#at least like the direction it's going in

[mouthfulloftoothpasterry]

A Cure

Summary: very cute and very horny firefighter Harry x author wife 🥹

Warnings: unprotected sex, very horny husband and wife, humiliation, all that jazz AND slight voyeurism if you squint!

Wc: 6.4k

The sound of knuckles rapping against her office door pulls Y/n out of her trance. She blinks her eyes after minutes of them sitting unfocused on her white laptop screen full of words she's not sure make any sense to her anymore, or maybe they didn't in the first place.

After another minute she hears the knocking again, rubbing her strained eyes. “Are you in there, baby? Or am I embarrassing myself.” Her husband's voice booms from the other side of the door, he really isn't that loud at all but it's probably because the only sound she has heard for the past couple hours are the sniffles and sobs as she reads her publishers emails she's been avoiding for at least five days.

Y/n clears her throat, standing up. “Yeah, Hi, sorry.” Her voice is barely above a whisper when her husband comes into view. He stands tall above her, his strong arms wrapping around her shoulders. He looks down at her with a large smile carved into his face, pearly whites and dimples only an angel could make.

“How is writing going?” She lets out a puff of air before returning the smile

Y/n is currently working on her second novel after her debut was a big success, catching the attention of readers everywhere on social media; it soon became a number one best seller. Following the success, she's been pulled in every direction and spread too thin as her team pressures her to get this second novel out as soon as possible so she stays relevant and readers stay buzzing about her.

“It's going…” he gives her a soft frown, pressing a gentle kiss to her pouted mouth. “Well, I'm about to head out for work.” She nods, relaxing into his delicate touch as he runs his nose against her brow bone. “So soon?” He huffs a laugh, pulling his arm away from her to look at the watch on his wrist. “Well, considering I'm about to be late…” she grabs his wrist, looking at the time. 11:30, already?!

“Oh my god! I didn't even realize it, sorry I've just been knee deep in emails and I've got about twenty different documents going at a time and-” He cuts her off with a kiss, his big hands coming to cup at her cheeks. Y/n lets out a sigh of satisfaction, sinking into him deeper as her shaky hands come to clutch at his forearms, as if she's pulling him back to stay so they can spend the whole day like this.

He pulls away with reluctance, another laugh leaving his lips as her mouth follows his. “I've got to go fight fires, baby. Kinda my whole job.” She has what feels like a permanent frown on her face, but nods nonetheless. “I'll be back soon, my baby. I love you.” She smiles, watching him slowly back away while he squeezes her hand. “I love you too, H.”

📜⋆.ೃ🎞࿔*:･🕰-'♡'-

Y/n sits at her desk, sipping on another random energy drink so she can keep her eyes open to write maybe one sentence that will actually make it into her book.

Her first book came easy. After over a decade of only dreaming of getting a book deal and becoming a huge author it finally came true at twenty six. She wrote the novel about her own life, swapping the names and dramatizing some situations for entertainment- but all in all it was exactly her and Harry's love story. A classic second chance romance, highschool sweethearts who break up during college because long distance is too hard, then once the male main character comes back to town they see each other after two years and instantly fall back in love. Happily ever after and all that.

It's true, for most of her life with Harry it has been a fairytale, and that's exactly why her book has been such a big success. Everyone fell in love with Brooks as she had with Harry. The cute, shy, overly kind, highschooler turned mushy, soft, sexy, firefighter husband was an easy drawn in as readers described it as the “love story of a century��.

She decided not to continue with Brooks and Summer’s love story because it had been told from start to finish, highschool to marriage. Now, she's focused on a new couple, struggling with names at first, now their story, family, their emotional backstories, everything. The only thing she was confidently writing was the cameos from Brooks and Summer since they were all friends in this series she was trying to create.

She's got the names, Ruby and Noah, but she has no clue what the fuck they are doing. She's looking forward to writing about their ski trip, where she's going to make Ruby and Noah hook up after summer's constant nagging that Ruby should give him a try. Enemies to lovers this time around.

She loves writing trips, she's not sure why. Maybe because as her characters have a get away it seems her mind does as well. She gets to pour everything into imagery while she describes the snowy trees and the beautiful big cabin they stay in for a week.

Maybe that's what she needs to crack this writer's block, a nice getaway. But unfortunately, that's not possible with Harry's job right now. They are short staffed on firefighters and even the teen volunteers aren't doing much to compensate for the lack of employment.

Y/n’s head falls back against her chair, groaning and slapping her hand on her keyboard. She looks over at her scribbled notes on the random legal pad she found in her desk drawer. As much as she had planned for this winter getaway, she couldn't find it in herself to write it. She's been painfully getting through writing the drive up to the cabin through the past couple days and she isn't even halfway done.

This particular scene is supposed to be big for Ruby and Noah, Ruby finds out more about Noah's childhood and she begins to feel differently about him. She finally makes sense of why he's so standoffish and reserved, all these years she thought he was just a selfish dick.

Y/n groans, crumbling up the paper and throwing it across the room because she can't bear to look at the plans she so excitedly wrote down a few nights ago when she's now in one of her worst blocks of her writing career. It's worse than when she forgot about a five thousand word essay in college and had to hurry up and write something two hours before due.

“Maybe I'll just take a walk.” She sighs out, lifting from her numb legs and finally exiting her dark office. She pads down the stairs, sliding on shoes and pulling a light coat over her clothes.

Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the sunshine after hours of staring at the artificial blue light her computer gives off. She breathes in the crisp early afternoon air. Hopefully this works.

📜⋆.ೃ🎞࿔*:･🕰-'♡'-

The walk didn't help much, it definitely cleared her mind like walks usually do- but that worsened her case if anything because now she can't think of a single thing to write while they drive up to that stupid cabin.

Might as well get some chores out of the way, she thinks, as she fills up a water bottle after living off coffee and energy drinks. She walks out of the kitchen and back up the stairs where she opens the door to her and Harry's bedroom. She opens the closet door, looking at the mound of laundry they both have piled up, better get to it. She groans as she lifts their shared laundry basket, it's overflowing and has now piled onto the floor. Harry helps out as much as he can but with his crazy work schedule and y/n being locked in her office all day they don't get as much done as they would like.

She tosses clothes into the washer, pouring detergent in and closing the lid to start the load. In the meanwhile, she goes back to their room and pulls a big load of clean laundry onto her bed.

She begins folding them and tossing them into piles, one for pajamas, bras, boxers, and so on. She walks to the big closet to grab a stack of hangers, tossing shirts and dresses and pants over the hangers and placing them on the rod one by one.

She shoves her hand onto the dwindling pile of clothes, a lace material rubbing against her finger tips. She pulls at it, revealing the tiny babydoll she had worn for Harry one long night… almost two months ago. She sighs, hanging it up on one of the nicer hangers out of the random collection of mismatched ones they've collected over the years.

She bites her lips, staring at the pretty fabric. Her and Harry both have quite high sex drives, maybe because they are still in the early years of their marriage, maybe that's just how they are despite everyone saying they would get bored of each other especially because they were each other's first everything.

But between them being short staffed and Y/n getting swept up in the marketing and press of her book, they haven't had that much time for each other. She's lucky she has a touchy feely husband, because that's what comforts her. She needs to be in her husband's arms to feel better again. And since it's been so crazy, she hasn't gotten more than a lingering kiss for weeks and weeks.

She hangs the garment back up, ignoring the nagging feeling as she continues her chores.

Once the laundry pile is all folded she switches out the now clean laundry into the dryer and starts another load, plopping on the couch until Harry gets home.

📜⋆.ೃ🎞࿔*:･🕰-'♡'-

“I'm home!” Y/n hears Harry shout through the house, perking up and dusting off the t-shirt she has over her little matching bra and panties set. She closes her laptop, she was sitting on the couch, trying to write as a distraction until her husband came home. “Hi,” Harry softly sings, a big cheesy smile on his face as he finally spots his wife after hours of working. She rises, stretching up and wrapping her arms around his neck. He hums, giving her a squeeze and rubbing up and down her back.

“I missed my baby while I was away.” He mumbles, kissing the side of her head over and over. She smiles, inhaling his smoky smell that has grown to be comforting. It's him. A deeply sweet- almost fruity scent mixed with the ash and smoke of fires. “I missed you, H.” She whispers, pulling away and leaning in to kiss him. Her hand rests on his chest, opening her mouth slightly to slide her tongue against his.

She can feel his lips curling into a grin, his hands slide down, lifting her up and into his arms. “You missed me something special, Hm?” She nods then pushes her hands into his hair. “Take me upstairs, H.” He does as told, starting to slowly and carefully walk them toward the staircase.

A ring ruins the moment, making Harry sigh, sitting her down. Y/n sighs, wiping the side of her mouth. “Fuck,” He sighs, shaking his head as he looks down at his phone. “H?” He looks back up, his heart breaking as he looks at his wife. “Baby….” she frowns, trying to push back the urge to cry. “It's work. I'm sorry. I've got to go be a firefighter.” He softly smiles, attempting to lighten the mood.

