ignoring your indignant squeal.

“Logan—”

“Sit,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument as he gently but firmly steered you toward the sofa. “And don’t start with the stubborn routine. You’ve been wincing all damn morning, and it’s startin’ to make me twitchy.”

“I wasn’t wincing!”

“You winced every time you reached for your coffee,” he deadpanned, nodding toward the mug on the table. “And don’t get me started on the sound you made when you dropped your phone. What was that, a squeak or a groan? Sounded like a distressed squirrel.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, though you tried to smother it with a scowl. “Fine, fine. You win. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he said dryly, but his expression softened as he sat down behind you. His large hands settled on your shoulders, the weight of them warm and grounding. “Now relax, or this ain’t gonna work.”

You tried to relax, really, but the moment his thumbs pressed into the knot near your shoulder blade, your breath hitched. “Ow, okay, that’s—ow—Logan!”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he drawled, not sounding remotely sorry as his thumbs worked deeper into the knot. “Guess I’m not as gentle as a spa masseuse. But hey, they don’t come with claws, so you’re still gettin’ the better deal.”

“Debatable,” you muttered, though the tension in your voice softened as his hands moved with practiced precision. The roughness of his palms was offset by the surprising care in his touch, strong enough to work out the knots but never crossing into actual pain. The sharp sting melted into warm, almost pleasant. You exhaled slowly, letting your head tilt forward as he worked.

“See? Told ya you were wound up,” he said, his voice quieter, almost soothing. “What’d you do, sleep on a bed of rocks?”

“It’s called side-sleeping,” you mumbled. 

“Yeah, well, you ain’t meant to twist yourself into a pretzel while you sleep.” His hands shifted, his knuckles brushing against the back of your neck as he started working down the curve of your spine. “Next time, maybe don’t fight me when I tell ya to stretch after training.”

“Next time, maybe don’t spar like you’re trying to kill me.”

“That was me going easy on ya,” he teased, the low rumble of his laugh vibrating against your back. “Admit it, you’d miss me if I wasn’t around to kick your ass.”

You cracked a grin despite yourself. “I’d miss you if you didn’t know how to give a killer massage, that’s for sure.”

He snorted, his hands pausing as if to consider whether to keep going or make you regret the quip. Finally, he gave your shoulder one last firm squeeze, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Good as new,” he said, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You rolled your shoulder experimentally, surprised at how much lighter it felt. “Okay, okay, fine. Thank you, Logan.”

“Damn right.” He grinned, leaning forward to ruffle your hair before you could stop him. “Now quit makin’ that face before it sticks, or I’ll really give ya somethin’ to wince about.”

[yeokii]

DEJA VU ⏖ ꒪ 이희승

CHAPTER TWENTY TW0 ⎯ let you go

warnings profanity, mentions of organs, ignore timestamps

The park at night felt calm, unlike the many thoughts that roamed in your head. The only thing you could hear was the slight wind that rushed beneath your feet as you sat at a bench next to a dimly lit street lamp. Your trail of thoughts were broken when you heard a set of footsteps approaching that belonged to none other than Heeseung.

He changed in these three months. Ofcourse, the different hair colour and the freshly pierced earring added to his charm, but he looked a bit unsettled like he was waiting for this to happen.

When your eyes locked, his gaze changed. To the same look you were familiar with and grew a liking to.

“You came?” His voice cracked slightly, not believing that you actually showed up after everything.

You could only smile at him, “You called.”

He sat beside you, joining you in observing the scenery, a sigh leaving his mouth.

“I really don’t know how else to do this…” He said, running his hand through his freshly blond hair

“I guess you heard the song.” You murmed, your words trailing off.

“Yeah, the lyrics felt a bit familiar.” He joked, to lighten up the tensed atmosphere at which you chuckled a bit.

It was this which you missed. The heeseung before everything happened. The Heeseung who you could run to whenever you had a bad day. The Heeseung that disappeared when Julia came into his life. There was a short silence before he started speaking again.

“I’m really sorry about everything. I realized that the mature thing to do was to speak to you about my feelings earlier.” He turned his gaze to his lap.

“It’s better to get it out now than never, Heeseung.”

Ouch.

Even though he was with Julia now, it felt cold that your nickname for him didn’t come out of your mouth.

“I guess I liked the attention I got from Julia, I don't know how else to put it.” He sighed. “I guess it felt different from before, it felt new. And I pushed you away because I didn't want to feel guilty about it. I just didn’t want to deal with my consequences so I pushed it away even further.”

The raw and real confession you got felt like a sharp stab right into the heart. You knew something like this was coming, but why did it hurt so bad? You’ve imagined this scenario countless times yet it felt so unfamiliar, like you were hearing it for the first time.

“I didn’t move on either..” You said softly, your steady voice couldn’t hide the sharp sting of the truth. “I really tried, but I just couldn’t. Not when it's you who I have to move on from. But I also can’t go back to you.”

Heeseung nodded slowly, the only thing he could do was sit there in silence and understand your overwhelmed feelings.

"I’m sorry, Yn," Heeseung said, his voice barely a whisper. "For everything."

You smiled faintly, the glint of sadness could be shown in your eyes. "It’s okay. It’s just... time, I guess."

The words that felt simple, hurt so bad like it opened a wound.

It hurt. But you needed to let go.

“How’s the group? How is everyone?” Heeseung said, breaking the silence.

“They’re good. They’ve been helping me with my solo debut. I’m just glad that they’re here though.” You smiled at the thought of your members who thought of you as their sister.

“Hmm, do you still remember when we first met?” Heeseung reminisced . “It was with one of your members, I think—Jihye to be specific.”

“I do, she kept giving you mean looks the entire time.

“I don’t think she liked me.”

“She doesn’t like men.”

“I can tell.”

“Do you remember the night right after we met, we snuck out of practice to come to this park and eat tteokbokki.” You both chuckled, your nostalgic teenage past flashed in front of your eyes.

Back then, the most you would worry about was waking up on time to practice and hiding yours and Heeseung’s relationship from your pestering managers. If only you could go back in time to warn your younger self from not falling any deeper to hurt yourself even more.

It felt foolish, really. A young naive girl falling in love with the dorky trainee which would lead up to your first and worst heartbreak. You were sitting at the exact place where he first confessed. The deja vu almost felt like a fever dream.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes, and it was like the world stopped moving for a moment. No more distractions, no more fights. Just you, and him.

“I’m really glad we did this,” You said quietly.

Heeseung nodded. "Yeah… me too."

You took a deep breath, your gaze moving from his face to the empty path in front of you.

"I hope you have a good life, seung," you said, the words so full of unspoken emotion that it almost hurt to say them. "I really do."

Heeseung swore he heard a slight crack when that nickname that he was very fond of came out of your mouth.

Heeseung smiled, a bittersweet face. “Me too, Y/n”

That lingering look he had when you got up, the resolved yet hurtful atmosphere between you two. Everything felt almost unreal.

You bid him goodbye, his gaze still on you. But this time, you didn't look back. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the urge to look back.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 m.list ★ !

YE0KII'S N0TE ?! oh em gee... im actually DONE with this smau ive been dragging for like a year thats genuinely insane!!!! tysm for the support and interest you've given to read this and make it this far (no like literally it was HELL me and my iPad against the world) lowk mad happy that this ended but maybe a bit sad BUT ANYWAYS hope you liked this ending heh

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© yeokii — do not copy, repost, translate any of my works on any platform

[sunny374940]

I will be waiting with open arms

Do you remember when I said I made myself sad with a story about Emmrich dying? Guess what I've finished? I made myself cry and now I am making this fic everyone's problem.

Emmrich dies at the age of ninety seven and Rook, who is seventy two now, receives one last letter from his love.

Cw: major character death (offscreen, not described)

Hello, @mercars-musings I am here to deal emotional damage

(Next up is Pining 2.0 Emmrich's POV, starring Davrin and Assan as wingmen, because I need the sad to go away)

Here on ao3

Edit: here is part 2

And here are my other stories

There was a knock on the door and Rook dragged himself out of his armchair with a sigh. The chair next to his own was glaringly empty and he felt his eyes sting with more tears, so he wiped them away and went to see just who had decided to bother him right after the funeral.

“GREETINGS, ROOK,” Vorgoth said as the door opened.

“Hi, Vorgoth. Is everything alright?”

They’d met at the service, so why would he come to visit him at home?

“THIS IS FOR YOU.”

Vorgoth was handing him an envelope and the neat handwriting on it was unmistakably Emmrich’s. Rook stared at it, at a loss for words, and when he looked up, Vorgoth was gone. There was a single word on the envelope - Rook. He opened it and took out the letter, noticing that the paper was crinkled in a few places, letters smudged as if waterstained. His legs were suddenly very weak and he felt that he should sit back down before he read it, so he settled back into the armchair.

9th of Parvulis, 9:94 Dragon

My darling Rook,

I have entrusted this letter into Vorgoth’s care, to be delivered to you after my funeral. I hope you can forgive an old man's wish to have one last goodbye.

I can feel the span of my days drawing to a close at last. I have lived a long life, longer than most, and even though a better half of it was spent waiting for you to come into it, I wouldn’t exchange the time we had together for anything.

I have made peace with my demise, as should you, my dear. I'm sure you are frowning right now, disagreeing with me, but it is true. Those fears that plagued me are long buried in the past, overshadowed by the joy of having lived my life to the fullest. With you. For what would eternity be without you there? Death seems a small price to pay for what you've given me.

As I look out the window at the yellowing leaves of our cherry tree, I find myself thinking back to the day you married me. You looked so beautiful with the flowers in your hair and I was the happiest man in the world. As I am even now. I am honored beyond words that you chose to take me as your husband and stay with me for all those years, even as I grew old (I can see you bristling at the word, but ninety seven years is hardly young, by my count).

I’d never expected such happiness to find its way to me, yet here I am, blessed with a family that has grown so much since the time it was just the two of us and Manfred. First little Elanora, and what a wonderful woman she has grown into!

And I still cannot believe that I got to have not just children, but a grandchild as well. Rupert (do you remember how I cried, when Ellie chose the name?) has grown so much. It feels impossible that he is already fifteen and well on his way to becoming a man. I am actually waiting for him to come visit as I write this and I hope to hide away the tears before the boy arrives. I don't need to ask you to take care of them, for I know you will.

I love you, Rook. I love you, I love you, I love you. I have told you every day and yet it doesn't feel like enough.

Please, do not spend too long mourning me. Live out your days, take joy in our family and know that you were the brightest light of my life.

Goodbye, darling, may we meet again in the afterlife. I will be waiting for you with open arms. And do visit the Memorial Gardens in the meantime, I will be there in spirit.

Forever yours,

Emmrich

Rook's hands were shaking, making the paper flutter in his grip. The tears started falling, landing on the letter and he quickly set it down on the side table, terrified of destroying Emmrich’s last words to him.

He was crying, ugly heaving sobs were tearing their way out of him and he couldn't stop himself. He buried his face in his hands. He hadn't cried like this at the funeral, couldn't allow himself to, but now the weight of it all was coming down on him. After what felt like hours the tears dried up and he was staring numbly ahead. Distantly, he heard footsteps coming closer.

“Dad?”

Ellie's hand was on his back, the gesture so similar to how Emmrich used to touch him that he choked back another sob.

“Hi, bug,” he whispered, and this once she didn't reprimand him for using her childhood nickname.

There were tears streaming down her face as well and he opened his arms for her. She climbed into his lap, draping her arms around his neck and he was young again and she was five years old, crying over a skinned knee. But this time the wound ran deeper and they held each other through the tears.

“I miss him so much,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “It felt like he would be here forever and now he's gone. I hate it!”

“I know, El. I hate it too,” he said, stroking her back in soothing circles, much like he had seen Emmrich do so many times before and why did everything have to remind him of Emmrich when he was gone!

But weren't the memories just the thing? He knew that Emmrich would say that they should take comfort in the memories they had of him, of the life they shared, instead of mourning what they could no longer have. He sighed and even Ellie's sobs were finally quieting down.

“Hey, bug?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna come with me to the Memorial Gardens? I could tell you again about how me and you daddy met.”

“I'd love that, dad.”

She smiled at him and the world slowly began setting itself right again.

[syoddeye]

the warren, ten - curious

price x f!reader | 3k words | series page | ao3 tags: mine/underground, gaslighting, minor injury, dual pov a/n: john takes you on a trip.🔪

"There she is. Mind locking it behind you, darl? We're closing early."

John doesn't look up from the register drawer. The bills of cash look like monopoly money in his hands. He licks the tip of his thumb and sorts through the stack, the creases in his brow cutting deep. When he's done, he tucks the tender into a scuffed leather envelope.

Embarrassment warms your face as you realize you've never handled this part of the job before. Not even when you've closed alongside him. He must always take care of it, or leave it undone until later. It stings a little. Peels up a sticking corner of your faith. He must not trust you to manage the till. You bite back a comment, shelving it for later. You have enough on your mind, thoughts teetering precariously like a cup filled to the brim, held in only by surface tension.

"Heard you went on an adventure today."

"I did."

"Gotta tell you, love, hate that you didn't ask for a ride," He sets the envelope down and slots the register back into place. He fixes you with a heavy stare, chin tucking toward his chest. "And that you went on foot."

"It's not that far. I've walked further, in the desert." You smile, trying to ease his mood, and remind him you aren't as helpless as he may believe.

But it doesn't work. If anything, your nonchalance hardens him further. 

"Yeah? Are there bears in the desert? Cougars?"

It's strange. No, not strange. This is not out of character. John's been like this since you met. Set in his ways, immovable in his convictions, the master of his domain. However he thinks things should go, how the world should spin, it's only a hair beneath the natural laws themselves. Still, you thought you moved beyond that with him and fell outside his mantle of authority. The slight condescension in his tone and body language? It needles you. Your hackles rise. It makes you think of your dad. Of Dusty. 

"There are cougars, actually. Coyotes, too. Snakes, bighorns…" You fold your arms. "Even met a surly jackrabbit, once."

John stares hard, thumb picking at a sliver of laminate peeling loose. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. When he finally speaks, his face softens, tired lines overtaking the sharp ones. Worry seeps through the cracks like water through stone. "That so? Well. If you've taken on the desert before…"

He pushes off the counter then steps around and into the gap. The offer is clear, and you meet him halfway, pressing a kiss to his lips. It's a quiet thing, your apology tucked between tongues. When you part, you rest your head on his chest. His hand glides up your spine.

"Sorry to make you worry."

"S'alright. Stopped worrying when Soap texted that he ran into you outside the library. Bookworm couldn't wait for her next read, eh?"

That sneak. Soap must've texted when you were distracted on the drive.

Your eyes fall to the tortoiseshell button on John's shirt, rising and falling with his breathing. A loose thread sticks out from it. You relate to it.