It doesn't help though. She wraps her arms around herself, feeling stupid and childish that she's so emotional over her husband having to leave her to go fight a fire and potentially save lives. “I'm sorry, baby. I have to go.” His hand pulls away from her, waving before he walks out of the door.

She swallows the lump in her throat, walking up the stairs alone and straight into the bedroom. She pulls off the matching set she wore to surprise Harry, tossing it into the empty laundry basket. She pulls on normal pajamas, just a big shirt and a random pair of pajama shorts before washing her face and brushing her teeth.

She gets in bed, preparing to wait up and make sure Harry is alright before falling asleep.

📜⋆.ೃ🎞࿔*:･🕰-'♡'-

Working from home is pretty lonely. Harry can be up and out of the door as early as four in the morning and sometimes gets calls all throughout the night. She got pretty used to being alone once Harry became a firefighter, and she even liked it. Being alone with her thoughts was great for her writing. She reminisced on the early days of her relationship, laughing at all the awkward stages and feeling emotional at how far they've come from the goofy teenagers they once were.

“I'm writing as fast as I can! It's not going to be good if it's not organic.” Y/n stresses over the phone, trying to push down the lump in her throat that strains her words. “Yes, Y/n, but we need to get a publish date on this book and get the ball rolling.” She groans, feeling tempted to throw her phone next to the discarded ball of paper from yesterday- but she knows that's a bit dramatic.

She hangs up, too frustrated to talk- or think about this goddamn book. She needs her husband, she needs his touch. A hug, a kiss, anything from him right now would ease her anxiety.

Time to start stress baking.

For as long as she can remember baking has been an outlet for Y/n- she's not sure why. Taking the horrible thoughts of the day and the physical anxiety and turning it into something yummy that puts a smile on everyone's face was fulfilling. She even put her own little recipes at the end of each chapter dependent on whatever Summer had made for Brooks- which was once again very much based on her and Harry.

White chocolate cranberry scones, chocolate cake, lavender lemon loaf, she is bound to be busy with all the different recipe cards laid out in front of her on their kitchen island.

She sifts the flour, bowls covering the table with a load of dishes already going in the dishwasher. The timer from the oven goes off, pulling her away from her distraction of yet another sweet treat. She pushes her hair out of her face, opening the oven and adding it to the collection of pastries that are making her house smell so good. Thank god she's got hungry firefighters to feed. She scribbles a note on the white board that's magnetized to the fridge to remind her to box up some of everything for Harry to bring in.

She's the fire chief's wife, she's has to keep them fed.

After what feels like days of baking, she's finally done. Two different cookies, two different loaves of bread, scones, and a cake.

Y/n flops down on the couch, turning on some trashy TV to keep her mind anywhere but that book she's supposed to be writing.

She gets about halfway through a forty five minute episode before she gets a glimpse of the time. She shoots up, starting on dinner knowing that her husband will arrive home anytime. He seems just as stressed out as she is about work, he just doesn't let it show as much, so she wants to make his life easier when she can.

Dinner didn't take long, she just whipped up something easy and quick for them. She flops back down on the couch, keeping the food on low so it will stay warm.

“Hi, baby.” Harry smiles, tossing his keys onto the table and coming to flop down next to her on the couch. He wraps his arms around her, cuddling into her. “What smells so good?” He sniffs at her neck as if she's covered in perfume, making her laugh and push away his touch even though she craves it more than anything right now. “Lots of random baked goods.” She softly laughs, pressing a kiss to his lips. He gives her an empathetic smile. “stressed, huh?” She shrugs, sitting up and he quickly follows.

“I made dinner too.” He thanks her. Kissing the back of her hand and trailing them up her arm. “How about after dinner we finish what we started the other night… maybe it will help you unwind?” She feels her stomach tighten. She wants to say no, take me right now before you're whisked away again, but she doesn't. She nods, closing her eyes and sinking into his touch before it's taken away.

He kisses her head, standing up and pulling her with him. “Let's get you fed and ready for me, huh? Can't have you losing energy half way through.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head with a smile on her face.

They eat dinner together, sitting at the island together instead of the proper dining table. They make small talk, catching each other up about their day, Harry telling her all about two kittens that were stuck in a tree that he had to rescue bright and early this morning. “So that's why you crawled out of bed at four in the morning?” Harry nods, standing up and pushing their bowls aside. “Yeah, but now we’re going to head back to bed.” He smiles, holding a hand out for her, which she takes.

Harry leans in, slotting his lips with his wife's. Another ring sounds through the silence of their kiss. Harry groans loudly into her mouth, obviously irritated. “I swear to god-” he yanks his phone from where it was sitting on the table. “What?!” He spits to the other person on the line, obviously frustrated. “Fuck.” He nods once more to the caller before hanging up. “I'm sorry, baby. A restaurant downtown is completely engulfed in flames, I have to go now.” She nods, trying to bite back her frown.

She loves that Harry is a firefighter, it's sexy and has made him build up the strong physique that holds her and protects her. She loves that he does so much for the city and has saved so many lives and homes, but as he's out saving others' homes it feels like he's abandoning theirs. He's home basically just to sleep, and nothing else. Their relationship is still strong, and their love will never fade, but not having quality time is taking a toll on both of them mentally.

“I promise, baby. I'll be home as soon as possible.” He rushes out of the house, running towards the door.

Y/n is once again left in the house all alone.

📜⋆.ೃ🎞࿔*:･🕰-'♡'-

Y/n is woken up with a gentle shake, slowly blinking her blurry eyes open. “What time is it?” She slurs, sitting up when she knocks her open, timed out laptop off of her chest. Harry quickly catches it, softly laughing and placing it on the coffee table. “It's only been an hour since I left. You fell asleep while writing, baby.” He rubs her back, placing a kiss to the side of her head.

“Oh shit!” She shoots up, grabbing her laptop. “That is due at midnight, I need to send it to my editor!” Harry stops her from running up to her office, hooking an arm around her. “Hey, hey. Slow down, baby.” She huffs, sitting next to him on the couch.

“Are you still struggling to finish this chapter?” He kisses her head again, brushing her hair out of her face. She nods, feeling the anxiety build up in her body at the thought of not getting this chapter done in time. “Yes. It's so frustrating,I just feel defeated. Like I need… a cure?”

Harry taps on his bottom lip with his pointer finger while he's thinking. “A cure?”

Y/n nods, “a cure.”

“Well, go try to finish writing so your editor doesn't get mad at you. If you need any help or words of encouragement I'll be in our room.” She nods, rising up from the couch, collecting her laptop in her arms before kissing her husband. He smiles when she pulls away, giving her ass a small smack.

“Go get to it, baby.”

She walks up the steps, still sleepy as she sits back in her desk chair and cracks her screen back open. She gets to typing, putting any coherent thought down to try to make it make sense, she can always have her editor put it into better formed sentences that flow better with the rest of the story.

It's a little past 1:30 when she finally gets into bed, crawling in next to her shirtless husband.

Harry groans, wrapping both his arms around her while he keeps his eyes closed- too sleepy to actually open them. She cuddles into him, finally relaxing after what seems like days of tense muscles and mental gymnastics. “Did you find your cure?” She shakes her head, “no cure yet. But I got it done.”

He whispers a cheer, squeezing her. “Good job, baby. I knew you'd do it. Now go to sleep, we'll celebrate tomorrow.” She giggles into his neck, wrapping a leg around him.

“Celebrate?” He nods, basically snoring. “I'll finally fuck you, promise, baby.”

📜⋆.ೃ🎞࿔*:･🕰-'♡'-

“Guess what the fire chief got called in for?” Harry asks, walking into the house surprisingly early. Y/n spins around in her chair, her eyebrows shooting up. “You're home, H!” He nods, walking over to her. “What did you get called in for?” He stays silent for a beat to dramatize and leave her in suspense.

“A fourteen year old kid got his head stuck in a fence. And they called me, the fire chief, to get him out.” Y/n laughs, almost choking on her water. “So,” Harry starts, grabbing her water from her hand and taking a sip of it. “I said don't call me, don't bother me, I'm taking the day off to spend with my wife.” She smiles, scanning him up and down.

He's still in his red suspenders, fire pants, and the navy blue shirt that hugs his pecs and biceps more than should be allowed for everyday firefighting. His hair is crazy, pushed back with a strand flopping in his eyes. His skin is covered in black ash and soot, and he smells of fire but it only heats her skin.

His pointer finger curls to lift her chin up, his thumb softly resting under her bottom lip. He slots his lips with hers, making her whimper with need. Her hand clutches at the short sleeve of his shirt, feeling his toned muscles under it. “Hop up” he lifts her into his strong arms, walking them up to their bedroom.

He slams open the door, throwing her on the bed. They both laugh loudly, her arms reaching out for him again. He knees the bed, on his hands and knees while he hovers over her. Neither of them care that he's covered in black ash on their light duvet.

His hand slides up her t-shirt, smiling at the feeling of her warm skin even though he knew she was braless. “Take this fuckin’ thing off.” He half-jokes, pulling at the bottom of her shirt and lifting it over her head. Harry pulls his suspenders down, yanking off his tight shirt. Y/n hated to see the shirt go, but she loves saying goodbye. Her hands slide down his chest and onto his chiseled abs. “Keep the rest on.” Harry's eyebrow raises, his mouth slightly popped open.

“Keep it on?” She nods, then slides a suspender back up his arm.

Harry smiles, unbuttoning his pants and pulling his hard cock out. It slaps against his belly, making Y/n's mouth water. He yanks at her pants, making her shuffle down the bed. They both laugh as he pulls her pants down, giggles flying through the room as her pants fly through the air.

He takes in her naked body, his eyes dragging down her almost like she's his prey. Suddenly she feels shy under her husband's heavy gaze, pulling her arms in to cover herself. “Don't. You. Fucking. Dare.” He practically growls, yanking her arms away. He opens her legs, his hand sliding over cunt.

“I'm going to absolutely devour you. I'm not going to stop until you're shaking.” She smiles, wrapping her legs around him.

Harry grabs his cock, lining it up with her. “Are you wet enough, baby?” He asks, his hand slipping down for a moment to touch her pussy. “Oh,” an evil grin forms on his face. “You're dripping, huh?” Her face heats up, looking away because she knows she'll be too embarrassed to look him in his eye.

Harry softly but quickly pulls her face back toward him, opening her jaw with his thumb and spitting into her mouth.

She pulls him in with her legs, moaning. He lines himself up with her, finally pushing it. Y/n cries out at the feeling of him finally being inside of her after so long, it only eggs Harry on.

His constant thrusting shuffles her up and down the bed, and he loves every second of watching her tits bounce while his cock is stuffed deep inside of her. “Fuck, H” she gasps, reaching out for his arm to somewhat stabilize herself. “Feels good, baby?” He slips his thumb inside of her mouth, watching her perfect pouty lips wrap around him. She frantically nods, breathless and already shaking from the feeling of her husband's big, thick, bare cock inside of her.

“H, fuck, I don't know if I'm going t-” he cuts her off, smashing his mouth into her. She can hear how wet she is as the sound of wet squelching and heavy pants fill the room. It's enough to turn her cheeks red hot again, trying to ignore it. “Do you hear how fucking wet you are?” Harry says, biting at her neck. All chances of her not being humiliated are thrown out of the door the second Harry opens his dirty mouth. She almost forgot how embarrassingly filthy he can talk.

“Tell me, baby, do you hear how wet you are? Your pussy is dripping all over the sheets, you're making an absolute mess of me.”

She ignores his mouth, trying to keep some of her dignity.

“Tell me right now, or I'll stop fucking you.” She whines, gasping as he hits her special little spot. Her eyes roll to the back of her head and her back arches as he sends electricity from her head to her toes. “I'll stop right now.” His hips come to a vault, and suddenly she's sobbing out her answer. “Yes, fuck, H. I'm so wet. I'm so fucking wet and it's all for you.” She falls into a chant of “it's all for you, all for you H” until he starts fucking her again now that he's gotten exactly what he wants.

“So wet, and tight, and warm for me, baby. I think your pussy was made just for me.” She nods, she's so cock drunk she thinks she might sign all her rights away if asked. “Cause my dick fits perfectly in you, it hits all those special little spots that puts that little pout on your lips.”

She gasps, gripping his arm tighter as she gets closer. “Yeah, you're going to cum? Cum on my cock, it's okay. You can cum baby, I know it's been so long.”

She moans a mantra of his name over and over again as she finally orgasms, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of her.

Harry cums shortly after her, moaning in her ear and telling her how good she makes him feel.

He flops down next to her after he carefully pulls out, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. “You okay? I didn't go too rough?” She shakes her head, resting it on his bicep. He presses a soft peck to her lips then gently rubs her cheek with his thumb. “No, H. It was perfect.” He smiles, glancing away like he didn't just say the dirtiest things she's ever said to her. “I'm sorry we haven't had a lot of time to be together. I hate being so busy.” She nods, “it's okay, H. I know you can't help it.” He bites at the inside of his bottom lip, sighing.

He moves his head closer to hers, closing his eyes and rubbing his nose against hers. “I love you.” She smiles, sliding her hand down his arm and threading their fingers together. “I love you too, babe.”

He sits up, on his knees. “What are you doing?” He grabs her legs, tossing them onto his shoulders. He kisses her ankle, “I didn't forget about my promise. I want your legs shaking. I'll carry you around everywhere tomorrow.” She giggles as he stretches her legs out, bending to suck and lick at her nipples.

She pushes him away, making him laugh. “Not gonna let your husband get a little frisky?” She rolls her eyes with a smile, “I've been letting you get frisky since we were sixteen, I've had enough.” He scoffs, sliding inside of her again.

He presses kisses over her leg, using his over hand to press into her lower belly. She gasps, grabbing his wrist. “Am I too big?” She attempts to roll her eyes at his cockiness but is cut off with a moan when he presses into her again.

Harry starts thrusting in and out of her, painfully slow. All of his touches are amplified, she can feel every vein on him. “Fuck, babe,” she hardly manages to get a word out of her mouth as her hips wiggle. She's inconsolable as she lets out sobs, her back arching and hips rolling against his.

She clenches around him, sending a chill rolling down his back. “Fuck, baby. Do that again.” She clenched around him, spasming around him as he perfectly rolls his hips. Thank god he knows how to use all that.

She whimpers his name, begging for him to give her anything he can. A blissed out smile frames Harry's face, his pearly white teeth peaking out while he bites his lips to silence his grunts and groans. She pulls him in even closer with her legs and he bottoms out inside of her. He gasps her name, his hand clenching at her calf.

“Don't hide, H. I want to hear how good you feel.” His mouth falls open at her words, his hazy eyes falling closed in pleasure. He shudders, letting out a shaky breath. “F-fuck, baby.” She clenches around him once again, holding it as he pushes back inside of her.

“You f-feel like heaven, you're so fucking perfect. So perfect.” He moans, his mouth open while he thrusts in and out of her. He whines, making Y/n want to bite a pillow and scream into it from the noises her husband is making. “I fucking love this pussy, baby. Tell me whose it is.” Her back arches, letting out a pleasured sigh as she grips the sheets. “It's your pussy, H. You're the only one who gets to cum it in.” He smiles, nodding.

They both cum at the same time, their moans blending as they cry each other's names.

Harry finally lets his fire pants drop, kicking them off the bed once he's calmed down.

“I'm hiring more people as soon as possible. There's no way I went so long without you.” She laughs as he kisses her, both of them laying together in their post-sex bliss. She fidgets with his wedding ring, her head on his chest. “Yeah, I miss having you around the house.” Harry nods, squeezing one of her fingers. “Me too.”

They both relax into the bed, staying silent and enjoying each other's company.

“Round three in the shower?”

📜⋆.ೃ🎞࿔*:･🕰-'♡'-

Y/n looks over at her office door which is now open, her sleepy husband stands in the doorway, the only thing he's wearing is low hanging pajama pants. He rubs at his sleepy eyes, his hair going in every different direction. “Why are you awake?” She softly laughs at his question, looking at the time on her laptop. “H, it's almost 11AM.” His sleepy eyes go wide for a split second before they return to their tired half-open state.

“Well, you should be in bed with me.” He creeps over to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders while she sits in her office chair. “I'm writing?” He dramatically gasps, pressing a kiss to her neck. “You're writing?” She nods, continuing to type even as he kisses her.

“Did inspiration strike?” She nods, smiling. “Last night kind of inspired me. I think it's exactly what I needed.” Harry raises one eyebrow, his fingertips coming to pull the laptop closer to him. “Can I read it?” She nods, letting him pull it into his arms, watching him scroll back up to the start of the chapter.

After last night she finally had the inspiration strike to write Ruby and Noah hooking up at the ski getaway. This will be the peak in her book, now that they are together the rest will be a breeze to write.

She watches as his pajama pants slowly grow, making her hands shake with anticipation. “Holy fuck. You wrote that based on last night?” She smiles, blushing and nodding.

“That was your cure, huh?”

She didn't think about it that way. “I finally got my cure.”

Harry sinks down onto his knees, sliding his hands up her thighs, under the shirt of his she was wearing to bed. He hooks his fingers into her panties, dragging them down. “Now I need my cure.” He whispers, sliding her panties down her legs and into the pocket of his pajama pants. “I've got a big problem,” he looks down, cupping his large bulge. “And you're the only cure for it.”

He parts her legs, smiling at the sight of her wet cunt.

“Oh god, baby. How long have you been like this?” He pouts up at her, touching her with delicate fingers. “So long, H. I've been thinking about you since I got up.” She whines, pushing her shirt back so it doesn't block his view.

He lets out a sympathetic whine for her, his eyebrows pinching together with a worried expression. “My poor girl, I've got to take care of you now. You woke up with a throbbing pussy thinking of me, Hm?” She nods, carefully watching his every move.