"Yes and no," you say, lifting your head. "I woke up curious." You lick your lips, thinking about what you'd told Soap in the truck. How he reacted when you said you might get to know everyone better, should you winter in the Panhandle. "If I'm going to stay here, I want to learn more about the area."

"S'pose the library's the place to learn. Though, you could've asked me, too."

All roads lead back to John, and you'd taken the turn willingly the moment you got on your knees for him. The moment you fell into his bed.

"You were busy."

"You couldn't wait?" He echoes and it purses your lip. 

Your hackles stir again. Your fraying nerves are to blame, not him. You'll feel better once you let it out.

"Are you busy now?"

"Need to make some deliveries. Ride with me."

Another truck, another conversation about madness. You help load the bed with odds and ends. John's occupation as shop owner and local Renaissance man keeps him busy. He points out a lamp he rewired. Hand tools he sharpened. A bicycle, sporting a new chain and front tire.

The comfortable rhythm between you returns, but you feel his thumb at the edges of you. Prying like he did with that bit of laminate on the counter, trying to ease you open. He wants to know what compelled you to walk the miles to Ponderosa, to sit in the library all day.

He knows you well enough to give you space, to make you feel safe before asking. That's one of the reasons you think you might love him.

John drives, you talk. You tell him everything, skipping over Phil's ominous text and the hold waiting under your name. The hold becomes a random book plucked off a library shelf and how its defacement spurred a morbid fascination with the collapse that swallowed nearly a hundred men.

The lie slips out smoother than you'd like. You hate that it's easier now, that you can meet his eyes as you reshape the truth. He doesn't twitch or look over suspiciously. He just listens. It makes it easier to tell yourself that omission and white lies—they're not deceit, not really.

But when you get to the part about your discovery, you waver. You stumble over your words, starting and stopping like burrs catching and pulling at the fabric of your story.

John glances at you then, quick but pointed. You tugged a thread and he felt the give.

Your explanation is shoddier the second time around. 

"...and he looked exactly like Alex. I swear." 

John doesn't respond immediately. He pulls the truck off to the side of the road, stopping in front of a mailbox at the end of a long drive. Without a word, he turns the engine off, climbs out, and heads to the back.

You hear the faint click of the bicycle wheel as it spins, the dull thunk as he pulls it free. Watching through the side mirror, you see him push it to the mailbox and prop it there. He stands beside it for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, shoulders slumped.

When he turns back and catches you staring, he gives you a small, uncertain smile, sheepish and laced with pity. You drop your gaze to your shoes.

He thinks you're crazy, too. Perfect.

You're a quarter mile down the road when he finally speaks.

"That's quite the claim."

"I know. I know how it sounds. But John, if you saw him, you'd think the same thing. It's uncanny." You sigh. Every word is a shovelful of dirt. "Soap suggested it was his grandfather or something. Do you know if Alex has roots here?"

"Well, we all have roots here," He smiles a little and reaches over, brushing a hand over your knee. "But if I remember correctly, I believe he was born and raised here."

You nod. That is a comfort. It should be a comfort. It's not that you don't believe John. It's more so you want proof and know you're not sure you want to ask the man in question. Are you from here? Did your grandfather nearly die in a mine collapse?

Frustrated, you lay a hand over John's, tracing the cracks in his knuckles.

"That disappoint you?"

You shrug. "I guess I wanted a mystery."

He chuckles. "Like one of your books, no doubt."

"I suppose so." Though the unease lingers, stitched tight to your stomach lining and unwilling to unwind, you manage to smile. "I heard there's a memorial."

"There is. It's not for—"

"Tourists. Yeah, I know." His lip twitches, and you rush an apology into the gap. "Sorry for interrupting. It's just—who knows. I might not be a tourist in a few weeks. I want to know this place and the people."

That lands differently and with intent. It instantly smooths over your poor manners. His fingers stretch, drumming thoughtfully on the inside of your knee.

"We can visit, if you'd like. You'll see why they don't put in the brochures."

Your eyes widen, surprised he's indulging your curiosity.

"I'd love to. When should we go?"

The truck jerks as he brakes on a patch of gravel, a small spray of rocks pinging against the undercarriage. Dust blooms behind you like smoke.

He grins, a glint of something wild in his eyes. It's conspiratorial like the two of you are teenagers sneaking off to do something you shouldn't.

"Still light out, isn't it?"

~~

The Sawtooth Crest Mine doesn't feel so different from the ghost towns scattered across the Great Basin. A handful of sagging structures, burnt or crushed into rubble by weather and time. Others lean precariously on the verge of collapse.

You pass signs designating offices and a warehouse, bunkhouses, and a rec hall. You scan the empty windows and doorways as if you'll find answers or at least a hint.

The woods creep in, decades of reclamation around you.

After all the effort to get here, the memorial feels like a joke. A slab of stone with a tarnished plaque bolted onto the front. The text is largely illegible, worn down, and that's what's left. It looks like someone took a pickaxe to the rest of it.

You step closer, brushing your fingers over the pitted stone. John stands back, letting you have the moment. It feels intrusive, like standing at a stranger's grave. You suppose you are, in a way. Some bodies are reported unrecoverable.

The thought makes the back of your neck itch.

John waits until you're done, then gestures toward the mine itself. The main entrance gapes wide, its opening barred with iron rods and sheet metal, wired tight like a broken jaw. While you stare through the gaps, imagining further in, John steps to the side, casually working the padlock on the access door. A click, the chain slithers to the ground in a pile, and the door swings open.

"What are you—Isn't it dangerous?"

"Been here loads of times," he grins. "Drinking with the lads, mucking around. C'mon, we won't go far."

The grin isn't much comfort, but when he beckons, you follow. He leads you into the yawning dark, pulling out an emergency light clipped to his keys, throwing a small pool of light that splashes over your feet and up the closest section of wall. You stick close, your shoulder brushing his arm as the daylight behind you fades.

As you walk along, he talks. He points out the skeletal remains of machinery, rusted carts, and tools that have sat untouched for decades. The damp air thickens with the smell of soil and rust. You reach a junction where two tunnels branch off from a central chamber, a lift cage sitting in the middle, waiting.

John points to it, voice bouncing off the walls as he explains how it worked, how the whole system of pulleys and tracks kept the mine running. About the hoist operators, and how they were 'jokingly' referred to as Saint Peter. 

It's leagues more than Dusty ever shared, more than you ever overheard at the company picnics where he kept you in the dark as his smiling but simple wife. The irony isn't lost on you—standing here now, in the dark, learning more about your husband's trade from another man than you had in years.

"How do you know so much?"

John shrugs, his proud smile cast in shadow. "Talking to old-timers at The Fox Hole. They've got stories for days, especially after a few pints." His hand worries the cable like he's feeling for a pulse. "Nikolai's worse than me. The know-it-all." Then, he steps closer, his hand finding the small of your back, pulling you to him. He presses a brief kiss to your forehead.

"Hate to be crass, but I've got to take a leak. Got your phone?"

You fumble it out of your pocket, holding it up. The model is too old for a flashlight, but you turn the brightness up as far as it'll go and point it at the ground.

"Good," He sounds far too at home as if you're not both standing in the belly of a dead mine. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

He glances between the tunnels, making his choice, before he starts down the left passage.

You watch the dark swallow him whole.

"Don't go too far."

There's an answer, but it's more sound than speech and further away than it should be. 

And then his footsteps recede.

The glow of your phone barely lights your shoes. You shift your weight, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the low simmer of unease in your stomach from boiling over into something embarrassing. The flesh clenched between your teeth heats anyway.

John isn't far. He's just around the corner. If you walk down that tunnel, you'll see.

Your feet move, body ahead of your brain, the hair on the back of your neck standing straight up.

Then you catch it—nostrils flaring. Wet dog, mixed with straw. Brimstone and iron. Your shoulders tighten, a shiver running down your arms, goosebumps raising. Folding them across your chest, phone pointed out, you continue, taking tiny half-steps. Shuffling.

The tunnel warms as you go. The walls sweat. Silver flecks reflect the dim light like the creature's eyes you saw out your window.

"John?" You mean to call out, though it shakes out in a whisper. It's like trying to scream in a nightmare, stuck under the thick ice of sleep. You try again. "John?" No better.

Behind you, a metallic creak cuts through the silence. You freeze. Then your feet find full strides, the shuffle turning into a hurried walk. Pebbles slide underfoot, and you glance down, stopping short when you see it—a sandy tuft of hair, coarse and matted, lying just beside your foot.

The phone light trembles as you crouch, about to pluck the tuft from the ground.

And then another noise.

A low, guttural rumble rolls through the tunnel. You snap upright, spinning toward the direction you came from, holding your phone out as if it's an actual torch. The light catches nothing, and the growl comes again. Deeper. Closer.

You run.

The light swings wildly as you stumble forward, colliding hard with a set of support beams. They groan and slightly give at the impact, a thick cloud of dust erupting straight into your face. You cough and spin, lunging down the left passage when the tunnel splits again, painfully aware of how hopelessly lost you're becoming.

Something brushes your elbow, and every nerve in your body sounds the alarm. You jerk forward instinctively, your feet sliding on loose gravel. The ground shifts, and suddenly, you're falling, the cold floor of the mine rushing up to meet you in a bone-rattling thud.

~~

You wake to a hand stroking your head. Your cheek rests on denim, rough but warm beneath you, and the rumble of an engine. You realize you're horizontal, stretched across the front seat of John's truck, your head resting on his thigh. The road bumps and jars you as the truck barrels forward.

"John?" Your voice cracks on his name.

The hand on your head pauses, then resumes, gentler. You tilt your head, blinking spots from your vision, and catch his worried glances. His face is tight, his jaw set. "You're alright. Took a spill, I think. Found you halfway down a tunnel in a heap."

You push upright despite his protests, wincing at the pull in your muscles. Your hand drifts to your forehead, where it throbs, and you flinch at a smear of sticky, drying blood. "What…?"

"Just a scrape. I checked it. Must've clocked yourself on the way down."

The truck jolts over a bump, and you steady against the door, staring at the trees blurring past. The sun is dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet as John speeds down the logging road. How long were you out?

"Thought I told you to stay put," John chides softly, a nervous smile twitching his lip. "What were you doing?"

The memory floods back. The growl. The chase. Something touched you.

You stare straight ahead, fingers feeling nothing when you check your elbow.

Sometimes our minds play tricks.

"I…I don't know." You force a shrug, licking your lips. "I don't know."

~~ 

John sees to your forehead. He dabs at the wound with a damp cloth, then spreads a layer of antibiotic over it with the tip of his finger. Twice, he asks if you're up to date on your tetanus shot, and twice, you confirm you are. 

When he smooths the bandage on, his thumbs press it into place. He gently kisses it, then tilts your chin and kisses your lips the same way.

"Skittish thing," he teases, though his eyes carry a tinge of regret. "Shouldn't have left you alone."

Before you can respond, he's kissing you again, deeper, his hands sliding down to steady you atop his kitchen table like you might slip away.