Her breath shudders as her eyes follow his head sinking down to between her legs. Her eyes go wide, feeling his tongue slide into her. She whimpers, closing her eyes at the feeling of his warm tongue sliding up and down her cunt.

“No, no. Go ahead and write. It's the only thing that cures your writer's block.” She gulps, her hands shaking as she goes back to writing with her husband's head between her legs. She slowly types onto her document as he licks her up and down. She tries to keep her eyes open, typing whatever comes to her mind- which she's more than sure will be a jumbled mess for her to fix later. “H, please babe.” He shakes his head. “Your publisher will be mad if you don't write it.” He licks her clit, pulling it into his mouth to suck at it.

Her hand falls to the top of his head, threading her fingers through his hair. He shakes his head again, grabbing her hand and placing it back on her keys.

She moans, rolling her hips. She's fully given up on writing, her head fallen back as he continues to eat her pussy.

“Baby,” he laughs, kissing her thigh. “Well, I can't be mad. I guess you deserve it after working so hard.” He lifts up to kiss her, laughing at her failed attempt to write like he previously ordered her to.

He sinks back down between her legs, flicking his tongue against her clit. She groans, arching her back and whimpering. She throws a leg over his shoulder and he instantly wraps his arm around it. “You taste so good.” His mouth is loud against her, making lewd noises as he sucks, licks, and flicks his tongue against her skin.

“You always taste so good, baby.” He groans against her, losing himself in the smell, feeling, and taste of her. He moans against her over and over again, sliding his tongue deep in her to taste her wetness straight from the source. He loves how wet he can get her, how just the thought of him gets her so worked up she spends the whole morning with a wet, throbbing cunt until he takes matters into his own hands.

He often fantasizes about catching her touching herself- just because he knows her writing is always based on their experience and when she is writing a particularly spicy scene she tends to get worked up.

He can imagine silently creeping into her office to catch her with her legs open and her small hand down her panties trying to satisfy herself when they both know it's his hands she's craving.

She falls to pieces above him, her chest rapidly falling and rising while her mouth drops open to praise him and all the pleasure he's giving her. “You can cum, baby. It's okay.” He closes his eyes, enjoying the last few moments of her on his tongue. He loves the silky feeling of her, how warm and soft she is.

“H, I'm cumming!” She moans, gripping at his hair while she rolls her hips trying to get herself there. Seconds later she cums all over his mouth, leaving him to clean her up.

He wipes his mouth, sucking his fingers off before he yanks her down to give her a messy tongue kiss to let her taste herself.

She tries to catch her breath, giggling now that she's come back down. “Do you feel better now?” She nods, kissing him again.

“Just needed your husband to take care of you, huh?” She nods once again, wrapping her arms and legs around him as he wraps his big, strong arms around her. “Now go sit back there in case I need you again.” He agrees to it with a large smile on his face, walking back to the much bigger and comfier chair she normally uses for reading.

He’s always been the cure.

A/N: WOWOWOW!! beside a small 1k word blurb this is my return to writing after almost a year and a half! I thought about making an Author y/n one random day in the shower and with a little help from my beautiful, amazing, creative best friend @ziallslvr firefighter Harry and author Y/n was born 🥹!!!!

I feel so passionate about these two! They are my sweet babies❤️ This specific Y/n is straight from my heart, and might be a little self indulgent! I hope you all love her as much as I do ❤️

PLEASEEEEEE!!! IF YOU LIKED THIS REBLOG AND SHARE YOUR THOUGHT WITH ME :D

[1d1195]

Pucking Rookie I

~8.4k words

From me: here she is. gonna be at least one more part (probs 2) sorry. I didn't mean to do a series. I just can't shut up and I introduced too many fun characters. I don't know a lot about hockey so a lot of this is probably unrealistic.

Warnings: douchey ex-boyfriend, a little violent (it's hockey after all)

Summary: When the assistant coach's niece comes to take pictures of the team, her lens isn't the only thing capturing Harry Styles heart and soul on and off the ice. Harry wants to win her over more than he wants to win the entire league championship. (Although it would be nice to rub it in her ex's stupid face if he won that too).

The rink was chilly even with the appropriate clothes on. Despite the fact she practically lived in ice arenas for the two years, it never ceased to catch her off guard with how cold it was. To be fair, she was a lot closer to the ice this time around. Her camera pressed into the little glass cutout, her eye checking the visual before she clicked the shutter.

Quickly she pulled away as two of the guys pressed against the glass right next to her. “Hey Sweetheart,” Noah Ashford smiled briefly as he skated off in the other direction. She rolled her eyes. Uncle Charlie, assistant coach of The Arctic Chargers, warned the entire team that his niece was taking residence at the rink and would be part of media photos, headshots, and would be submitting to all major sport reporting outlets. The team was told without question, not to bother her in any way.

Naturally the group of twenty twenty-something year-old hockey players were going to do nothing of the sort.

Captain Evander Langston swished almost gracefully over to her. He stopped in front of her with a puff of ice at his feet. “Do you think I have a good side?”

She shook her head with a smirk and looked over the photos she just took in the last three minutes. “Probably not the left. You’ve been checked into the board over there about five times this practice alone.”

He put a hand on his chest. “Sweetheart, you wound me.”  Sweetheart was the name Uncle Charlie called her in front of the whole team during the introduction and so it was the only thing any of them paid attention to from their coach. “Don’t say that in front of the others,” he pleaded quietly.

“I would never, Cap,” she smiled kindly.

He returned her grin with his own. “You call me Cap, and I’m going to have a problem with Coach’s rule, Sweetheart. But I know we’re all going to like having you around to keep us in check.”

“Lang, you better not be flirting when your technique needs work!” Kian Calloway shouted across the ice where he slapped a puck into the open net from the blue line.

“You better not be flirting, period, Lang!” Uncle Charlie called.

“Yeah!” Callie repeated to his captain. She had gone over the nicknames with her uncle before starting. Lang, Asher, and Callie were easy and as some of the major stars of the team, it made sense she would chat with them most. “If anyone is going to flirt with her, it’s going to be me!”

“I’ll sit you for less, Callie,” Charlie warned.

She couldn’t help but laugh. But she didn’t mind the attention nor care. It was adorable. Like a group of puppies looking for attention. With a shake of her head, she made her way around the glass and boards for another angle of the players on the ice. She wanted shots of the goalie. Niall Horan seemed much too nice to be a hockey player but perhaps that’s why he was the goalie. He was the first one to introduce himself and he didn’t seem to have the temper that the other players did over trivial things (like tying skates together or putting salt in someone’s Gatorade). Niall blocked shots from his teammates as if it was nothing but breathing. In a way it was stunning, nearly beautiful.

Hockey was violent, yes. But there was beauty in it, too. The way players skated backwards, cupped the puck on their stick. The speed, agility, and gracefulness required to stay standing. It was all really beautiful, and she was excited to be up close this time around. For the last two years she had been in a box cheering for her ex-boyfriend, right forward for the Glacier Wolves, Kael Crowe.

To be completely honest, she should have known it wouldn’t have worked out. Among the cheating, the belittling, and all the other things that were, in hindsight, an abysmal part of dating him, the orange and blue coloring wasn’t her favorite. The Arctic Chargers black and silver jerseys were much more her speed. Kael was her boyfriend of years and years but once he made it to the majors three years ago, things were very different.

“You can come on the ice, Sweetheart, we’re almost done!” Asher said.

Even though she had dated a hockey player for nearly a decade (most of which took place during college) she couldn’t skate. Uncle Charlie tried when she was younger to teach her, but the balance and coordination was not in her wheelhouse. She longed to skate better. Figure skaters were so dainty and beautiful as they glided on the ice. She was neither of those things and almost dreaded getting on the ice in the boots she was wearing. If she fell in front of her uncle, it was embarrassing. She could only imagine how embarrassing it would be in front of an entire professional hockey team.

“One second!”

She wanted to prolong the agony. Plus, with her fragile camera it seemed like a death sentence to send her out there. Even if it was what she was getting paid to do. It wasn’t the most lucrative job she had, but it was what she wanted to do most. She was grateful for the opportunity and hoped it would kickstart into something more. Photography was a major passion for her. Pictures of anything. Her computer was filled with pictures of the sun and sky from the summer. Snowy days in the winter. Pictures of her parents’ dog. Her uncle’s kids on birthdays. She was the official photographer of family weddings and more. But it wasn’t steady. A lot of her post-college young life had been put on hold to dote on Kael. Something she regretted but couldn’t do anything about now.

Uncle Charlie was kind to help her out and she thought starting now was better than never starting at all.

“Styles is that you?!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t piss yourselves in excitement,” the voice was right beside her.

“You better be fucking cleared before touching this rink,” Ray Wheeler, head coach and another surrogate uncle to her was a bit gruffer in his delivery to the players than Charlie most of the time.

The man beside her slapped his hand, paper held pressed to the glass. “Doctor-cleared for takeoff,” he called. A round of cheers went up and she snapped another picture of the excitement, ignoring the one and only Harry Styles beside her.

Harry Styles was Kael’s rival. The same draft class (although begrudgingly, Kael would admit Harry went first), and almost the same position—left forward. Fortunately, they were in different conferences, so they only ever played one another twice a season. Unless they made it to finals which hadn’t happened yet. But in her opinion, it was only a matter of time. Harry made headlines for his skill and ability, fitness, and overall dominance on the ice. He was protective of his best friend in goal—he and Niall were a pair like no other. Which meant when they did play each other, Kael knew exactly how to get under Harry’s skin.

“Who are you?” He asked.

Harry wasn’t here for her formal introduction to the team. Before she could open her mouth, Uncle Charlie was there. “That’s my niece Styles. She’s off limits so just make your way to the locker room.”

“Ah,” he smiled.

It should have been noted that in addition to skill and ability, fitness, and dominance on the ice, Harry was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen. His eyes were green which sure as hell meant God was in fact a woman because no man would know to make Harry even more beautiful with forest green eyes. He was tall, even taller on skates. His skin glowed in a way that should have been illegal when she spent half an hour dousing her face in ten moisturizing products each night to achieve the same look and Harry spent most of his time indoors on an ice rink. Was it the chill that made his cheeks pinker? Would she get the same glow working here all season? She could only hope.

But it was that smile that did her in. His straight teeth peeking out from his lips. The dimples. The arrogance behind the expression. The pink curve of his upturned lips went right through her as he grinned at her.

“Nice t’meet you,” he held his hand out.

“Hands off!” Charlie shouted again.

Harry chuckled as she took his hand with an eyeroll introducing herself. “I’m your photo media specialist, if you will.”

“Excellent,” Harry grinned. “Let me know if y’need me t’pose a certain way,” he winked.

She shook her head and Niall skated up to the side. “Hey Sweetheart,” he said.

“Hi, baby, I missed you,” Harry answered with a grin. Niall shook his head flipping his friend off which made her giggle. Niall remained focused on her.

“Your Uncle said you might need help walking out here.”

“Oh, do we have a skating rookie on our hands?” Harry asked. Her cheeks felt hot under the assumption. Even though it was accurate.

“I suck at skating,” she shrugged. There wasn’t any use playing it off—they would know in a matter of seconds. “I get too nervous and lose my balance,” she admitted.

They both tilted their heads at her. She knew that vulnerability wasn’t something seen on the ice. It seemed almost trivial to admit, but she knew it clearly threw them for a loop. “I can walk you out,” Harry offered with that sinfully delicious smile.

“Coach said he was going to rebreak all of your fingers if you touch her."

“Oh, please let me walk you out,” Harry practically bounced with excitement.

She worried her eyes were going to remain in the back of her head from rolling them so much, but she supposed that would come with the territory with working for a group of boys. “Thank you, Niall. I should be okay. Just don’t let anyone laugh at me too much if I fall on my butt.”

“We don’t want you t’fall on such a pretty asset, Rookie. Are y’sure I can’t help?”

She ignored Harry, keeping her eyes on Niall. “No one will laugh,” he assured her, a smile toying at his lips as he slipped his helmet back on. “I offered, but she’s stubborn like you, Coach!”

The laughter that ensued was a good distraction for her to make her move. She unlocked the rink door and stepped onto the ice following behind Niall. Each step was carefully taken, knowing the traction of her winter boots were better than any other pair of shoes she owned but would never compare to the blade of skate.

Three little steps was about as far as she could go it seemed. Right as her footing was about to be lost on her and send her to the hard ice, a hand caught her elbow and kept her upright. “Rookie, love,” he tisked. “I told you I could help.”

She looked at him briefly knowing that his good looks got him any girl he wanted. She heard the rumors of the string of girls he had (perhaps one for every city he visited) and she knew of every bad thing that Kael had to say about him. But the kindness of him to catch her was sweet. Even she couldn’t deny that. Kael merely laughed each time she fell, it wasn’t mean spirited per se, but it was almost like he was glad she couldn’t skate. A way to be better than her.

God, she wished she had taken the hint a lot sooner.

Harry’s skates weren’t even tied yet. “Jus’ wait,” he said and knelt to lace them up. She had to imagine he rushed to get out here just knowing she wouldn’t make it across the ice.

Once tied, Harry held her elbow again and skated so effortlessly beside her barely moving as he glided alongside her. No one paid attention to her slow steps, and she could feel Harry’s grip firm but not hard on her arm. Almost sensing when she was going to misstep before she did. It made her heart skip a beat.

No. She couldn’t think like that. She wasn’t going to fall for another hockey player ever.

“M’teaching m’niece t’skate. I can teach you,” he shrugged. It wasn’t arrogant the way he said it. She was sure anyone else that knew she was in their mid-twenties (especially someone with a famous hockey player for an ex-boyfriend of eight years, and famous major league hockey coach for an uncle) would expect her to be able to skate. Instead, one of the top players in the league was at her elbow barely acknowledging that it was weird. Perhaps the vulnerability she mentioned to him and Niall really meant something to him. Or maybe she was just reading into it—which she definitely shouldn’t have been reading into it.

“It’s a real shame you won’t have that hand to play with after all, Harry,” Uncle Charlie shook his head.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Charlie, I can handle a group of boys,” she rolled her eyes again, earning a bout of laughter from the group. But she knew that Uncle Charlie was worried about Harry specifically. He was a lot like Kael. In another life, Harry would have been a weakness for her. But not anymore. She was done with hockey guys.

“M’jus’ making sure she doesn’t fall. Sad y’couldn’t teach her t’skate. Some uncle you are,” he shrugged casually.

The group laughed again, and she smirked. Charlie ignored the childish behavior of his players but rubbed his middle finger on his nose like he had an itch aimed for Harry “They’re all yours, Sweetheart. Just tell them where you want them. They’ve all been instructed to listen carefully unless they want to do suicides tomorrow at practice, so be honest if they don’t listen. Or lie if you see fit,” Uncle Charlie remarked making everyone groan. “Harry, go get your gear she needs individual pictures too.”

His eyes flickered to Niall for several seconds. Right as he released her arm, Niall now stood beside her and waited for direction. He didn’t hold her elbow like Harry did, but it was clear there was an unspoken message they shared telepathically. That little flutter in her chest made it’s appearance once more solely because Harry was kind to her about her inability to skate.

No, she wasn’t going to fall for it.

She wasn’t going to fall for the hot left wing of her uncle’s team just because he offered to teach her to skate and didn’t make fun of her because she couldn’t.

Nope. She wasn’t.

Not even a little.

Right?

*

The boys were decidedly sweet. Despite the fact it was like trying to wrangle a group of twenty toddlers into one spot. They sat nicely for their headshots individually, but once she tried to get them into various poses and group shots with their respective lines it proved a little more difficult. (Don’t even get her started on how the whole team shot went).

Harry stood beside her while she took pictures of everyone but him. His presence was comforting in a way she didn’t want to admit so readily. It had been less than an hour since she spoke to him. When he returned with all his gear in place, he held a small rug that the coaches often used to stand at center ice and call drills. He laid it before her feet, and she didn’t have to worry as much about falling. Niall was her test subject in front of the goal. When she wanted to get another angle, Harry scooped up the little mat and held her elbow and let her guide while he slid alongside her at a pace that was much too slow for a professional hockey player. But Harry didn’t seem to mind.

“Can I see?” He asked while the others skated around, messing around at the other end of the rink. She was now at the bench where she was safe from slipping. Harry leaned over the rail, dropping his gloves onto the wooden seat beside her. She offered her camera to him. Carefully he cradled it, like he knew it really was precious to her. Silently, he looked at the little screen. A smile grew on his face as he admired how his pictures came out. “These are awesome, Rookie.”

“Thank you,” did her cheeks feel warmer from the compliment? She smiled softly as he looked through several photos of himself. Harry Styles was lucky he didn’t have a bad side. Not that she would tell him that.

“How come y’didn’t do this for Crowe’s team?” He asked clicking through photos of his teammates.

She blinked, the smile melting from her face. “You know about me and Kael?”

“Well, yeah. S’the whole hands-off talk Coach gave us. Said you’re done with hockey players,” Harry shrugged one shoulder, his gaze focused on the lines and group shots on the screen of her camera. “Fortunately for me, I don’t consider your ex a real hockey player,” he smiled at the screen. “But I haven’t told Coach ‘bout that loophole jus’ yet.”

She snorted and shook her head. The flirty comment was cute. She could admit that. Plus, a dig at her shitty ex made her feel a little lighter. But she wasn’t going to fall for Harry’s easy-going charisma.

If she repeated it to herself enough, it would stick.

“I will not be dating real and-or imaginary hockey players,” she told him.

“At least give me a chance t’change your mind, Rookie,” he offered.

“No, thank you,” she shook her head politely. He frowned. She laughed softly. “You genuinely look down by my answer.”

“Hell yeah,” he scowled. “Y’take pretty pictures and y’wrangled this ragtag group,” he sighed almost dreamily. “And you’re absolutely beautiful t’boot.”