You don't slip at all. You end up underneath him.

~~~~

While his girl sleeps off the consequences of her walk, his lesson leaking out of her, John summons his Watcher.

Kate is a good woman. Useful. Steady under pressure, keen as her old man, maybe more. She shoulders the responsibility and knows better than to complain. Her father wore his duty like a crown and bore it as a source of pride. Kate treats it as a job. One she always gets done.

But she pushes it.

"Why the fed, John?" she flicks ash from her cigarette. "He was bound to give up and leave."

John picks his teeth. "Didn't like the way he looked at her."

Kate narrows her eyes, dragging smoke into her lungs. "Looking at a pretty woman isn't a crime. There'd be plenty more carcasses if it was." She exhales sharply. "You broke the conditions of the pact."

"The conditions," he sneers, "state I can harvest the unfortunates and ne'er-do-wells. Vagrants. Show me an agent of the state with clean hands, and I'll cough Mr. Graves up right now."

Her lip curls at that, distaste evident. "A technicality, then. Still don't like it. All it got you was one meal, and it invited attention."

He ignores her insubordination. "You got information on the second course?"

"Kyle Garrick. Sent to investigate Graves's disappearance…" Kate reads, stubbing her cigarette on the edge of the counter. "And to look into other disappearances in the area." 

John takes the picture Kate offers and stares at the younger man, oblivious to his new headshot. "He's looking for me, I presume?"

"Naturally, but…"

"But what?"

"He's looking for her, too."

Smoke curls between them. This fed business—it's irritating, inevitable. They've done this song and dance before. No matter the reason, the thought of some young buck sniffing around his doe sets his teeth on edge.

"Let's orchestrate a meeting then," John finally says, peeling the loose strip of laminate off in one smooth go. "Use this curious streak of hers to our advantage."

[pokepollsters]

Lumi Plays Pokémon: White 2 Bug Monotype Run- Part 2

Didn't intend for it to take this long for the second part, but we're back now, and it's time for a gym battle! Read more below the cut!

So Teabag and I got to the gym, and I wasn't too worried! I gave him an Oran Berry to hold and he got to business against the trainers.

2 Bug Bites each knocked out Patrats and Lillipups alike, and both trainers were down without taking a hit. Good job buddy!

Cheren was much the same, 2 attacks against Patrat and it didn't even scratch Teabag. The Lillipup was slightly more challenging, taking 3 attacks and a strategic choice of tackle to keep him out of healing range, but it wasn't too scary!

The Basic Badge was ours.

After a couple more cutscenes, it was finally time to head out to new pastures! But first I took a moment to appreciate the rain in Floccesy Town and Route 20.

Then we set off properly. After defeating a hiker in the way, Teabag and I got to the eastern side of Route 20, and were about to grab a new friend when we get interrupted. Rude!

It's okay though, Cheren and Boot take only a moment of our time before we get to the new grass. For a 20% encounter rate, I have surprising trouble finding it- but we run into a new member of the team, Venipede!

It gets a little scary for a moment, as Venipede's Rollout poses a threat to Teabag, but a well placed Great Ball has the bug on our squad.

I took a moment to look through all your great suggestions, and went with another food and drink related name- Gumball! This was suggested by @joltiksforbrains, thank you! The way Venipede and its evolutions curl up into a little pink/purple ball is so cute and gumball like, I had to go for it!

With a new friend on side, I start to clear out the trainers on the route and level up Gumball.

Between docile Teabag and bashful Gumball, our team may be a little on the quiet side, but they've been doing well nonetheless.

Admittedly, I do think Gumball may be slightly harder to train than Teabag, if just because of less good moves (the only STAB he has is Poison Sting!) but he's got a lot of growing still to do and a lot of potential.

We had a couple of scary moments after a rain boosted Water Gun almost knocked out Gumball before he could get the experience, but that wasn't the real menace on the route.

The real problem was Dunsparce.

This level 11 Dunsparce with Rollout swept both of my poor little bugs. Twice.

I took the hint and we avoided that trainer for a moment, Gumball at level 12 just wasn't able to take the hits long enough for us to score poison and let it chip away the Dunsparce's health, and I really wanted him to get the exp!

We ignored her- for now- and went on to Virbank, where we saw a conversation that I feel like I should've been private...

Oh well, not our problem! I headed to the south of the city and to a patch of grass where I wait to find an Audino! Gumball takes some time, but we were able to chip it down without Teabag's help, and I was very proud! For that, Gumball earned enough exp for 2 whole levels! Level 14 here he comes.

So we took the fight back to the Dunsparce. A lucky Rollout miss lets Gumball poison it and start to set up Defense Curls. We're about to beat it, we've chipped away at its health and!

Critical Rollout. Gumball goes down again and Teabag finishes the job. Good job both of you, but it seems the exp was not meant for Gumball. I'll be keeping a close eye on any Rollout Pokémon to come for sure now...

To finish up, I do a once over of the new city to pick up any new items (we find a Silk Scarf to boost Return that I taught to Teabag after the gym battle, it's a good move for a happiness evolution while I don't have anything better filling out that spot!) and to get to know the locals. I'm getting a little nervous about the upcoming gym, so I think next time we'll be doing some training in the Virbank Complex.

Thanks for reading, and wish me luck, we've got some tough fights on our hands very soon!!

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Foxglove Downs Chapter 4: The Date

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Lucius Verus x Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: Marcus finds a way to make his indiscretion up to you. Marcus girlies, this one is for you. Warnings: Love triangle, horse talk, jealousy, pining, angst, flirting, a dusting of dbf but more like dad's best mentee, smut, publicish sex, getting finger banged in an alley, age gap (Marcus is in his 40’s, Lucius is in his 20’s). Reader is in her 30's, has hair, and has a nickname: Sunny. Words: 4,500

A/N: Thank you to my lovely beta @devineconjuring. Thank you for my being my personal Pac-Man and eating all of my dots. 🫶🏻

Foxglove Downs Masterlist Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

Nobody watching asks how the horses get to the competitions, but you know all too well how much work and preparation goes into getting just a singular 1,200-pound animal to the arena. The stables are always abuzz during the days and weeks leading up to a match, especially when it’s the Grand Championships.

You’ve been lucky to avoid both men for the past few days, though you feel like you can still feel the sting of your hand slapping Marcus’s face, your anger and frustration with him. The softness of Lucius’s lips against yours, your hesitancy and wonder about your situation. After all these years of lingering looks and hesitant touches with Marcus, of moments where it felt like his eyes were only on you, now he feels like he owns you?

Lucius let you in to see another side of him, one more grounded and caring, less brash and arrogant. In his celebrity-filled world, why does it seem like he only wants you?

Not now, you keep repeating to yourself as you walk through the tack room with your clipboard, making notes of what needs to be packed. 

Someone clears their throat deeply, catching your attention. You freeze at the sound and look up, meeting dark brown eyes, wide under brows drawn down in apprehension. Marcus stands only a few feet away from you. 

“Sunny.”

“Marcus.” 

He takes a step closer. “I… I wanted to apologize,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “For the way I acted by the lake.”

His handsome face is etched in remorse. The room is quiet, save for the soft, distant sounds of your horses. 

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he continues, his eyes never leaving yours. “It was out of line, and I’m sorry.” 

“I appreciate the apology. But you can’t just say and assume those things and expect it to be okay. Listen, I don’t know what you and Lucius have going on between you, but I am not part of it.” 

He nods, his jaw clenched. “I know. I let my feelings get the better of me. Sunny, I–” he begins, before taking a deep breath. “I care about you. More than I probably should. I-I’ve known you for so long, and I’ve been able to… seeing you with Lucius, it just…” He trails off, shaking his head, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. 

“Marcus, I’m not with Lucius,” you say, heart hammering in your chest. 

A bit of hope flickers across his features. “You’re not?”

“No,” you shake your head. “But the way you spoke to me still hurt me, and the accusations you made, the way you made me feel…”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he says quickly, stepping forward. “Can I please make it up to you?”

The hopeful way his voice sounds at the end makes your heart melt, like he can’t bear to think you won’t forgive him. You hesitate, staring into his vulnerable eyes. 

“Can I take you to dinner tonight? There’s a place a couple of towns away that makes me think of you every time I go. Please?”

“It’s a date,” you respond with a small smile, finding it hard to believe Marcus Acacius just asked you out on a date.

“I’ll pick you up around 8?” he says, smiling wide. You’ve only seen him smile like this when he’d won a competition. 

“Sounds good.” 

“Then it’s a date.” He nods, knocking against the door frame before striding away. You focus back on your checklist, feeling like a golden trophy. 

—-

You fret for longer than you’d ever care to admit over what dress you’ll wear. The velvet dress is too revealing. The long navy dress is too formal. The pink dress–well, that’s the dress that got you into the situation. Marcus has already seen this dress on you–under Lucius’s jacket as he dropped you off. You play it safe, choosing a simple cream dress with delicate blooms of flowers stitched across it, paired with sensible heels. 

The doorbell chimes promptly at 8:00 PM.

You straighten your dress and take a deep, centering breath before opening the door. 

Marcus Acacius stands on your doorstep wearing a dark suit that hugs his broad shoulders. He’s left the top couple of buttons undone, exposing a bit of his tanned skin. He holds a beautiful bouquet of pink foxgloves in his hand, holding them out to you with a sweet smile that falters as his eyes roam over your body. You want to pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming when you follow the gulp of air he swallows down. 

“I, uh, hope you don’t mind the foxgloves again. Call me unoriginal, but I don’t know what flowers you like. Figure this honors the stables.”

“Actually, I love foxgloves, thanks,” you say, smiling and inhaling the sweet scent. “Come on in. Make yourself at home while I grab a vase.”

He hesitates before following you in. 

“I haven’t been in here since your parents moved,” he says, a bit of surprise in his voice as he takes in his surroundings. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve tried to change some things up. It’s kind of weird still living in your childhood home, but the commute to work isn’t bad.” 

“I like it,” he says before picking up a framed photo of you with your parents. “I remember this day.”

“Of course you do,” you say nonchalantly as you fill a vase. “It was yours and Barley’s first championship.” 

“Well, yes, but I mean I remember you that day.” His voice lowers, and you almost drop the vase. 

You look up, your heart skipping a beat when you see the intensity of his eyes. 

“You had the biggest smile on your face when I won.” 

Your cheeks warm at his words, and you hide the look on your face by looking down and adjusting the flowers arranged in the vase. 

“I was just excited for you… and Barley, of course.”

He sets the frame down and hums in acknowledgment before his eyes roam around the room again. “It does feel different in here.”

—-

A simple black Audi with tinted windows. That’s what three-time world champion horse jumper Marcus Acacius drives every day. It makes sense, really–the car is understated, luxurious, and reliable, a lot like him.

The countryside is dark outside Marcus’s car as he drives you to dinner. Small talk fills the twenty-minute drive. You’re able to occasionally steal glances at him in the dark interior of the car, his features lit by the dashboard.

“It’s a beautiful night,” you say, breaking a moment of comfortable silence.

Marcus nods, his eyes fixed on the road.

“It is. I’m—” he clears his throat. “I’m glad you let me take you out.”

"I'm glad too.”

He glances over at you, his dark brown eyes twinkling in the night, and his small smile makes your heart flutter.

—- The Winding Path is unassuming and quaint. The small restaurant is tucked away inside an ivy-covered brick building, simple yet upscale.

The maître’d greets Marcus warmly, clearly recognizing him as a regular patron, before leading you to a secluded table near the back of the dining room. You slide into the plush velvet booth, and Marcus slides in next to you–closer than you expect, his thigh brushing against yours.

The candlelight from the votive on the table flickers across Marcus’s face. You can’t look away from his eyes as he holds up his tumbler of whiskey to cheers your martini.

“To you slapping me in my face,” he says with a smirk as he toasts you. “I deserved it.”

“You deserved it,” you say as you clink your glass against his with a wide grin.

"So, um, are you looking forward to Rome?" he asks while waiting for your entrees.

"I am. It's always beautiful there. Have you been practicing your Italian?"

He chuckles. "A little. I can at least order a coffee now without completely butchering the language."

“Un caffè nero per favore.” (One black coffee please.)

He hums an appreciative noise, his eyebrow quirking up. “That’s it. How’d you know I take my coffee black?”

“That’s how you used to ask for it whenever my mom would make you a cup.”

“Good memory.”

“I suppose so.”

Conversation flows easily, but moments of comfortable silence settle between you as you enjoy your meals. Each look exchanged between you lingers longer than propriety dictates. Marcus doesn’t shy away; his eyes follow the movement of your hands and the curve of your smile.

“So, I’ve been wondering. Why does this place remind you of me?” you ask as Marcus settles the check. “All I see is a nice restaurant.”

"It’s not just the restaurant. It’s how I feel when I’m here.” You tilt your head in confusion, intrigued by what he has to say. “How so?” “My first apartment when I moved here to train was across the street. The parking lot we parked in—that’s the same lot I used to park in almost twenty years ago after long training sessions at Foxglove. “When I’m here, I feel at peace. Like nobody sees the trophies or championships. They just see me, and I can exist without any pretense or expectation. I can just… breathe.”

“And that reminds you of me?”

“Yes. It reminds me of Foxglove Downs and you.”

In all the years you've known him, you've never seen this side of him, this vulnerability, this openness. It shocks you.

“Marcus–I… that means a lot.”

"Would you like to take a walk?" he asks, a hint of hopefulness in his voice. “I’d like to show you my favorite place here. There’s a park not far away."

You nod, your heart still racing at his confession and the new side of Marcus he’s showing you. He’s charming, sweeter, less gruff, and more vulnerable. You truly feel like he might be taking you on an actual date. 

"I'd love to."

Marcus offers you his arm as you step out into the cool evening air.

The park is a quick walk from the restaurant. Marcus leads you through the wrought-iron gate to a wooden bench in front of a sizable fountain.

You sit as a chill rolls through your body, and you shiver. Marcus notices, quickly removing his jacket and laying it over your shoulders.

“Better?” he asks. 

You nod, relishing the warm scent of him surrounding you.

"Did I ever tell you about my first competition?" Marcus's voice breaks through the gentle trickle of the water and brisk nighttime breeze.

“No,” you reply, genuinely curious. “But please, tell me.” 

“It was a disaster.” A chuckle escapes him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I was fifteen, perched atop a borrowed horse that was not as enthusiastic about jumping as I was."

You smile, making a little hmph at the thought. Marcus looks over and grins, encouraged by your reaction.

"The horse's name was Thunderbolt–ironic because he was the exact opposite of fast. I was convinced I was destined for the trophy. My palms were so sweaty I could barely hold the reins. My name is called. We trot into the arena and, as we approach the first jump, Thunderbolt eyes it warily, but I feel confident. We pick up speed, and just as he's about to jump, Thunderbolt decides he'd rather not. He stops dead in his tracks, so I go sailing over his head, right into the jump."

"Oh no! Were you hurt?"

Marcus shakes his head and chuckles again. "Only my pride. I landed in a heap of poles and sawdust. The crowd was dead silent for a moment, and then everyone burst into laughter."

"What did you do?"

"I stood up, dusted myself off, and took a bow. Then I led Thunderbolt out of the arena with the little dignity as I had left.”

Your laugh echoes across the nighttime air, and Marcus’s smile is wide as he watches you.

"Wow, you did need my dad."

"Indeed.”

It’s always been so clear, Marcus’s unyielding tenacity, his quiet strength—it isn’t just what makes Marcus Acacius a formidable competitor; it was what made him extraordinary, period. This feeling of admiration you have for him is rooted in something far beyond your shared love for horses and the sport.

"Thank you," you say softly after a while. "For sharing that with me."

"Only fair. I’ve known you for so long, yet I feel like I barely know you outside of Foxglove. And that could be my fault.” He lets out a long, deep sigh. “I’d like to know you.”

You feel the weight of his words settle between you.

"Marcus," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "I never realized—"

"Realized what?" he interrupts, turning towards you with a curiosity that mirrors your own.

"Never mind," you say, dismissing your half-formed thought with a wave of your hand. It's foolish, really, how one person's earnestness can suddenly make the night seem so intimate.

He reaches for your hand, his large one engulfing yours, instantly warming you. Your fingers tangle. A jolt of electricity surges through you, leaving you breathless, and you quickly withdraw your hand.

"Sorry," Marcus murmurs, but his eyes don't leave yours.

"Me too," you reply, though you're not sure what you're apologizing for—the touch or your reaction to it.

You glance up at him, and something in his gaze changes—a softening around the edges, a vulnerability that beckons you closer.

"Marcus..." you begin again. This time, you let the silence after his name hang between you, filled with all the things you want to say but can't quite voice.

He leans forward, closing the distance until you can see the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes. "Sunny," he whispers.

And then his lips are on yours, hesitant at first, as if testing the reality of the moment. But the hesitation gives way to urgency, and you find yourself responding equally. Your hands grip the smooth fabric of his button-up shirt, pulling him closer. His kiss is everything you imagined—intense, consuming, and perfect.

Just as quickly as it begins, Marcus pulls away, his breaths coming out in short gasps. He looks around, widening his eyes when he realizes you’re both out in the open, exposed to whoever wants to walk by.

“Follow me?”

You nod and grab his hand, this time not pulling away.

—-

You follow him back through the streets, now with your hand in his, as he leads you to a narrow alley nestled between two buildings.

He gently backs you up against the rough brick wall, and his hands settle on your hips. Your breath catches as he leans in, his lips hovering right in front of yours.

You’re panting for air as he closes the distance, capturing your lips in a kiss.

Your hands slide up his chest to loop around his neck and pull him closer. His tongue brushes against your lower lip, and you happily oblige in letting him in.

A low groan rumbles in Marcus's chest as he presses his body flush against yours, the heat of him flowing through the thin fabric of your dress. His hands roam your body, caressing and kneading. Your head falls back against the brick wall as his mouth travels along your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear.

"I've wanted this for so long,” he breathes against your skin.

You gasp a response as Marcus's large hands clutch your ass. He pulls your hips firmly against his, his cock pressing insistently against you as he begins to grind slowly.

"Oh god, Marcus," you moan breathlessly, your nails digging into his shoulder blades as you roll your hips against him.

He hitches your leg up around his waist to allow him to grind against you harder, angling himself against you in a way that makes you bite your lip, resisting the urge to scream his name. He’s thick and throbbing against you.

“Fuck,” you whisper into the cool night air as his tongue laves across your neck.

He grunts against you when he rocks into you harder, faster. There’s a coil of tension low in your belly, winding itself tighter and tighter. The years of dreaming about him, of watching him from afar, of lingering looks and touches–you’ve been drawn to him for almost twenty years, through college, boyfriends that didn’t last, championship trophies, and now, Lucius.

Now, his strong body is pressed against yours, his hands and mouth all over you. It feels like two decades of longing are finally coming to fruition.

His hand snakes between your bodies, and his fingers slip beneath the hem of your dress to caress the smooth skin of your inner thigh. He looks up at you, his dark brown eyes almost black in the glow of the street lights and distant moon.

Slowly, he trails his fingers higher, skimming the lace edge of your panties.

He nods–an ask for permission.

You respond, nodding fervently, your mouth agape and eyes wide.

"Fuck, so wet for me already," he whispers approvingly as he feels the pool of your wetness gathered. He rubs you through the thin barrier, the pressure of his fingers against your swollen, sensitive pussy making you whimper with need.

"Shh, baby," he whispers. "We don't want anyone to hear what a needy little thing you are, do we?"

You softly groan. Fuck, he’s got a dirty mouth.

He tugs your panties to the side, exposing your wet heat to the cool night air. You gasp as his fingers finally touch you, stroking you with a maddeningly light touch. He traces your slit from bottom to top, circling your aching clit.

"Please, Marcus," you breathe.

He silences you with a deep, claiming kiss, swallowing your moans as he finally sinks one long finger into your tight hole. Your walls clench, drawing him in deeper. He pumps into you slowly, letting you feel every inch as he slowly stretches you open.

Soon, a second finger joins the first, your hips trying to meet his hand as his fingers fill and stretch you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub in time with the thrusts of his fingers.

You grip his shirt in your fists, holding on for dear life. Your hips rock shamelessly against his hand, meeting each thrust, desperate for more. The wet sounds of his fingers plunging in and out of your soaked pussy seem obscenely loud in the quiet night air.

"Fuck my fingers, Sunny. You’re doing so good," he growls, nipping at your earlobe. "You’re taking me so well.”

His filthy words rumbling against you are nearly enough to push you over the edge. A high, keening moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, earning you a particularly hard thrust.

"Quiet, remember? Or I'll have to stop." His fingers still inside you and you clench around him frantically, silently begging him to continue. Your eyes meet his, your teeth biting down on your lip to stifle the sounds that want to escape.

You give him a singular nod.

“Good girl,” he says as he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you at a maddening pace.

Your head falls against the brick wall. His words, his touch, the feeling of his fingers buried deep inside you, the years of longing–it’s all too much. Your pussy begins to radiate heat throughout your body. Marcus backs you up farther against the wall as your knees begin to quake, and you flood his hand with your slick.

He works you through your orgasm, whispering filthy praises in your ear as you ride out the aftershocks.

“That’s it. You’re so beautiful when you cum for me. You’re squeezing my fingers so tight. I can’t wait to feel how sweet your pussy feels around m—”

BANG! The sound of a door slamming open nearby makes you both freeze.

Loud laughter and voices fill the night air as a group of bar patrons stumbles out into the street.

"Fuck," Marcus curses under his breath. He quickly withdraws his fingers from your pulsing core, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

The taste of you on his fingers makes Marcus groan softly.

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, your body still thrumming from the intense orgasm.

The drunken laughter grows louder as the group approaches. You hastily smooth down your dress and fix your panties while Marcus adjusts himself, trying to hide the obvious bulge straining against his slacks.

Just as the bar patrons round the corner, you and Marcus step out of the shadowed alley, trying your best to look casual and not like you were just getting finger-fucked against a brick wall moments ago.

"Evening," Marcus nods politely as you pass by the group. A few mumble greetings back, but most are too drunk to pay you any mind.

Once you're a safe distance away, you glance at each other and burst out laughing, giddy from the close call. Marcus takes your hand, interlacing your fingers.

"Come on, I'll drive you home," he says.

—-

Marcus keeps one hand on the wheel while the other rests high on your thigh, his thumb rubbing maddening circles across your soft flesh. You’re aching to feel his hands on you again, to finish what you started.

All too soon, he pulls onto the grounds of Foxglove Downs and up the hill to your home.

You don’t want the night to end. The anticipation that’s been building since he asked you out, how sweet he was during dinner, the other side he showed you of himself after knowing him for twenty years, the feel of his fingers on you in the darkened alley. You hope he can feel the heat you feel for him radiating off of you as it crackles in the air.

Marcus puts the car in park, and the engine quiets, leaving only the sound of your breathing.

He turns to face you, his dark eyes smoldering. “I had a wonderful time tonight.” “Me too,” you whisper with a slight tremble. “I… I don’t want it to end.”

His gaze drops to your lips, and he leans closer, his hand sliding higher up your thigh. "Neither do I.”

Emboldened by the privacy of the car and the cover of night, you place your hand over his, guiding it higher until his fingers brush the edge of your panties. "So why don't you come inside."

He inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as if struggling to maintain control. “I want to.”

“Then do it,” you breathe.

He takes your hand as you exit the car. You lead him up the familiar path to your door—the same one you used to watch him walk up all those years ago as you sat in your room.

As you find your keys, Marcus’s hands find your waist, his fingertips skimming the thin fabric of your dress. His breath is hot against your neck, his lips just grazing your sensitive skin. Finally, the key slides into the lock, and the door swings open.

You step inside, flicking on the entryway light. The soft glow illuminates Marcus's handsome features as he follows you in, his dark eyes sweeping over the familiar surroundings.

He pauses, his gaze landing on a framed photo on the wall - a much younger version of you grinning with your father.

The realization seems to wash over him as you turn, already skimming the sleeves of your dress down your arms.

“We’ve really known each other for so long, haven’t we?” Marcus asks, his eyes still on the photo.

You pause, your dress half-off, and follow his gaze to the photo. A younger you smiles back, the same you who dreamed about having Marcus all alone in this house with you.

"We have," you agree softly, letting your dress fall to the floor, leaving you in just your lacy bra and panties. "Sometimes it feels like a lifetime."

Marcus turns to you, his eyes widening as he takes in your nearly naked form. You can see his throat bob as he swallows hard.

"Sunny," he breathes.

"I've wanted this–wanted you–for so long," you confess.

Marcus steps forward, his hand coming up to gently cup your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into his palm.

"Sunny," he whispers again.

Slowly, he leans in, his nose brushing against yours as he tilts your face up to his.

His eyes dart back to the photo of you and your father, and with a low, frustrated groan, Marcus backs away.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Not… not with everything.”

Your head turns, curiosity and frustration passing across your face.

You blink in confusion, your heart sinking as Marcus takes another step back. "What do you mean?" you ask.

Marcus runs a hand through his hair, his expression torn. "Sunny, I–I like you. But your father, he's been like a mentor to me. And now, with the Rome Championship coming up..." He trails off, his eyes flickering between you and the photo on the wall.

"Marcus," you say softly, taking a step towards him. "My father doesn't have to factor into this. We're both adults."

He shakes his head, his jaw clenching. "It's not just that. There's Lucius, the competition, Foxglove. I can't afford any distractions right now."

You feel a flash of hurt at his words. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"

"No, of course not," Marcus says quickly, reaching out to touch your arm but stopping himself. "You're so much more than that. But the timing... it's all wrong."

You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very exposed in just your underwear. "So what was this then? Just a moment of weakness?"

Marcus's eyes soften as he looks at you. "It was real—it is real. But I can’t—I can’t lose focus. And you deserve someone who can give you their full attention."

"I'm not asking for your full attention, Marcus. I'm just asking for a chance."

Marcus sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. "I know. And believe me, I want to give us that chance. But there's so much at stake right now."

"So that's it then?" Your voice trembles slightly. "We just pretend this never happened?"

Marcus looks at you, his eyes filled with regret. "I think... I think it's for the best. At least for now."

You nod slowly, fighting back the tears that threaten to fall. "I understand. You should go."

He pauses, looking like he wants to say more. Instead, he simply nods and turns towards the door, reaching for the doorknob.

"Marcus?"

His shoulders deflate at how fragile your voice sounds. He looks back at you over his shoulder.

"Was any of it real? Tonight, I mean."

"Every second of it,” he answers, leaving you standing alone in your entryway in only your underwear.

—-

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please excuse to lack of Lucius in this chapter... Marcus girlies... you're welcome? I think?

—-

Tagging those who asked and some friends! Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@ohheypedrito, @schnarfer, @magpiepills, @sawymredfox, @devineconjuring

@mothandpidgeon, @hellfire-state-of-mind, @darkheartgatita, @umnitsa, @christinamadsen

@pedrit0-pascalit0, @ace-turned-confused, @itwasntimethatdidit40, @lotusbxtch, @almostfoxglove

@lady--lynn, @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup, @copperhalfcent, @ferns-fics, @thesoftdumbass

[hanafarook]

A STORMY REUNION - SHORT STORY

---

I might mess around and write a part 2

Eyelids flutter under the weight of unshed tears, their heaviness matching the sound of the footsteps drawing closer. You don't look up, but you can feel the overwhelming presence—an aura both familiar and deathly strange.

You see the crisp black boots, their strutting sound grating on your ears. Tutt tutt tutt—the clash of heels meeting the cold, hard floor.

Goosebumps rise on your arms, a chill seeping into your bones, perhaps your very soul, as if the heat is steadily and relentlessly draining from your body.

The boots stop right in front of your downcast gaze, where the sight of the black military footwear merges with the black floor. The sharp sound of footsteps is replaced by the distinct rhythm of breathing.

The air becomes even more stifling, suffocating. You draw a sharp breath through parted lips, struggling to inhale under his presence.

A presence you grieved for.

Nights were spent screaming through the endless nightmare of losing him—the man who was your closest childhood friend, almost like family.

“Caleb.”

The name is so painful you can’t even whisper it.

So you don’t dare. You don’t dare, knowing it would choke you, sting your eyes, and burn your throat.

You don’t look up. You can’t look up. You can’t move either. It’s not just the air stifling you; your body is locked down by a heavy force—his gravity (evol)—keeping you restrained, as though he knows you would thrash and fight back. He knows. After all, he knows you better than anyone.

The figure crouches down to your level. You still don’t look at him, your gaze fixed blankly on the tips of his boots.

A gloved hand tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to shift. Even so, you refuse to meet his gaze. He should have known. You’ve always been defiant, always stubborn, set in your ways.

Had he forgotten how long it had been? How much time had passed since the accident? He didn’t care. This was his homecoming—fraught with pain and bitterness, the only reunion he could afford, even if it came at a cost.

It wasn’t easy for him, nor for you. No matter how many times he rehearsed this moment in his mind, no preparation could soften its bitterness. Words, voice, presence—none could change what this was as he crouched in front of you, in this cold, sterile interrogation room.

He knew these roles well—the one he played now and the one he’d left behind. The Caleb you knew had died in that fiery explosion. This was someone else. A Caleb who shook your soul, shattered your heart, and made you tremble with ache.

“You won’t look at me?”

“Who am I looking at? I don’t even know who I’m looking at,” you say, your voice small and detached, as though it belongs to someone else.

“Don’t… talk like that. It’s just us.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his grip on your chin tightening.

“NO!” Your voice comes out sharply, a cry laced with the pain of unshed tears.

You know it in your heart—if you look at him, it’s over. You won’t be able to stop yourself from breaking down, from screaming. It takes every ounce of control to hold yourself together, but just barely.

You can’t look into his eyes and fall into the abyss of what he used to be, of what he meant to you.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

“Please.”

It’s not the word but the tone that carries a faint remnant of the old Caleb—the Caleb you once loved. Against your will, you feel yourself bending to his request.

You finally lift your gaze, meeting his eyes. In that moment, all the memories you made together flood in—a storm of nostalgia. His eyes, once so bright and full of color, now appear dim, a maelstrom of pain and regret.

Your eyes sting as hot tears spill over, your voice a tangled, jumbled mess in your throat.

His gaze reflects your pain, but you hesitate to connect the Caleb of your memories with the one before you now.