That made her smile, at least. He was an expert flirter. “Thank you, Harry. I appreciate that.”

“Enough t’let me take you on a date?”

“No.”

“Ugh.”

She laughed again. “Thank you for helping me around the ice,” she said graciously. “I’ll tell Uncle Charlie you were a perfect gentleman after he left.”

“Rookie, love, you’ll ruin m’reputation,” he called after her as she made her way around the rink toward the exit.

*

Her apartment was not in the nice part of town. To be fair, it was only just over the border from the nicer side. From her place she could see the bar she would be working at on the days she wouldn’t be at the rink. She hadn’t told Uncle Charlie about it because she knew he would be pissed if he saw where she lived. But it was the right price and honestly, the other tenants weren’t bad.

She suspected one of her neighbors on the first floor was... an entrepreneur... for his... small business. Michael was very wary of her at first, but she was lucky because he wore a hockey jersey the day, she met him, Callie’s number and name on the front and back. She hadn’t gone to the rink yet because she was getting a lot of her things and affairs settled. That evening she moved in, she got him tickets to a home game through her uncle (along with a dozen cookies to welcome herself to the building). To his credit, Michael looked weary that the tickets were fake, but the cookies were good. They weren’t special seats or anything, but they weren’t bad seats either. He knocked on her door the day after the game and it was clear she wasn’t going to have any issues with her neighbor. “That was cool. If you need anything, I got you,” he assured her with a grin. “That car you got, I’ll keep an eye on it for you when you’re not around... you’re too sweet to be living here.”

She smiled. “Thanks Michael.”

On the second floor lived an older couple. They kept to themselves, but she was sure to give them a dozen cookies as well and offered to shovel out their cars when it snowed. But once Michael saw her out there shoveling, he joined her as well. She brought a hockey stick autographed by the whole team for their grandson. She couldn’t wait to hear how he enjoyed that Christmas gift.

Her neighbor on the third floor just down the hall was Marcellus. He went by Marc and told her that he had a boyfriend and if she had an issue with that, it was too fucking bad. The previous tenant must have been a piece of work. She laughed at him, handed off her dozen cookies and shrugged. “If he breaks your heart, I have a team of hockey boys who can take him on,” she giggled.

So, Marc loved her too.

She wouldn’t be jogging around the neighborhood any time soon, but it was nice she wouldn’t have to worry about her car being stolen (although good luck to anyone who tried to get that piece of crap to start without a prayer), or getting robbed on her way into the building.

Inside her little studio apartment was a small kitchen. There was enough space for a small loveseat, a bed, and TV. She had a coffee table and a counter to sit at for breakfast. The bathroom was surprisingly spacious and modern for a rundown studio apartment building.

After a full day at the rink, she was chilly. A shower was just what she needed before she ventured into the cold again. Letting the hot water soothe her cold neck and back was so nice. While her hair air-dried, she transferred and then sifted through her pictures on her laptop. The edits she made were small. The lighting and shadows only needed to be adjusted a little. She loved the natural look of the of the players in their element.

She forwarded the photos to Charlie for approval, and he would send them to the higher ups for printing.

They look stunning, Sweetheart. Incredible job.

Grinning she looked over the photos she took of Harry again. He was by far the best-looking guy on the team (not that the others weren’t good-looking but alas). Even in the photos where you couldn’t see his pretty face, there was a presence that made him look more attractive. It was obvious he was a good player. His talent was evident in the photos, and she was proud of herself for being able to capture it.

There was a knock on her door. She padded quietly across the room, peeked through the peephole to see Marc, before she opened it. “Hi,” she smiled.

“You have to teach me hockey,” he said. “This man is obsessed, and I don’t even know what you call the ball.”

“Puck.”

“Exactly.” She laughed. He glanced around her apartment. “Your talents are wasted on this run-down place—holy hottie, who’s that?”

Her computer screen remained on Harry’s smiling individual photo. Dimples on full display and looking intense but happy. “That’s Harry Styles.”

“I think I’ll like hockey after all.”

Shaking her head, she sighed. “Listen, I have a shift I have to get to, but there’s a game on tomorrow afternoon, come over and we’ll watch it, and I’ll teach you,” she offered.

“Bring flashcards of the players. It’ll make me more interested.”

She tied the apron around her waist as he sifted through the photos. “God damn, is this what all hockey players look like?” He asked.

“Bye Marc,” she pulled his arm and pushed him toward her door. “See you tomorrow.”

*

The Locker Room was a local restaurant owned by Louis Tomlinson. It was a hot spot for the players to go to on off days and after a win (they refrained from going after a loss unless absolutely necessary). The fans that went were not allowed to be aggressive about the players, but after a while, they got used to seeing the players so often, it became a nice place to be themselves.

Asher and Lang were playing darts while Niall and Callie focused on a game of pool. Harry sat back sipping his beer analyzing his contacts looking for the hookup he wanted for the evening. They had curfew at midnight since there was a game tomorrow evening which left him with ample time to peruse his list, meet up with the girl, and get home by midnight before he turned into a pumpkin.

“Who’s the lucky lady tonight?” Louis asked clapping a hand on Harry’s back.

“Haven’t decided yet,” he chuckled.

“Well, when the new waitress comes over, you are not to make her uncomfortable. I already warned her.”

“I would never,” he rolled his eyes, still scanning the names.

“Uh-huh,” Louis nodded. “Of course. Tell your teammates too. She’s off limits.”

“What’s up with every new girl being off limits in our life?” Callie asked.

“Coach won’t let us date his niece and you won’t let us date the new girl,” Niall explained to Louis for clarification.

“Fortunately, it’s the same person, so you don’t have to lose out on two girls.”

Harry pulled away from his screen to admire the pretty girl he met at the rink earlier in the day. His grin grew. “Oh, Rookie, it’s you,” he cooed.

“Oh Jesus,” Louis sighed. “Watch out for that one, love,” he patted her on the back.

“So, I’ve heard,” she smiled.

“Is she ours?” Asher asked excitedly.

“As long as you don’t torture her,” Louis shrugged.

“We would never!”

“Eleanor refuses to set foot back here because of you all.”

“Hire meaner waitstaff.”

“Best of luck, love,” Louis shook his head.

“What can I get you guys?” She asked sweetly.

“Uncle Charlie doesn’t pay you enough that you have to slum it here?” Lang asked.

“I heard that!” Louis shouted.

Harry was...quite taken. From the moment he laid eyes on her. The concentration on her face as she took pictures, the way her hair was pinned up, how bundled she was. Her smile was sexy. The quips that spilt from her mouth perhaps even sexier. Harry was certain she was a dream because good things at the rink consisted of goals, interviews, and the pizza from the snack bar. Not a pretty girl with an expensive camera and his assistant coach as her uncle.

Now her hair was still pinned back, an apron tied around her waist, and the black and silver uniform as homage to his own. Harry wanted her draped in the number eleven and his name on her back ASAP.

It was cute she couldn’t skate. Cute how passionate she was on day one taking pictures. She wasn’t flustered by their rowdiness, or their annoying nature. Harry knew that she was used to hockey boys—had to be if her ex was one of the top forwards in the league (although Harry didn’t recognize that too often). He liked how she didn’t take shit from them but was still kind. She was funny, creative, and lovely.

And he only saw her in action for a short time.

But it was enough to make him put his phone away and not think about hooking up with someone tonight. His focus would be on her waiting on the team and (hopefully) getting to know her more so he could rationalize falling for someone so out of his league and someone so off limits.

“Hi Rookie, love,” Harry smiled as she approached his table. She took orders from the other four hanging around.

“Hi Harry,” she answered.

“M’happy to see you again.”

She nodded. “It’s only been a few hours, Harry.”

“S’too long t’go without seeing your pretty face,” he assured her.

She rolled her eyes, but Harry noticed how her cheeks flushed with color. “What do you want to drink?” She asked instead.

“Are you on the menu?”

“Does that work on other girls?”

“Yes.”

“It’s probably because of the hockey thing you have going on. I promise it wouldn’t work if you weren’t a professional,” she shrugged.

“Good thing m’very professional,” he continued, his voice flirty.

“I’m putting down whatever the other guys said,” she shook her head and headed off to get the drinks.

“Harry, don’t bother her. Coach said she’s off-limits,” Niall reminded him while Callie took his shot.

“Yeah, she doesn’t strike me as one-night-stand material,” Asher murmured focusing on his dart going directly into the board.

“Mmm,” Harry sighed. In the brief interaction he had with her, he kind of figured that too. In fact, given she had been with Crowe for nearly a decade, he imagined she didn’t have too much experience dating other than her ex. Not that he would force her—or any woman. Like he said they all knew what they signed up for. Harry wasn’t great at the whole relationship thing. He was constantly traveling with the team. Practice most days, games most nights. Relationships were often one-sided and tiresome. It wasn’t fair to expect someone to wait for five months of the year to have a relationship.

One-night stands were better for him.