“I may not be the same Caleb, and I can’t ever be him again… but it doesn’t change…”

“…how I feel.”

Your hands, the only part of you free from his evol, move on their own.

A tight slap lands across Caleb’s face. He doesn’t wince, as though physical pain means nothing to him anymore. He gazes at you steadily. “Does that satisfy you?”

Another slap. Still, no reaction.

You grab his face, your fingers trembling. “Why?” The word escapes as a broken whisper.

Tears fall freely now, your chest aching as though it’s about to split open. You release his face, clutching at your heart as if trying to hold yourself together.

“This… was how it was supposed to be… always,” he says softly

[tkdb-hell]

#16 - One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

Kisses Prompt List • Kisses Masterlist

(I do my best to write the reader as gender neutral unless otherwise specified - if you send me an ask and prefer masc or fem, please let me know)

♡ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ♡

You flopped onto the elegant velvet couch in the Frostheim common room, arms crossed tightly as you glared at the floor. The sharp sting of Jin Kamurai’s earlier words still lingered in your mind, his scathing tone echoing like a slap you hadn’t prepared for.

Tohma looked up from the table where he was arranging the Frostheim case schedules, his pale blue eyes briefly flicking over you before he returned to his work. “You look like someone stole your dessert. What’s wrong?”

You huffed, sitting up and crossing your legs. “Jin. He’s what’s wrong.”

Tohma arched a brow, tapping his pen against the desk. “What did he say this time?”

“He said I was ‘overstepping for someone so new.’ That I should ‘know my place’ before offering opinions on anomalies like I’m an expert,” you recited bitterly, your hands gripping the edges of the couch.

Tohma sighed, setting the pen down and giving you his full attention. “That does sound like Jin,” he said matter-of-factly.

“That’s it?” you snapped, your glare turning on him now. “No defense, no sympathy, no ‘he’s wrong and you’re brilliant’? Just that sounds like Jin?”

Tohma shrugged lightly, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve met him. He’s always like that—especially when he feels like someone’s encroaching on his space. Don’t take it personally.”

Your lips pressed into a tight line, and your arms crossed over your chest again. “Don’t take it personally?” you muttered, voice tinged with sarcasm. “Easy for you to say. You’re his vice-captain, not his verbal punching bag.”

Tohma gave you a long, measured look. “You’re pouting,” he noted, his tone laced with amusement.

“I am not,” you shot back, though the way you turned your head sharply away from him only made it more obvious.

He chuckled softly, rising from his chair and walking over to you. “You definitely are,” he teased, sitting beside you on the couch.

“I am not pouting,” you insisted, though your lips had pressed into an unmistakable pout.

Tohma tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned closer. “You are. And it’s kind of cute.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “I don’t need you patronizing me too, Tohma.”

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop… but only if you stop pouting.”

Your lips pressed tighter together in defiance, your eyes narrowing.

Tohma sighed again, this time with exaggerated weariness. “Guess I’ll have to do something about it, then.”

Before you could ask what he meant, his hand cupped your cheek gently, and he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that caught you completely off guard. It wasn’t rushed or fiery—just warm, tender, and full of reassurance.

When he pulled back, his hand still resting against your cheek, his blue eyes met yours with a small, amused smile. “There. No more pout.”

Your cheeks burned, and you touched your lips with a dazed expression. “You—you can’t just–!”

“Why not?” he asked, his smirk widening. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You wanted to argue, but your lips betrayed you by curling into a reluctant smile. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied expression. “If Jin gives you trouble again, just come to me. I’ll kiss it away every time.”

Your blush deepened, but the thought of Jin’s scathing words faded into insignificance. Somehow, Tohma always knew exactly how to make you feel better—even if his methods left your heart racing.

[crescenthistory]

hunger games au where sirius was your childhood best friend, but after he was reaped and won the games at age 14, he completely cut you off without any explanation. your love never lessened, but you became resentful. when you are reaped in your last eligible year, he has to become your mentor despite not having spoken to each other in years. you don’t understand his desperation for you to win and to keep you safe, especially when he hardly seems to be able to talk to you without running off.

[warlenys]

the glenn macdennis comment hurt obviously but also so necessarily cause i’d gotten too delusional i was too obsessed with the potential final prize instead of fully enjoying what i love about what macden is rn which is the saddest awfulest gay tragedy ever written this is such a good catalyst for lowering my expectations and just living laughing loving in the doomed queerbait this is what shipping’s about what fandom’s about what life is about let us rest peacefully knowing that we absolutely will still get shit and it’ll be crazy and funny and sad but ultimately the power to make it beautiful lies with us. as the queerbait gods intended

[tonycries]

DDD

Synopsis. What’s destroyed on Destroy D!ck December? Him.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, MARATHONS, heavy overstím, creampíes, BRÉEDING, cúmplay, pússydrunk men, ínnapropríate use of jujutsu, powers going haywire, matíng press, making them cry, bondagé (Nanami), GOJO’S POWERS, mánhandling, true form Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s mouths, p talking, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 6.1k

A/N. Hope you all have a lovely December <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 23rd Dec. 5:46AM

It’s around this time that Toji Fushiguro loses count - loses his damn mind. 

Gasping- heaving back every tiny whimper when his ruby red tip plants sopping wet smacks right down your tender folds. Gushing out generous helpings of pearly white that slip and slide all the way down.

And it hasn’t been once. Oh, it hasn’t even been twice. 

Dozens upon dozens of times - for hours now - Toji was collapsing his big, beefy limbs down into yours in the messiest mating press. With a dragged-out groan, he’s smearing his thumb down the edges of your treacling slit, popping it into his mouth eagerly. 

“Heh- jus’ look at her all overflowin’ f’me.” Toji’s rasping - voice so shot he could barely even breathe. And you wonder if he even realizes he’s babbling this way. “S’that oh- s’that twenty-three, yet?” 

It better not be.

Toji refuses to let it be. 

“C-can feel it coming again-” he’s choking out a ragged whine. How embarrassing. Thick fingers curling around your throat to squeeze, “-can hah- can I- inside again…please, doll.”

It’s as if on some slutty autopilot that you let his massive, calloused palms glide down your thighs and push. The way his bulging biceps flex with strain makes your mouth water - all bulging and covered in a thin sheen of sweat that smears against yours. 

He was out of control. Out of his sanity.

And just one peak down at the creamy ring your cunt was coating around his hefty hilt was enough for Toji to throw his head back with a moan of your name.

Destroyed. 

With a fatigued shiver, he’s spearheading his fat head into you until you see white, dragging a drippingly wet swipe of steaming hot precum all over your cushiony sweet spots.. 

Whispering, “Shit- what ya do to me- s-squeeze me- squeeze me with that pretty pussy jus’ once.” Racking out a bout of violent shivers down the entirety of his hulking body when your sloppy walls give his girth a tight little clench. 

And that’s all it takes for Toji to cum.

All it takes for his sensitive cock to bawl out in stringy wads of seed that splatter right into the bottom of your pussy, pumping you full. Toji falls tiredly onto his elbows with a sudden hiss at the stinging thwack! of his twitchy balls sticking to your skin. 

“O-oh yeah- that’s twenty-two- milk me- milk me, doll.” And it feels so good that it’s almost painful, stars bursting over and over behind his teary lids when his own seed sloshes a white gloss down every delicate ridge and vein of his. “Heheh- takin’ m-me so well-  jus’ one more right? We’re almost there-”

But he’s already lost count.

And Toji doesn’t care - he doesn’t even give a shit.

The way your puffy pussy lips were sucking up his cock was like a sheer miracle after the long, treacherous task of November. Tch- who even came up with such a thing as no nutting? Though, he couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t like the idea of December…

Yeah, he was going to fill his girl’s needy lil’ pussy with his cum again and again until he reaches his mark of twenty-three even if it kills him. And he could die a happy death right between these jittery legs of yours. 

You whine, grappling towards the thudding headboard that was now indenting your poor wall. You didn’t know how the hell he was still going. “B-but are you sure you can, baby? Don’t know if it’ll f-fit-”

“Oh- don’t speak so f-filthy ta me with that sweet mouth, ma.” 

“But Toji—”

Toji juts his scarred lips out in what you swear was almost a pout. He’s squeezing your delicate neck warningly, other hand pushing down on your tummy to make your sloppy entrance gush out in milky white dredges. Strangling out, “See? A-all you hafta ta do is shut up and take my fuckin’ cock- take my cum.” And he’s so lazy, all dripping with sweat and sheer sex when Toji slides his cheek down your own like an animal. “My pretty girl can ngh- d-do that f’me, right?”

It was so rare that you get to see the great Toji Fushiguro like this. 

So drunk on the power and the way he was kissing up French peck after peck against your g-spot that it makes you smile. “O-only if you hngh- beg.”

“Doll…”

“Beg.”

Truly, you imagined that Toji would roll his greedy green eyes- shit, were those tears in them? at you and simply snicker. 

What you didn’t expect was for him to grunt, before dragging you with the vice-like grip on your neck to meet his smacking sharp hips. Down, down, down- 

“Tch.” he’s grumbling, condensed breath feverish on your face. Sharp jaw clenching almost painfully - but not as painfully as the way his thick cock was swollen so rock-hard. Needy. Desperate. “M’begging you, ma- please l-let me cum- inside this cute cunt.”

You can only nod - nod and nod when his weepy tip plants pound after pound on your thoroughly bruised cervix. 

“Atta girl.”

And with a slight swat! from the rounded edges of his fat digits down onto your pulsing clit - you don’t know who’s cumming first. 

So hot and blissful. It’s like you were floating in heaven when Toji wrangles your body down flat onto the sheets and cums. Cumming and cumming yet- his utterly dazed eyes snap open, nothing was coming out.

“Shit-” Toji guides his free hand to wrap around his fat reddened base. Pumping up and down up and down up and- he half blacks out. “Fuck…c-completely ruined me, ma.” And the only thing that Toji can let loose is a few thick beads of his seed that dot your precious sweet spots. 

But he wasn’t having that.

In an instant, you’re being jostled with every ounce of strength in his large body. Straddling Toji’s slender hips, you’re collapsing to rub down his washboard abs. And he only grins, he only lolls his head drunkenly into the plush pillows. 

Overstimulated cock twitching ferally against your elastic walls as he still keeps cumming dry, he didn’t know if he could make it…“That- ngh- doesn’t count. So why dontcha ride me to t-twenty-three, doll?”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 16th Dec. 7:30PM

“Don’t run.” Nanami keens brokenly at the back of his throat. More. He needs more. “Please d-don’t run don’t run, my love-” 

And if it wasn’t for that velvety yellow tie binding his strong arms behind his back, they would be wrapping around your arched body so tight until you were sure your husband never wanted to let go. It’s all that Nanami can do to jump his thighs up higher to glissade your pretty pussy down his girthy shaft.

You’re whining out a little, “C-can’t help it, Kento- you’re jus’ filling me up so much-”

God, the ever-sensible Nanami Kento was so ruined by now. 

So utterly pussydrunk that even the mere sound of your honeyed tone complimenting him is enough to have him rutting his flushed cockhead to nudge deeper and deeper into your gooey walls. You were riding him so languidly, spreading open your insides on just the curve. 

More more more more-

“D-don’t say that—” he all but cries in a deep whine over the syrupy squelch after smooching squelch. Sweat-slicked face pushing into the tender crook of your neck, “-I m-might cum from jus’ that, darling. S’wasted- n-need to fuck a baby into ya, remember?”

With a drunkenly smug daze smeared across your face, you’re cushioning your hands all over his heaving chest. Muscled. Rugged. Peaking your trembly fingers across his bulging pecs, “That would be the ngh- sixteenth time, right, Ken? And in your office, too- so dirty~”

It was so fun to tease your dear Nanami.

To watch his drooping glasses fog up with heady condensation, to watch his high cheekbones blush into something innocently rosy. Stern mouth slack with awe when you glide the fat of your thumb across its corner to swipe away his translucent trail of overstimulated drool. 

Sensitive. Shit, so sensitive.

And you’re hearing miniscule rips! when he pulls against the tie - the only thing keeping Nanami from tattering it into a million pieces was your wish to tie your handsome husband up.

“B-but how could I not?” he hisses, genuinely floored. You feel yourself be bounced through the sheer strength in his toned core. Atoms stand on end with jujutsu - his technique. Your g-spot is battered. Up and down up and down up and- “Y-you’re just so perfect n’ pretty ngh- a-and oh I can’t stay away from this pretty cunt–”

Nanami’s head lolls pussydrunkenly with every squelching shove into your tight channel. He’s opening up every sweet nook and cranny inside you, mashing into that magical spot. 

“My pretty girl- gonna make such a pretty momma. Y-you just feel so oh-” Words are failing him. And with a shuddering gulp he dares look down at the way your cunt was drenching him in milky wave after wave of cum. Breeding you. Breathing out, “-this might jus’ be heaven.”

And heaven it was.

“Aw, you’re so ngh- sweet, Ken– s’this from how long ya had to wait in November?” He’s so pretty. Your fingers caress over the big, fat tears welling their way up in his half-lidded eyes. Planting a salty peck against his wobbly lips, “Love you–”

“I love you, too-” Nanami breathes - he whimpers. “Love you love you love you- ngh- m’never participating in that goddamn No Nut November again. S-sixteen’s not ‘nough- s’never gonna e-enough-”

And Nanami didn’t even know if he could make it to sixteen.

Because his hefty balls were jostling against your ass so harshly, every press of your ass down his tight, cum-filled sack making him spurt out a few wispy sputters of cum. Sloshing your cozy insides- But it didn’t count - no, it didn’t count unless he had you overspilling. 

“O-overspilling?” you giggle- shit, did he say that out loud? “Ken- are you ser-”

SLAM!

Desperation bleeds into his movement. Into his breaths. Into every single stroke of his sloppy cock when Nanami wrenches his hands free from the restraint in a split-second. 

A single split-second is all it takes for him to bully your pliant body down on his desk in one, fluid motion.

In control now.

Well, as in control as he could be when he was fucking losing it.

The desk rattles with every pound he’s gifting your poor, battered g-spot. Over and over- shit, it was so scarily accurate that it left you reeling about whether Nanami was using his ratio technique - did he even realize. 

Slam! 

Nanami’s arm shudders down onto the rustling papers that he definitely should’ve been working on instead. And you bolt at the sudden cinch of atoms - yeah, definitely his technique. “M’serious- ngh oh- I’ve never been more serious in m’life, my love-” Hunching over now, you could admire the way his back muscles popped and flexed with every rough jackhammer. 

“So pretty and-” Words choking into tiny moans at the back of his throat, “-and mine.”

As soon as Nanami’s thick digits pop into his mouth, you feel his overwhelmed cock strike up a few electric jolts before cumming. Hot shaft swelling and throbbing with his pumping pulse, fucking your snug cunt full of syrupy oozes of cum. Your poor sweet spots - over and over, powers out of control. 

And so was Nanami.

Eyeing the creamy globs spittling down the side of your slit, he’s smearing open your swollen pussy folds with a few thick fingers, making you flinch at the cool touch of his wedding ring.  Greedily scooping them up into his mouth to spit. Right onto your very tastebuds, before dragging you into a filthy, filthy mess of a kiss. 

“Ngh- gonna marry ya- have all round and glowing.” he’s panting against your open mouth. “Gonna- sh-shit gonna make you my wife-”

You’re letting off a few sweet moans every time he’s clashing wetly against your-spot. “I am your wife, Kento-”

Five words. 

Only five words does it take for Nanami to halt in his tracks. For him to strain out a crazed, “E-even better…”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 11th Dec. 2:28AM

“What was that?”

“Suguru-”

He’s shutting you up promptly with a swift smack! right onto the edge of your plump clit, fingers lingering to smear over those excess dredges of cum from just before. 

They have you weakening on all fours. 

They have you making such a fucking mess. 

And you hear Geto shudder in a shrill breath at the sight of your drooling cunt dripping all down his wrist, you hear him clear his rasping throat of a few traitorous whimpers. Oh, it takes everything in him to pretend he wasn’t as fucking ruined as he was. “Letting it drip a-all out of your slutty pussy, d-didn’t I tell ya to ngh- take all eleven, gorgeous?” 