But he could at least ask her if she was willing to try him out. God, knew he wanted to try her out the second he looked at her.

“Your drinks,” she announced setting them on Harry’s table. He eyed her as she set the drinks down from the little tray in her arm. “Do you guys want food?” She asked.

“Are you on the menu now?”

“Jesus Christ,” Lang shook his head.

“You’re embarrassing us, Styles,” Callie sighed.

“Chicken wings, you said?” She asked scribbling on the pad of paper in her hand. “Great choice. Do you want anything else?” Harry smiled, opened his mouth to speak but she turned immediately. “Not you,” she said over her shoulder and sauntered over to the pool table. Lang and Asher chuckled to themselves at Harry’s strike out.

“You’re our hero, Sweetheart,” Asher sighed dreamily.

*

When Harry was on the ice there were zero thoughts of anything but slicing up the ice with the blade of his skate. He thought about the opponent across from him. The puck sliding across the ice and into the net. Protecting Niall in goal if anyone dared to lay a hand on him.

But now when they had timeouts, or when he was waiting for the puck to come up to him, he saw the pretty girl with her camera lens pressed to the glass, or in the cut out for the press. Her little badge draped around her neck looked so cute. Everything about her was cute and dainty.

Crowe was a fucking idiot to let her go.

Which made him wonder why he chose to break up with someone so pretty and witty. Creative as well.

Fuck. Coach was going to kill him.

But she really stood her ground. In the month that she had been part of the team, she seemed damn near impervious to Harry’s flirting. Harry worked hard to make her blush (which he could see was easy) but it took a lot to make her speechless. It was obvious Crowe didn’t treat her well. It seemed like Harry’s attention to her was the only time she had been shown affection. That alone pissed him off and made him hate him more. It was like she had never been told how pretty she was. Even when Harry wasn’t actively flirting with her, when he complimented her hair or how her pictures came out, she seemed completely off-guard.

What a fucking dick.

Harry once more wondered why they broke up. He still hadn’t figured it out. There was no way she wasn’t the perfect girlfriend. Especially for a hockey player. For all the reasons Harry didn’t date, she knew precisely what she was getting into and did it anyway. But she doted on his teammates as if she was dating all of them (there was no other way to describe it.) She always had extra tape for sticks. She walked with her cross body filled with supplies for hangovers, minor injuries, and the like. When she waited on them at Louis’ place, she knew their orders and had them ready almost like clockwork for when they arrived.

“Styles!” Coach Wheeler called. “If you’re not going to practice, you can sit out!” He shouted.

Shaking his head, Harry tried to rid his mind of the team’s photographer. The coach’s niece. His pretty waitress.

The star of all his dreams as of late.

*

“Sweetheart, where do you want us?!” Lang called.

She was on the bench, waiting to take some gameday photos. Today she was wearing skates, which made Harry nervous. He knew if she went down, she would protect her precious camera and he didn’t blame her, but it he hated the thought of her getting hurt. “Just by the—” She sighed, closing her eyes mid-sentence and she put her phone to her ear. “Stop fucking calling,” she snapped and then put her phone in her pocket again. “By the goal,” she cleared her throat.

The team stared at her. “Do you have a stalker, babe?” Asher asked.

“No,” she snorted and looked at her camera. She took a test shot of the empty net to make sure everything was set. She stepped tentatively onto the ice, more graceful than the last time she did. But Harry glided over to her quickly. He didn’t touch her, but he was more than ready to catch her. She ignored his presence, not in a mean way at all. Not an ounce of her was mean. Which is why it was so surprising she had that much malice in her voice on the phone.

“Everything okay, Sweetheart?” Charlie asked.

“Yup,” she popped the ‘puh’ sound.

She slid forward very carefully. “S’kind of shooting yourself in the foot here, Rookie. Figure skates have a better blade for beginners. S’harder t’skate on hockey skates for what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I was always told a hockey blade was thicker, so it was better.”

Harry shrugged. “S’not really that big of a deal in m’opinion. Figure skates have a longer blade, better for y’balance. Charlie set y’up with those?” She shook her head.

“No,” her voice was quiet.

“You bought hockey skates on your own?”

“Can you go stand with your team?” She asked dodging his question. He frowned.

“Yeah, sorry, Rookie, love,” he skated off but whistled at his younger teammate, Garrett, the third string forward for his position. Harry tilted his head in her direction and Garrett went over to her, standing way too far away in case she did fall.

“Who got her the skates?” He mumbled to Charlie. He shrugged.

“Not sure. Probably Kael. I would imagine he got a deal from his sponsors.”

God Harry hated him.

*

Mila was someone he saw on a semi-regular basis. Which meant she knew the drill. After their win, they would do their thing. Harry would stay until she fell asleep—because he wasn’t an asshole; and he wasn’t too proud to admit that he liked cuddling. Even if it was only for a little while—and he would send a text the next day to make sure she felt okay. There was no breakfast, no awkward small talk. Just sex. There was no setup to get feelings hurt or hearts broken. Harry was too busy for a girlfriend, and he would make for a shitty boyfriend.

It was cold when he left her place, and he blew into his hands for warmth when he as he headed to his car. There was a text on his phone from an unknown number.

Thought you would want to see the picture that’s on the front page of the sports section for tomorrow :) There was an impressive picture of Harry’s game winning goal. It wasn’t time sensitive but it was the one that broke the tie. The rest of the team held off the offensive line for the remaining ten minutes of the game.

Thanks, Rookie. I’m going to send it to Mum. She’ll print it for the fridge. How’d you get my number?

Kian gave it to me. Is that alright?

Who?

Callie 🙄 You should really learn your friends’ names. Is it okay I have your number?

Of course it’s alright. Just surprised YOU asked for it. Didn’t know you would want to talk to me so bad. You could have asked me yourself.

Sorry, I think have the wrong number.

He chuckled to himself while his car warmed up. The seat heater was heaven on his stiff muscles. Harry liked the cold—he had to being a hockey player. But it was her funny wit that warmed him from the inside out. Are you all still at Louis’?

Yes. Niall and Noah are about to break the air hockey machine.

Who?

🙄 Asher. Sorry. Jesus.

I’ll be right there, Rookie.

*

The next time the team won, Harry looked at the message from Layla asking if he wanted to come over to celebrate. He didn’t really want to. The guys were headed home because they had an early flight and there was no celebrating. Which meant that the pretty girl he wanted to celebrate with wasn’t going to be out and about either. She wouldn’t be doting on his drunk teammates. Wouldn’t be stopping their stupid fights about who’s turn it was to play her in darts. She wouldn’t be making sure they all made it home safely in the Ubers she ordered.

But Harry couldn’t just hang out with her either. There was no reason. She was basically his teammate and he couldn’t figure why she was so guarded. At least not beyond whatever it was she was dealing with Crowe.

“Is he still calling?” Niall asked looking at her phone the bench while she looked at her camera. Her hair always fell so perfectly as she watched the screen.

“Who?” Lang asked.

She sighed. “It’s just Kael.”

“Why?” Callie asked.

She shrugged. “I would have to answer to find out. Which is the last thing I want to do. I need a new phone number; I just haven’t gotten around to it. My schedule conflicts with most regular business hours so I could go to the store.”

“Charlie, you can’t spare her to give her a day off?” Asher asked.

Her uncle rolled his eyes, flipped him off, and continued practicing with the second and third stringers.

Harry sat beside her and peeked over her shoulder at her photos. “Do y’have any non-hockey photos?” She nodded and picked up her phone that was still showing Crowe blowing up her phone with calls and texts. “Why don’t y’block him, Rookie?” She swiped his notification away and she opened the web browser. It was currently on a recipe for carrot cake cupcakes. “Those look good,” he smiled.

She smirked. “It’s Ray’s birthday next week. Carrot cake is his favorite. Figured I’d make you all cupcakes.”

Harry thought she was too sweet for him. Someone with a lineup of women didn’t deserve her sweetness. Someone who was meeting Arya at her place after practice because he could didn’t get a girl like her. Him meeting Nyla after tomorrow’s away game three states away didn’t get someone like the pretty photographer.

Kael’s name kept popping up. “Y’probably never had t’block anybody before,” Harry said quietly. “D’you know how?” He hoped he didn’t sound condescending. But he had the unfortunate pleasure of blocking someone every now and again.

“I know how,” she laughed softly. “It’s just... with Kael, it’s likely to be a thing, you know?” She shrugged. “It’s easier to ignore him.”

“It probably gives him hope,” Harry frowned.

She held out her phone to him and shrugged. “That’s not my problem. I’ll see him in a couple weeks when we’re up North,” she reminded him. “Hopefully by then he’ll get the message; or I’ll have to talk to him in person.”

Harry took her phone and admired the portfolio of photos she displayed for him. The website was all black making her images pop. She was so talented. There were babies and weddings. There were family portraits and just general landscape shots. All of differing but equal beauty and perfection. Natural. Lovely.

Harry swiped away Kael’s name again and clicked on the menu item of the about section.