It’s a trick question.. 

And Geto isn’t waiting for an answer, Geto can barely even hear you through the thundering of his own furious pulse in his ears. Ringing and making him so dizzy- 

With one hand kneading down on the arch of your back, his hips pummel into you thoroughly, shoving your squirming hips back down onto the silken sheets. Rotund, pinkish head feeding into all your sweetest spots without even trying.

“Mhmmm–” he’s letting his head loll back to swipe a few greedy digits over the creamy ring at his hilt - plugging them easily back into your overly stuffed pussy. Slender and swirling all around the outer edges of his fat cock. With the other he pretends to count, “-nine, ten eleven- sure did. S-so that ah- eleventh one didn’t count, riiiight?”

And you just about only have the strength to gasp, “D-doesn’t count?”

“Nuh uh, doesn’t count.”

Thwacking a stinging smack! right onto the jiggling flesh of your ass, Geto only pushes and pushes and reels out peak after peak of white-hot pleasure with every pound. Grinning when your slack-jawed lips gasp in lewd awe to mewl, “Th-then- ah! I w-want it all in this time. No teasing, Sugu–”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit - he really underestimated how much a lil’ minx his girl was.

Because that makes Geto let out a heavy gasp, it makes his dewey deep eyes pop out almost dramatically. Sweeping one hand through his long, curtaining bangs to get a better scope of your jittery body. All splayed out and so prettily fucked underneath him.

Beautiful. So, so beautiful and- oh, he was more drunk on your pussy than he thought. 

“Oh, p-pretty girl–” His lips smear up your sweat-glistening spine in a trail of kisses. Up, up, up to press a saccharine sweet peck onto your cheek. “Heh, how could I not?”

And you swear Geto’s melodic voice cracked into something desperate at the end -almost as if it was…a whine.

But you don’t get to confirm, not before with a rippling thud! you’re feeling something heavy rest itself on your head. Whirling your bleary eyes as much as you could to take in what was Geto’s foot - so rudely positioned upon your body to shovel himself even deeper into your plushy cunt.

It felt too damn good.

And, fuck, Geto was angry at himself for the way he was letting big, overstimulated tears well up in his eyes with every pretty peck into your sopping wet cervix. Fucking you like an animal. With every wet swipe right at the bottom of your cunt- 

“S-Sugu-” you’re babbling out, heart stuttering at the feeling of something wet drizzling down heatedly onto your shoulder. “Are you cry-”

“No.”

Yes.

Because Geto was so sensitive. So stimulated. Every sodden crash into your tight pussy had stars bursting behind Geto’s eyes, throat ragged raw with a sudden keen. “M-m’not cryin’ s’just- fuuuck- yer a real troublemaker, aren’t ya?” 

It takes a few sloppy seconds before you realize with a jolt that Geto isn’t talking to you - no, he had his flaming eyes downturned to look at your bulging cunt. To salivate over the way your puffy folds were greedily drenching all his staggering inches. 

And he’s talking to her, nodding all to every honeyed squelch! that makes your ears burn.

“Right right–” Geto cups one of you jiggling tits with his massive palms. Kneading. Squeezing. “-sh-she is gorgeous-” Pressing a too-sweet smooch by your sweat-dampened forehead, “-my gorgeous girl…hehh- you knew what would oh- h-happen when you told me about this challenge, right?”

“Know what, Suguru?” you’re batting your lashes up at him in a way that makes him grit through a shudder. Evil, evil tricks you had. 

But whatever you could do - Geto Suguru could, too, ten times worse. 

Which is why he’s slamming into you so fast that you’re finding yourself almost thrown into the jittering headboard. Bolting fast. Hard. 

Curling a few fingers around your neck to bounce you back into his sharp hipbones, “Where do you think you’re r-running away? Don’t run away–”

You weren’t. 

But Geto sounded so genuinely upset, so genuinely in disbelief. His cheeks hollowing when he sucks in a sudden breath and rummages at your melty insides so good. Planting tiny pinches to your clit like it was going to make you forget the pearly, splattering tears into your shoulder. Yet, with the way that Geto was fucking you positively stupid then you think you just might. 

Geto’s curling his deft fingers inside to sneak across your sweetened spots, around and around before swiping the remnant dredges of cum across his pre-glossed lips. 

“K-kiss me, gorgeous.” He tastes like honey. Hot. Voice practically a roughened growl at this point. “G-gonna take it all, aren’t ya? Gonna fill this pretty p-pussy up with my cum- ngh- gonna have it s-so everyone knows what I did- ah- so they know-”

And no matter how composed Geto pretended to be - you could hear the tiny whimpers curling at the back of his throat, the grumbling ah! ah! ah! at every thrust. 

He’s babbling, drunken and you don’t even think he remembers a thing about the challenge anymore. “M’gonna get ya pregnant, doll…”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 8th Dec. 6:45PM

“B-baby-” Choso’s voice is so warm - so broken. Sobbing. He’s gifting your ankle with an innocent peck, “Baby let me s-see your pretty face- p-please look my way–”

“M’already here…” With a slightly syrupy giggle you press a gentle kiss against Choso’s sweat-streaked forehead. “Let it out- let it alll out, Cho-”

That forgotten movie plays over and over in the background when with a flinching shudder, Choso cums. Wrangling your limp body to him so tight that you’re feeling every tiny flex of his washboard abs, every sweaty glissade of his muscular thighs kneeing apart yours. 

“O-oh–” Choso hisses out the tiniest of whimpers against your skin with every splat! of cozy rivers of cum down your snug cunt. “M-move that pretty hand- move it for me-”

Gently shoving away the overwhelmed hand on your bulging cunt, he’s pulling out his achy cock from your entrance. Making such a mess on your poor couch. “Oh.”

And Choso doesn’t say anything more - not a word. 

He can’t.

Not even a peep while he’s fixating his widened eyes down on the way your inner thighs were drooling all over with waves of his own cum. So full. And he gulps. 

You’re running your fingers through his silky soft strands, “All done, baby?”

And Choso only jolts his entire muscular body on top of you as if the thought never even crossed his mind. Sheer panic bleeding into those pussy drunken eyes of his when they widen and bore down into yours, “A-actually that’s not- ngh- that’s-”

Shit, he couldn’t even explain himself right now. Because Choso didn’t have to say anything - he was already moving.

Head throwing back when his hips push back downwards in a wet little grind - experimental. Just the singular clench of your elastic walls around his length in a perfectly cozy hug makes him throw his head back with a whimper. So sensitive. “I’m sorry, baby I- I can’t stop.”

It didn’t matter what day it was today. It didn’t matter exactly how many times Choso had pumped your pretty pussy full of his voluminous cum. Because it was never enough. 

Never will be enough.

He was too addicted to the way his own warm cum was sloshing around your gooey insides, making such a filthy slurping gloss that practically speaks to him. Your pussy was extra talkative today, slurring out the most saturated squelches! whenever he’s diving his fat cockhead past your entrance. 

“Wh-what is it? The ngh- eight?” Meshing a wet kiss over and over that magical g-spot - just the way he was with your pouty mouth. Lips wobbling as he begs, “I-I can c-cum inside again, right, baby? P-please–? Look I’ll even make room-”

And before you can utter a word, your dear, sweet boyfriend was plunging out. Accompanied by a few sopping wet slurps of his seed that waterfall freely and drizzle down his furiously reddened length. 

Choso bites his lip at the heavenly sight, holding back a grin that curls down the sides of his rosy red mouth. Oh, this was so not just about “making room.”

Something that makes you hum, “Well then-” And as soon as you’re smearing your legs open even wider, Choso gapes. Urgently pressing a thumb over his weepy divot to keep himself from cumming all over again. “-wontcha be a hngh good boy f’me, then?”

Choso nods - nods over and over when he fucks back through your gummy hole. Nods with every drawling babble that leaves his mouth, “G-gonna be your good boy, baby- gonna cum inside- gonna let me, right? Promise I’ll m-make it to eight-”

Not to mind the fact that he already had. 

But he doesn’t care. Not a single ounce when your inflated walls were molding around him this way - like you were made for him.

“R-right here–” He’s trailing up the rounded curve of one thick index about halfway down your tummy, pressing down on the slight swollen nudge of where he could feel himself absolutely wrecking you. Wrecking himself. “-gonna be f-finishing the challenge riiiight here.”

“Yes yes yes-” you whine, hips bucking up to catch onto his sloppy cadence. It almost hurts just how hard he was fucking into you - dragging rawly all over your cunt, no sweetened spot left unbruised. “-cum inside- cum in me, Cho–”

“F-fuck-”

It’s a tiny whimper - broken. So utterly fucked-out when Choso crashes his lips onto your battered ones and sucks. 

And you think Choso is cumming - you feel Choso cumming. His hulking boy hunches, his strong arms bend you to his lewd will so hard you think you hear your joint creak. Positioning in the perfect angle to flood your insides with heap after sloshing heap of cum.

Once. Twice. 

Multiple orgasms clashing into each other before it tapers out into nothing and you’re feeling Choso’s bawling divot at the very ends of his tip cum dry. 

Only a few seconds later do you realize that those wet speckles crashing heatedly onto your cheeks are tears. And even later do you realize that Choso’s latched his rough fingers onto your overwhelmed clit to pinch. Rolling it so harshly that your fatigued body has no choice but to crash headfirst into your own orgasm.

Your nails draw red, red lines all the way down his pale, sculpted back. Honestly, Choso was so mean when he wanted to be. 

“Y-yeah? K-kiss gimme a kiss, baby–” He’s peeking up at you with practically gleaming eyes - and the syrupy sweet love swirling around was palpable. “Am I a good boy- ngh- d-does it feel good, baby–?”

And you can only nod right about now. Feeling so full inside that it was like his sickly sweet cum was barging into your womb. You gasp when his thickened cock slips out ever-so-slightly from your entrance, gumming out a wet trail of cum. Making Choso snap his head down and-

“Oh.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 28th Dec. 12:01AM

“Sooo…” Sukuna grumbles his hot breath to condense in a feverish puff against the side of your ear in such a mean full nelson. He’s practically laughing at you - chuckling in a drunkenly delirious way. “Think that lil’ human body of yours can give me a hah- twenty-eighth today?”

Hell, you didn’t think it was even possible to withstand such a stretch of his doubly swollen girths jostling around your snug channel. You didn’t think it was possible to last this long-

You’re baring him with a pretty, pretty pout that makes him tunnel his long hard cocks into you even harder. Faster. “O-of course I can-”

Heh…cute. Sukuna didn’t bother telling your proud self that it’d been the reversed curse technique that still kept your drooling cunt so needy without breaking a few bones. Yet. 

“Well, that mouth of yours says ya can- but this pretty pussy…” Trailing off, sharpened black nails trace over your cunt and make you shiver. As if that wasn’t enough - as if the squelching slurps emanating from where your cunt was being so tightly split-apart wasn’t enough - Sukuna manifests his second mouth on a smaller scale to give your pretty clit a long French kiss. “-she’s fuckin’ bratty, isn’t she?”

And he’s planting a staggering smack right onto the neglected bud of your clit. Swiping his heated tongue around and around in such a way that makes you buck-

Swat!

“Oi- keep that cunt still f’me or else…” Now, Sukuna didn’t have to try to ever sound threatening - but then again he never had to bite back such pathetic whimpers from the back of his throat. He never had to hold in his tired whines when your gummy walls stretch so rawly around his cocks. So unfairly good. “O-or else…fuuuck.”

You whirl your dazed eyes around with a sudden gasp - did Ryomen Sukuna stutter? It has you babbling out a stupid, “Kuna, d-did you just-”

Like hell he would let his pretty queen see him like that. 

And without warning - without even a single symptom that he heard your question - Sukuna stands up right onto his muscular feet. 

You’re being slapped with a heavy crash of his dripping wet heads against your bulbous g-spot. Gravity taking its lewd advantage to slide you down, down, down his throbbing lengths until you were scratching up against the wild tufts of pink under Sukuna’s toned abs. Massaged up and down by his muscles - such an obvious show of strength for the king. 

He has you splayed out shamefully - with your legs hooked underneath two of his strong forearms, completely weightless. The other two interlocking on top of your head to have you swallowing every single one of his solid inches. Filthy. 

Sukuna smirks at the translucent rivulets of slick that gloss down his disappearing lengths, “Wh-what- ahem- what were you sayin’, woman? Sorry- ya got a little-” Pounding up even harder. “-loud.”

“I-I don’t-” you’re mewling out, wincing at the rough drag of his second - much larger - tongue craning across your forgotten clit. “-don’ remember, Kuna–”

Of course. 

“Don’t remember?” Sukuna seethes - deep baritone a few octaves higher than usual, words dripping with such utter mocking. “Now h-how will we get to twenty-eight if you can’t even ah- think, brat?”

Nevermind the fact that he couldn’t either. Couldn’t even breathe if he didn’t want to drag out rasping ahs! from his throat. So fucking stimulated that he feels his lips tremble, and can hear his other fucking mouth snicker. Snicker. 

“Tch- open that pretty mouth f’me.”

You barely have a second thought as you do - all so perfect for Sukuna to bless your tongue with a thick wad of his saliva. Honeyed and dripping down your throat.

You’re looking right into his devilishly red eyes as you swallow. “Wan’ more, Kuna–”

“More…” Sukuna breathes out. Small. Broken. More to himself than anything. And he can’t believe it - can’t even compute how the hell he ever got so lucky. Not before chuckling in such a dark and humorless way that makes your sopping pussy even more drenched. “More more more more- hah! I’ll give ya more- She wants more- ya hear that?”

Sukuna’s leering his sleazy gaze allll the way down to your headily dribbling cunt and talking. In utter disbelief - he’s seeing stars right behind his eyes with every raw rub your gripping walls onto his cocks, with every glissading massage against each other. It was such a tight fit. 

“Y-you’re so ngh- gone-” you’re bumbling out boldly. 

“So fuckin’ what-” he’s sneering. “H-honestly- fuckin- let that pretty cunt of yours speak, woman- she’s nicer.”

Syrupy wet slurps following with every crash of his wet tip against your sweet spots. Every languid lick down your presoaked slit, his mouth was everywhere now. Out of control. 

And like he was urging your pussy louder, whispering out a rasping c’mon c’mon c’mon every time he’s pummeling you like he hates you. Twenty eight? Twenty eight Sukuna’s ass, he was going to make your poor pussy cum hard enough for the entire month combined. 

So when you do - that’s exactly how you feel.

Your entire body thrashes in Sukuna’s unforgiving hold. Whining. White-hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes, it just felt too good. In the thundering distance somewhere, you hear someone whimper - not you. Sukuna.

His mouth parting into a barely-lucid oh! when his rummaging cocks suddenly burst out in such honeyed trickles of cum. And Sukuna came a lot - he always did - but this was ridiculous. 

You could feel the hefty weight of his lengths double as he floods your bruised and battered insides with swirling swivels of cum. Sloshing around to stick to your inner walls like a second skin with every fuck up deeper and deeper-

“B-brat.” Sukuna whines. Whines. You don’t know what’s more shocking - that or the glassy tears collecting in his eyes. “Such a merciless queen you’d be…”

♡ GOJO SATORU - 31st Dec. 4:44AM

“Please-” And no one can ever say they’ve had the privilege of hearing the great Gojo Satoru beg before. No one can ever say they’ve known the feeling of his hot tears splat! splat! splat! against your shoulder like a slight drizzle. Whimpering, “-please we’re almost- almost there…”

He has you splayed out on your side on that decadent king-sized bed of his, massive palms sliding up and down your shaky thighs to perk them up for him to feed his cock right between them. Over and over and-

“I-I think I c-can feel it coming-” Gojo’s sputtering out, and at this point his rugged thrusts are barely even that. Slow, slurring grinds of his toned hips that make you squeal. “Think I can- ohhh fuck- I think m’gonna cum again, s-sweetheart.”

It’s just about all you can do to clear your shot throat, rasping out a whiny. “C-cum inside, Toru– wan’ it all oh-” 

And of course when Gojo cums, he’s not going to cum alone. Of course, when he’s nearing his dangerous peak - tipping over practically - he’s giving your plump clit a sudden thwack! with his fingertips. Long, and coated in buzzing cursed energy to make you see stars. 

“Heheh- yer cummin’ again–” he’s crooning in a feverish pitch into your ear. “Such a naughty cunt- h-how are you still creaming all over my hah- cock, darlin’?” Fucking giggling - oh, and for all Gojo’s big mouth he doesn’t even realize that he’s cumming too. 

Bolts of tiny blue lightning peaking at the corners of his eyes, fingertips flashing with the pressure of atoms - and you’re sure that if the bedroom lights hadn’t already shattered many, many orgasms ago then they would have right now.

It takes you a few seconds to regain the feeling in your legs - it takes Gojo a few seconds to realize that he’s cumming dry. Slowly swirling around his fat head in little swipes down your tenderized sweet spots, hips picking up the tempo more. And more. And more and more like he was furious - like he was fuming at the lack of sloshing wads of cum that stream into your gooey depths. 

Fuck.

“O-oh- you’ve broken me-” he’s whining, running those electrified hands up and down your body. Before finally resting on your hardened nipples and pinching. “-look what you’ve- shit- I can’t- I need to. Honey, I need it-”

Shit, he sounded so desperate.

And his movements were just as needy. Teleporting - yeah, not even pulling out for a mere millisecond, he couldn’t even stand the thought - to loom above your body. Flipping you onto your back, his biceps bulge at the fatigue when Gojo’s veering your legs to dangle around his neck.

“A mating press?” you mewl, the burn so merciless. 

But Gojo doesn’t answer- shit, can he even hear you right now? Only gruffing out a rough, “Lock your ankles.” 

You’ve barely even moved to do as your thoroughly pussydrunken husband had said before he’s plugging every spare inch into your cunt so full. Starting off with tiny, lazy gyrations before building up and up and-

“T-Toru–” you sputter out, syrupy voice so sweet that it makes Gojo kiss away your pout in a sodden drag of his rosy lip. And his eyes droop dangerously closed when your clingy walls clutch around him so tight. “Wh-what’s gotten into you- what has you like…”

This.

So feral.

Barely even human at this point.

After pathetically failing at No Nut November, the strongest was determined to complete this month’s challenge. Even it kills him.

Gojo was fucking you so hard into the bed that you’re noticing one side of it had utterly splintered and sagged. And a particularly hard mash of his swollen, red tip into your bouncy cervix makes him slam! one overwhelmed palm down beside your head. In your peripheral vision, you notice that your silky bedsheets had a palm print burnt into it.

“What h-has me like this?” he’s echoing your words like he’s just now heard them. “What has me like this- hahah! What else do you think…” Pressing down onto your inflationary bulge hard so that all voluminous dumps of his cum seeps right through your leaky slit. Gojo’s running a thumb down your teary cunt and plugging it right into your mouth. “Suck. Wh-what do you oh-”

You don’t even give him the sanity to finish his sentence, wrapping those pretty kiss-bitten lips of yours to give his thick thumb a thorough French kiss. You’re tasting him - tasting yourself. 

And the sight is enough for Gojo to let his head fall into your neck and cum. 

“This time-” Gojo’s rasping under his breath, muscular hips jamming into yours again. Fucking his furiously twitchy cock up into your forbidden areas. “This time.” And again. And again and again until the pale, sweat-slicked skin at his abs were rubbed red. “This time- this time- this time this time- fuck no–”

But it’s no use.

No matter how much Gojo’s ramming his weepy length down your snug walls, he was simply cumming dry. Keening at the familiar gloss of oozy cum that dredge their way down his coral pink shaft.

You brush away the drenched locks of snowy white from his pretty features - scrunched and on the verge of sobbing when you’re rutting your hips up tiredly to bounce against his. The mating press was so sloppy that it had your joints popping - ones that your husband immediately rubs over with reversed curse technique. Mumbling, “S’okay, Toru- you lasted this whole ah- month. You don’t need to-”

“-no no no but I need it.” he’s cutting you off. Swirling a few greedy fingers over your clit, “I need it- need it so bad b-because this Christmas…” Momentarily in awe at the way you were so sweetly holding him, so sweetly gulping up every one of his staggering inches. ”-I want a baby.”

Maybe you’re cumming - maybe Gojo is cumming. Maybe both.

You’re not even sure at this point, because despite being broken into a million different shards, the overhead lights flicker on and off. And what you feel is a wisping splatter of his seed drenching the very gooey bottom of yout cunt. Finally. 

Gojo’s orgasm coming out in waves up and down - your own nothing but a tight tingle. He’s dragging his cock to fuck out pearly beads of something delicious. More. More and more- “O-oh no…was that thirty one- hngh- were you keeping count, sweetheart?”

“...”

He has the audacity to grin - all pearly white teeth and glistening trail of drool on display. Big, fat tears rolling down his pretty eyes, “O-one more to make sure?”

A/N. I love making men cry.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[alygator77]

just a little drabble for my current wip. arranged marriage with clanhead gojo.

warnings: mdni, smut, breeding kink, lots of breeding, praise, creampie, bit of angst.

arranged clanhead! satoru who still isn’t used to sharing his space, even after months of marriage. the grand Gojo estate, once his sanctuary, feels smaller with you in it—your scent lingering on the furniture, your soft hums echoing in the halls—not unpleasant, but… unfamiliar.

arranged clanhead! satoru who notices how your shampoo smells so sweet, clinging to his pillow. how your hair clogs his drain and it drives him fucking insane, yet he still finds himself instinctively reaching for your favorite brand of conditioner while he’s out, tucking it into his basket without a second thought. he doesn’t know why—it’s not like he cares… right?

arranged clanhead! satoru who steps into the kitchen late one evening to find you leaning against the counter. your hair falls in loose strands around your face, messy but still maddeningly pretty, and you sip tea from a mug—his favorite mug. you’re draped in one of his shirts, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh—your bare legs illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead light.

for a fleeting second, he freezes. you look… almost at home. he doesn’t want you to look at home. or does he? he shakes the thought away.

“couldn’t sleep?” he drawls, his eyes lingering on the curve of your legs. “or… were you waiting up for me? ‘cause I could really blow off some steam.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who emerges from the bathroom later that night, his snowy hair damp and tousled, a towel slung lazily over his broad shoulders. he’s wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, the defined lines of his abdomen on full display as he rubs the towel through his hair, his gaze sliding over to you lying on the bed.

“ready for tonight?” he asks, tilting his head with that signature nonchalance, as though he isn’t about to fuck the hell out of you, as though his sole intention isn’t to fill you so full of his cum that there’s no question the Gojo Clan will get their heir.

arranged clanhead! satoru who pushes you into a mating press the moment he’s on top of you, his large hands gripping your thighs as he folds your legs back against your chest, pinning you beneath him. his cock slides against your slick folds before splitting you apart, and his breath shudders as your cunt swallows him greedily.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, panting through thrusts. “always so good f’me. always takin’ me so fucking well.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who hates himself for the shameful thrill that bubbles up within him, the sick satisfaction of watching you come undone beneath him. the way your pussy clenches around his dick, the way your gasps and moans echo in his ears, drives him to thrust harder, deeper, as though his very existence depends on filling you—which it does.

arranged clanhead! satoru who’s pace is merciless, hips slamming into you with an almost feral hunger. he tells himself it’s just biology, but deep down he knows better.

“good fucking girl…” he smirks, pushing your legs higher as you squirm beneath him—your nails digging into his arms, but the sting only spurs him on. “don’t worry sweetheart—haaa—this time, for sure, m'gonna breed that pretty pussy. gonna make you drip with my cum ‘til you can’t hold it all…”

arranged clanhead! satoru who watches your eyes roll back as his cock slams into you, the bed shaking beneath you as his focus narrows on the way your breasts bounce with every forceful thrust.

“you’re mine,” he groans, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum painting your walls. his body trembles against yours as he buries himself to the hilt.

“fuuuck, take it…” he rasps, his forehead dropping to press against yours. “so fucking good f’me.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest pressed to yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. your breath mingles, warm and uneven, and for a fleeting second, he almost forgets why he’s here. why you’re here. but then reality creeps in, sharp and cold, and he pulls out slowly, watching as the mix of his cum and your slick drips onto the sheets.

arranged clanhead! satoru who remembers his duty as clanhead, as the leader of the Gojo Clan. like a good husband—like a good leader—he doesn’t waste a single drop. he shifts, his fingers dipping between your legs to scoop up the cum leaking from you.

“can’t let this go to waste, sweetheart,” he mutters as he pushes the thick mess back into you. his thumb presses against your clit, and he smirks when it earns a soft gasp from you—his fingers sliding deeper. he watches, transfixed, as his cum disappears inside you again, his cock giving a weak twitch at the sight.

arranged clanhead! satoru who rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaves with the effort of catching his breath. he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t hold you, and you don’t reach for him. the silence afterward is louder than any moan you could make. he tries to ignore the ache in his chest, something he refuses to name.

arranged clanhead! satoru who lies awake long after you’ve drifted off, his arm slung over his eyes as he tries to ignore the ache in his chest. he won’t admit it—not to you, not to himself—but he’s starting to crave more than your body. he craves the softness in your voice when you call his name, the quiet way you laugh when you think he’s not listening.

but this is just obligation. just duty. just… fucking. right?

full fic in the works 🫶🏻 lmk if you wanna be tagged.

[teaboot]

You know being transmasc after a life of growing up as the sole "girl" in male-dominated areas gives you a weird and complicated relationship with gender identity.

Like... being told straight to your face, "you're naturally bad at this cause you're a girl", "you're naturally weaker cause you're a girl", "you can act tough but you'll always just be a girl", "stop acting like you can keep up with the men", and even the well-intentioned, "Yeah women are like that, but you don't count, you're basically one of the boys"...

It leads you to this weird space where it's like. "Fuck you, women kick ass," and then busting yourself up to prove that you, a woman, *can* keep up, and not only keep up but do it better than anyone else, and taking pride in your femininity because it's not a fucking weakness, but at the same time knowing that... You're not a woman.

You're not a woman. You're not a girl. People just see tits and curves and decide that nature made you delicate, and then all of a sudden it's your responsibility to prove that you're not fucking weak, women aren't weak, while also saying, "I'm not a woman, though."

It's... bizarre.

I'm not a girl. But so long as I'm interpreted as one, I'm still gonna be held back by the same stereotypes. But if I ever stop being interpreted as one, then all the hard fucking work I put in to excel in my field is going to go down the toilet as "just something you can do because you're a man".

And fuck that. That's stupid, too. Guys shouldn't have their effort taken for granted like that, and it stings extra hard because you remember people just naturally assuming you suck and earning respect only to lose it immediately the second you step over to the "man" side. Because you've worked your whole life for something that as a man you'd just be expected to have naturally.

You SEE that shit staring you in the face, and worst of all people still walk around you in plain view and still talk about how women can't do shit and conveniently forget that you've BEEN ONE. "Because you were a man all along" or "because you overcompensate to prove yourself", whatever they think of to justify the cognitive dissonance that keeps their narrative going.

Nobody seems to consider that I'm not really different from women OR men, because those differences don't exist.

I'm not "naturally better" than women because I don't identify as one, and I'm not "worse than" men because I wasn't assigned the title by a third party. I'm just a person. We're all just people.

I'm just tired, man.

[rafecameronssl4t]

My say || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: an argument between reader and rafe about having a nanny for your son.

Warnings: heavy angst!!! Mentions of breastfeeding

Word count: 1,283

A/n: I hope this kinda gvives you a better insight of what reader x rafe's relationship is like!! I AM SO EXCITED TO CONTINUE WRITING FOR THIS AU!!! send thru any requests you might have :)

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

“Y/n, you can’t be serious,” Rafe says, his voice laced with disbelief as he stares at you, searching your face for any sign that you might be joking. But your expression remains unyielding, eyes steady as you readjust Leo in your arms, his small hands clutching at you as he feeds. “I’m serious,” you say, your tone casual as you shrug, though the gravity of your words lingers heavily between you.

The tension in the room is palpable. Rafe scoffs, a bitter sound escaping his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief. Without another word, he pushes himself up from the couch, his movements stiff with frustration. He crosses the room with purposeful strides, heading straight for the bar cart. The clink of the whisky bottle against the glass is sharp in the silence, followed by the harsh slam of the glass hitting the cart, the sound echoing through the stillness of the room.

“He hasn’t even turned one yet, and you’re already considering leaving him in the care of someone we don’t even know?” Rafe’s voice is strained with disbelief, his eyes narrowing as he struggles to grasp your logic. . “What is this really about? You want more time for yourself? To get your hair and nails done, meet up with your friends, take boat rides?” His voice is laced with incredulity, each word carrying a mix of accusation and frustration as if he can’t believe you would even consider such a thing.

“You want to hand him over to a stranger—someone who doesn’t know his little habits, his cries, the way he needs to be held to fall asleep?” Rafe’s words tumble out in a rush, his voice thick with a blend of incredulity and concern. It’s as if he can’t even comprehend how you could entertain the idea, the very thought seeming impossible to him.

You let out a soft, disbelieving snort, shaking your head. “And you do, Rafe? You think you know him better than anyone else?” Your voice drips with sarcasm as you meet his gaze, your eyes daring him to challenge you. “When was the last time you were the one pacing the floor at 3 in the morning, trying to calm him down? When have you spent hours figuring out his cries, trying to understand what he needs?”

Rafe stares at you, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “You’re his mother—” But before he can finish, you cut him off, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. “And I’m trying, Rafe! I’m trying so hard, but it never feels like enough. I can’t seem to get it right, no matter what I do.” Your voice cracks as the weight of your words hangs between you, the raw vulnerability in your tone cutting through the tension like a knife.

“I’m 21, for heaven’s sake!” you exclaim, your frustration boiling over. “I’m still figuring this out, and every day feels like a battle. I’m doing my best, but it’s like I’m constantly failing.” The words spill out in a rush, your voice wavering with the pressure of trying to live up to expectations that feel impossible to meet.

Rafe’s eyes narrow as he leans forward, his voice biting, “Don’t sit there and pretend you weren’t raised for this,” Rafe says, his voice cold and cutting. “You knew from the moment your parents arranged this marriage that your role was to be a mother. They didn’t raise you to chase dreams or find yourself—they raised you to bear children, to fulfill your duty as a wife. So don’t act like this is some surprise or burden you weren’t prepared for.”

You feel a sharp pang in your chest as Rafe’s harsh words sink in, his coldness taking you by surprise. For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond, the sting of his accusation cutting deeper than you expected. You roll your eyes, more out of defense than annoyance, trying to push the hurt aside. Exhaling slowly, you steady yourself, refusing to let him see how much his words have affected you.

“Leo will have a nanny,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel. “This isn’t up for debate.” The words come out with a finality that leaves no room for argument, though the hurt lingers beneath your resolve. “End of conversation.” Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose, his frustration boiling over into raw anger.

“No, he will not!” he snaps, his voice sharp and intense. “I won’t have a stranger looking after our son—my son!” His words are a burst of anger, his eyes blazing as he struggles to contain the fury coursing through him. You roll your eyes again, your patience wearing thin as Rafe's anger fuels your own frustration.

“You’re being dramatic, Rafe,” you retort, trying to keep your tone steady despite your mounting irritation. “In my family, we all had nannies before we were even four months old—” But before you can finish, Rafe’s voice rises in a harsh yell that slices through your words. “This is our family, Y/N!” he shouts, his frustration exploding into full-blown anger.

“Our family! Not just yours. We don’t have to raise our children the way your parents did!” His voice echoes with the force of his rage, the intensity of his glare adding to the weight of his outburst. His voice reverberates off the walls, filling the room with a palpable tension as Leo starts to fuss.

His soft whimpers quickly escalate into full-blown cries, the sound piercing through the charged atmosphere. You flinch at the noise, your heart tightening with a mix of anger and frustration. “Will you lower your voice?” you snap, your own frustration surfacing as you hastily adjust your top, trying to soothe Leo by bouncing him gently in your arms.

Rafe runs a hand through his buzz cut, letting out a loud, exasperated sigh. His shoulders are tense as he plants his hands on his hips, watching you with a mixture of frustration and disbelief while you struggle to soothe Leo. “Look what you’ve done,” you say sharply, your voice cracking with frustration as you glare at him. “He was perfectly calm before you started yelling.”

Rafe’s eyes flash with irritation as he retorts, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Yeah, yeah, blame it all on me,” he snaps, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He turns and heads towards the door, clearly ready to escape the charged atmosphere. As he walks past you, you reach out and grip his arm, the strength in your hold betraying your desperation.

He stops and looks down at you, his expression softening slightly as he registers the plea in your eyes. “Please, just don’t argue with me right now,” you say, your voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable tone. “Leo will be better off with someone who knows what they’re doing.” The earnestness in your plea hangs heavy in the air, cutting through the tension.

Rafe takes a deep breath, the anger in his eyes giving way to a more contemplative look. “I get to choose who the nanny is,” he says, his voice still firm but less harsh. You nod slowly, a quiet resignation in your expression as you release his arm, allowing him to leave.

[amiableness]

Kiss and Makeup

Pairing: James Potter x Fem!Reader

Summary: James ruins reader’s date and attempts to make it better.

Word Count: 2829

Warnings: Jealous!James; kissing; and reader wearing heels, jewelry and makeup.

A/N 💌: A quick James oneshot that’s been on my mind, but I’m heavily consider making a second part to this.

As usual, thank you to @moonpascal for reading!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Go on, kiss and make up!” Sirius’ voice trails after you as you hurry down the corridor, James close on your heels. On any other day, you might have tossed a playful jab back at Sirius, well-accustomed to his relentless teasing about you and James. But today, the weight of everything made your throat tighten, leaving you silent, your focus fixed on reaching the safety of your dorm.

The sharp click of your heels echoed off the stone walls, and James’ muttering about your surprising speed in heels barely registers. Your anger simmers, blocking out his words as you storm ahead and shove the door open. James is right behind you, catching it just before it could slam shut in his face, determined not to let you shut him out.

“Get out, Jamie.” Though your voice was laced with anger, the way you used his nickname gave him a glimmer of hope. It wasn’t hopeless—there was still a chance to make everything better.

“I’m not leaving until we figure this out.” James says, stepping forward and leaning against the post of Lily’s bed as he watches you roll your eyes and turn into the room. He doesn’t say anything as you begin furiously grabbing clothes and scattered heels off the floor—remnants of you getting ready for a date, now tainted by the tension hanging between you two.

“There’s nothing to figure out! You ruined my date, plain and simple.” You spin around, clutching a black heel in your hand, and for a fleeting moment, James braces himself, half-expecting you to launch it at him in a fit of frustration. But it’s you, his sweet best friend—the one who cares so deeply for others that you always put them before yourself. It’s a trait that drives James a little crazy sometimes, knowing you’d sacrifice your own happiness without a second thought.

The realization only sharpens the sting of your anger, an unfamiliar weight he’s not used to carrying. He can recall times you’ve been disappointed—maybe after one of his careless pranks or his thoughtless disregard for someone’s feelings—but never this. Never this level of anger.

“I said I was sorry.” He tries, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches you scoff and turn away, angrily kicking off your heels. You bend down to pick them up, and despite himself, his eyes drift to the curve of your body. He knows he shouldn’t be looking, but he can’t help it—he’s never been able to take his eyes off you. And now, a bitter feeling twists in his gut, knowing you’re dressed all pretty for someone else.

“You’re not, though. Why the fuck did you feel the need to scare him off?” You toss the heels into your trunk and turn to face him, arms crossed. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die before they form—because he doesn’t know how to tell you the truth. He knows exactly why, but admitting it out loud would change everything between you. And he’s not sure he’s ready for that.

The silence between you stretches, heavy and unspoken, as you wait for an answer he isn’t ready to give. You both know exactly what you’re waiting for—a proper explanation.

One you’ve been holding out hope for, quietly, for years.

“It’s not fair, you know.” You let out a deep sigh, turning to face your desk, your gaze falling on the mirror. James watches as you begin to remove your jewelry, your back turned to him, but his reflection still catches glimpses of you.The anger in your voice has softened, but he knows that if he says the wrong thing, it could all flare up again, as sharp and sudden as before.

“What isn’t?” He hesitates, watching you carefully as he takes a cautious step forward. His eyes follow the way your lips part in the mirror, the soft exhale of frustration escaping you as you fumble with your necklace.

He wants to step forward, to gently brush your hair aside and unfasten the clasp, to press a soft kiss against the back of your neck once the necklace slips away. But he can’t—so he remains still, trapped in silence, as he watches you instead.

“Why is it that you go out with girl after girl, but when I show interest in a guy, you scare him off?” You already knew the answer—weren’t blind to it. It had been clear to everyone that you and James had been circling each other for years, dancing around unspoken words.

But he refused to admit that he cared for you as more than friends. It felt pointless to tell him how you felt when it was clear James was intent on keeping you in the friend zone.

From the moment crushes became a part of your life, James had been yours. But you were never certain about his feelings—until that one night when he got blackout drunk and confessed he was in love with you. He has no memory of that drunken night, but you overheard him later, telling the boys he’d never drink that much again because he wanted to actually remember the parties he went to. You’d felt a pang of disappointment, but you were gathering the courage to confront him about it. Then, the next day, he hooked up with a girl from Ravenclaw, and just like that, all your resolve crumbled, leaving you feeling more invisible than ever.

He didn’t remember what he’d said, and if he was out with other girls, it was clear he didn’t care enough to mention it while sober.

That was a year ago, and you still hadn’t brought it up. 

So, to cope with the mess of it all, you went on a date—a rare one, the first in nearly a year. And now, here was James, wrecking it all over again.

“I—” He stops himself, clearing his throat, the tension in his voice betraying the lie before he even finishes. “I don’t think that’s true. You go out on dates.”

He knew he spent a lot of time flirting with girls—whether it was during class, when he should have been paying attention, or at parties where conversation flowed too easily. But when someone showed interest in you? That was a different story altogether. He’d like to blame it on the fact that you were his best friend, but deep down, he knew better.He was protective of you because he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone looking at you the way he did. Was it selfish? Definitely. But the thought of losing you terrified him more than anything.

“You know that’s a lie. You saw how excited I was! Why did you take that from me?” You were fully aware of how weak and accusatory your voice sounded, but you didn’t care. You were hurt, and it was clear in the way you shook your head, disappointment heavy in every movement. James watched your reflection, noticing the way you swallowed hard as if trying to shove down the swell of emotions threatening to break free. And with that, a wave of guilt slammed into his stomach, settling there like a stone.

“I just didn’t want him to hurt you!” 

“So you decided to take that off his hands and hurt me instead?” You scoffed, making James flinched as if you had slapped him. It probably would have hurt less if you had.

“Merlin, no! Sweetheart, that wasn’t what I was trying to do—”

“Then what were you trying to do, James? Because I’m getting tired of this little game, we have going on.” 

He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes following your hand as you gently remove one of your earrings. For a moment, your gazes meet through the mirror, and the weight of it all presses down on him. He wishes, desperately, that you would justturn around and face him.

He was racking his brain, searching for the right words, trying to find a way to fix this. He considered stepping back, giving you space like he did when you got agitated with him. But this felt different. It wasn’t just about a moment of frustration—it was something deeper, something that could damage your friendship permanently if he didn’t speak up. He knew he had to fix this.

“You guys make up yet?” Sirius hollered, and James could practically picture him standing at the  bottom of the stairs with his hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted at the both of you.

Sirius’ words from earlier echoed in his head as if they were taunting him, swirling around like a cruel mantra. 

Go on, kiss and make up.

It felt like an accusation, a reminder of how much he’d messed up. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, twisting in his gut. Every nerve in his body screamed that his next move would either make everything worse—digging the hole even deeper—or finally give him a chance to tell you why he’d ruined your date. But the fear of losing you pushed him forward.

“Tell me to stop, sweetheart.”

“Stop what—?” You ask, tossing your last piece of jewelry into the ceramic dish with a sharp clang before turning to face James. Your breath catching in your throat as he moves closer, and without thinking, you instinctively take a step back, bumping into your desk. The sudden movement rattles the items on top, sending a soft, anxious clatter through the room.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips as James reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and James can’t help but think how pretty you look—more than he’s ever allowed himself to admit. 

He’s never been able to admire you like this before, not without the constant fear of you catching him.

His hands are shaky, and his proximity to you is making him nervous in a way that he couldn’t quite shake. But he didn’t know how else to explain himself. So, tentatively, he let his fingers graze your skin, admiring how you melted into him. He watches, heart pounding, as your lashes flutter and your lips part in surprise at the softness of his touch. The anger in your eyes had faded, leaving behind disbelief and something that looked dangerously close to hope.

He startles both himself and you when the words slip out, low and raw: “You make me so fucking nervous.” You blink up at him, silent, processing the confession. His gaze drifts over the mascara you’d carefully applied, the gloss glistening on your lips—details he hadn’t noticed before, but now felt like a punch to his gut. The jealousy flares, burning hot and fast in the pit of his stomach. It was devastating to realize you were all dressed up, and it wasn’t for him. Those heels, thoseglossed lips—they were for a guy who hardly knew you. 

Not like James knew you.

You part your lips, and James unknowingly silences you with a gentle brush of his thumb just beneath your lower lip. A soft, satisfied smile tugs at his mouth as he hears the gasp escape you. His hand rests on your left hip, pulling you closer, grounding you against him. The tension in the room thickens, and just like that, your anger has melted.

“If you want me to stop, just say the word, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his voice low and thick with intention as he edged closer. His fingers caressing your jaw, tilting your face upwards, bringing you within a breath of him. The air between you crackles, heavy and charged, and you feel the pull—the tempting, intoxicating proximity. He was so close now, you could feel the warmth of his breath, and all it would take was the slightest movement for his lips to claim yours.

You thought about saying it—the words were right there, just on the tip of your tongue. But then his lips brushed against yours just barely, and everything else faded away. You couldn’t bring yourself to say no—not when this was something you’d wanted for years. Even with the anger simmering inside you, the frustration over James ruining your date, you couldn’t pull away.

Not now. Not when he was so close.

If anything, a strange sense of relief was starting to wash over you—relief that he had ruined it. Because if he hadn’t, it might have been another guy standing where he was now, and the thought of that made something tighten painfully in your chest.

“Last chance.” He mumbled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, searching for any sign that you might stop him. The only sound between you was the uneven rhythm of your breaths, erratic and heavy, pulsing with the desire that surged between you both. When you didn’t say a thing, no rejection, no hesitation—only the warmth of your breath mingling with his—he offered a barely-there smile before leaning in, his lips finally capturing yours with a slow, gentle kiss.

He started slow, cautious, as if afraid he might push you away. But the wrecked hum that escaped your throat—the sound of pure desire—told him everything he needed to know. You wanted this as much as he did.

It was overwhelming how quickly the kiss shifted—what started as sweet and searching, quickly turned frantic and hungry. The slow, deliberate pace gave way to a fiery urgency. The gentle brush of lips became a desperate meeting of mouths as the two of you gave into years of pining.

Your hands, which had been gripping the edge of the desk hard, moved slowly toward him. You let your fingers trail up his stomach, feeling the dips and ridges before reaching his chest. Your other hand found its way into his curls, youtugged softly, the motion pulling a low, pleasure-filled groan from deep within him. That sound, the sound of him unraveling, seemed to shatter something inside James. In an instant, he stepped closer—if that was even possible—until your bodies were pressed together, the heat between you two undeniable, consuming.

He pulled away just an inch, and the desperate whine that escaped your lips was enough to pull him back in, his arms circling your waist before effortlessly lifting you onto the desk. You gasped his name, the sound caught in your throat, as his lips claimed yours again, urgent and hungry. One hand slid around your thigh, pulling you closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours as he stood between your parted legs. His grip on your hip was firm, grounding, while his other hand found its place at the side of your throat, fingers warm and possessive.

You had never been kissed like this before. It was overwhelming—an all-consuming heat that ignited deep in your belly as James kissed you with a hunger, as if he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.

And it was ruining you, because if this was how it felt to kiss James Potter, you never wanted to be kissed by anyone else ever again.

He rocked his hips against yours, the pressure making you gasp, and that breathless sound was all he needed. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting you as if he couldn’t get enough. You were so completely immersed in him—the feel of his lips, the taste of him—that the low, teasing whistle from your doorway barely registered in your mind.

“Bloody hell, I didn’t expect you to actually go and kiss her.” Sirius’ voice rang out, loud and unfiltered. The words struck a panic through you, your body warming with embarrassment as you instinctively tucked your head into James’ chest, hoping to hide from the intrusion. You would recognize Sirius’ voice anywhere, and you knew you would be teased about this for ages.

James, with you still propped on the desk, remained a shield, his body pressed protectively against yours. He glanced over at Sirius and Remus, who stood by the doorway. Sirius, leaning against the doorframe, raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, while Remus stood next to him, his usually calm demeanor showing signs of awkwardness.

“Fuck off and shut the door, mate.” James groans, his arms pulling you tighter as he fights the urge to hurl a book at Sirius and Remus. Instead, he sends them a warning glare and brings a hand up to the back of your head, the heat of the moment still burning between you, and silently dares them to say anything more.

The boys hesitate, but not before Sirius calls out with a teasing smirk, “Didn’t know you had it in you, Potter. You finally got your girl.” And just like that, the door slams shut, leaving the air thick with tension and you cringing in embarrassment.

Maybe telling him you loved him wasn’t that pointless after all.

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