Two side by side pictures of the pretty girl next to him were on the screen. One with the camera in front of her eye, the other a sweet smile on her face camera in front of her like a prop. Behind the Lens... Thank you for browsing. If you like what you see, I’d be happy to quote you for any need. I have experience in just about any area of photographing. Thank you for letting me part of you day!

Too sweet for someone who was going to never be able to settle down because of his job. No matter how much he wished she could be part of his day.

Kael’s stupid name popped up again. Without another rational thought, Harry answered the call, pressed the phone to his ear, and skated off knowing she couldn’t go after him.

“Finally, baby,” Kael groaned.

“STYLES HOW DARE YOU!” She screamed.

“Crowe, nice t’hear from you.”

“Who the fuck is this?” He growled.

“HARRY!” She was on the ice in her ever-present boots. They weren’t great for walking on ice. She slipped immediately but Lang was right nearby to help her up. Harry was going to feel guilty about that for ages.

“None of your business,” he shook his head. “She doesn’t want y’calling anymore.”

“What the fuck? Put her on the phone!”

“No,” Harry said defiantly. “She doesn’t want t’talk t’you. Ever. Stop calling y’piece of shit.”

Lang looked at Harry wildly as he glided with the pretty girl clutching to his arm. She smacked Harry multiple times on the arm and chest making the coaches laugh. “Give me the phone!” She snapped.

“Give her the phone!” He repeated. “Listen to her!”

“No, y’don’t deserve her,” Harry stepped out of her reach where she lost her balance as she lunged for him. She fell again catching her hands. Thank God she didn’t have her camera. Lang helped her to her feet again and Harry felt a wave of guilt wash over him again. “Y’didn’t appreciate her, her talent, or anything. Y’didn’t get her the right skates, and I don’t know what y’did t’piss her off so bad, but y’not getting her back,” Harry said it so casually. But every word was meant for her.

“Is that you, Styles?” Crowe snarled.

“Bye Crowe, see you in a month!” He said cheerily handing the phone off to her.

She nearly fell again despite holding onto Lang. “What the hell, Harry!”

“I got rid of him,” he shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

Her face was beat red with embarrassment. Her hands had to be cold from the fall. But she still looked adorable as always. Even with a sour expression, she was sweet. Pretty beyond belief. Wide eyes, soft skin, even her nose was cute. She glared at him and spun on her heel. “Get me away from him,” she snapped.

Harry sighed, feeling bummed he pissed her off too much. Lang shook his head at Harry as he helped her back to the bench. She packed up her things and left.

But he couldn’t help but notice that her phone had stopped ringing.

*

She was still mad at him a week later. If she ignored his flirting before, this was an entire new level. She hardly acknowledged his presence. He missed her. In a weird way. He enjoyed bugging her, but perhaps it went to far. It was an invasion of her personal life that he wasn’t privy to, and he didn’t really have any right to deal with her ex-boyfriend.

That didn’t mean anything he said wasn’t anything but the truth.

“Hey Rookie,” he said as she entered the room to get their drink orders for the evening.

“Hi everybody,” she grinned at everyone in turn and glared at Harry.

“Boy you pissed her off,” Niall chuckled.

He shrugged. “Worth it,” because it was. He hated Kael before, he hoped he got the clue.

“You know she had to talk to him, right?” Callie asked. Harry’s head snapped up from his phone screen looking at his contacts once more. Harry wasn’t sure he could pinpoint it exactly but his evenings with the women in his phone were leaving him less and less fulfilled. He wasn’t looking for any grand pronouncements of love. That wasn’t his thing. But the idea of spending the evening with someone didn’t give him the same excitement as it used to.

It was probably the day he met her. But it was sinking in more over the week she had barely spoken to him. “What do y’mean?” He frowned.

“Crowe? She had to talk to him after that stunt you pulled.”

Harry glowered at the table. “Why?”

“Because he wouldn’t stop blowing up her phone and he was threatening to come to her if she didn’t just talk to him. Why do you think she didn’t come with us on the plane the next day?”

Harry felt like a jerk. “Oh.”

“She hates you,” Asher reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. “She could have told one of us,” he mumbled. Harry would have sat outside her apartment waiting for him.

“I don’t know if you noticed Harry, but she’s pretty private,” Niall sighed leaning on his pool stick. “I know you meant well, but it kind of fucked up her day.”

Harry pouted. He met her gaze as she brought their drinks out.

And if she spilled Harry’s on him, well, he supposed he deserved that.

*

Harry was a great hockey player, a great friend. A great brother and son. Not to toot his own horn but he thought he truly was the World’s Best Uncle like it said on the T-shirt Gemma had got him when she told him she was pregnant. He was still pretty humble all things considered; always looking to improve. Coach Wheeler was one of his favorite mentors (right after his mum) and he strived to do better by them.

He was bad at Chemistry in school. He wasn’t good at Sudoku. Most recently he felt like he was bad at having sex. The thing he had going with the women he knew didn’t seem to be working for him the way it used to. There was an awkwardness to the hookups when he left. He wasn’t mentally present in the moment.

Harry was pretty certain he would be a shitty boyfriend.

He needed her forgiveness, or the other remaining areas of his life were going to get worse too.

Most notably, he was shit in practice. He worried he was going to be demoted to second string.

Harry arrived early to practice, putting goals in the net two hours before everyone else arrived. He would have to pay to resurface the ice twenty minutes before practice officially started. But he hoped that she was going to show up early with her carrot cake cupcakes. He anticipated she would be just one short. Which Harry deserved on top of everything else too.

Fortunately, she did arrive early.

“Hey,” he waved.

She ignored him, set the cupcakes down on the bench and pulled out her camera. She fiddled with it, wiping the lens off with a cloth, and took some test shots of the ice.

“Rookie, love,” he sighed and skated over to the bench.

“Yes, Mr. Styles? Can I help you?”

“C’mon, Rookie, I’m sorry,” he frowned. “I was just trying to help.”

She rolled her eyes and ignored him. “You must get whatever you want all the time.”

He frowned. “No, I don’t actually,” although from her perspective he could see what she meant.

“Well, me either, so if I’m going to be miserable. So are you.”

He snorted, shook his head. He stepped off the ice and sat on the bench beside her. “I’m sorry, Bunny. Really. I hated that he was bothering you. I didn’t mean t’make it worse, honest. I would have done the same for m’sister or any one of the guys’ girls.”

“I am an adult Harry. I’m independent and I can handle my own shit. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I understand. M’sorry, really. I won’t do it again. But m’sick of y’being mad at me. S’been no fun this week without skating you around, grossly overtipping you jus’ so you’ll spend extra time with us,” he smiled shyly at her.

She sucked her lip into her mouth. For a moment she looked at her lap, obviously thinking something over. “How’d you know he bought me the wrong skates?” Her voice was quiet.

Harry blinked wondering how long she had that question locked and loaded. He shrugged. “I asked Charlie. He said he didn’t. So, I assumed it had to be him.”

She sighed and looked up. “He said figure skates would make me look like try-hard. Hockey skates would make me look more like I belonged on his arm,” she explained. “I didn’t know. I would have...” she shook her head. “It was eye-opening when you said that, and it hurt... and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry too.”

Harry sighed with relief. “You don’t have t’apologize,” he promised. “I’m sorry. Seriously.”

“Apology accepted.”

Harry grabbed her shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Thanks Bunny.”

She wrinkled her nose at him in distaste. “I don’t like Bunny.”

“Oh...” his smile grew by the second. “Y’don’t Rookie, love?” He chuckled standing up and getting back on the ice. “Y’probably shouldn’t have told me that,” he winked and skated off.

“There’s no cupcake for you!” She called.

“That’s okay, Bunny!” He shouted back with a grin and sank a shot from half-ice.

Maybe Harry would be a shitty boyfriend, but he was going to be her best friend instead.

--

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach

@straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals

@angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams

@summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland

@lovrave @st-ev-ie @pandeebearstyles @toosarcastic03 @luvonstyles

@tenaciousperfectionunknown @classychalamet @love-letters-to-uranus @emmaawbr @crossyourpeter

@kissitnhekitchen @boopookie @babegoals @indierockgirrl @michellekstyles

@just-another-reader1098 @hermionelove @tiredinwinter @whimsy-willows @hannah9921

@fangirl7060 @triski73 @vikiii07 @prettygurl-2009 @mads3502

@angeldavis777 @tchlamqtsgf @lizsogolden @me-undiscovered @you-sunshine

@rose-girls-world @claimingharrystigertattoo @inlikea-coolway @theseaview @lunaharrygurl

@emmie2308 @fruity-harry @somebunnybaby @avas-queen-black @mema10

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[jehan-d-art]

I mean those are some serious bedroom eyes while nearly getting stabbed... it's even more wild if one has watched this scene and knows he actually grabs onto the knife handle to direct it at his own heart...

... and eventually their mutual distrust turns into mutual devotion, causing both of them to want to burn down the entire world for what they have left (which, for both of them, includes the other as part of their most beloved people). where have I seen this before...

oh, yeah, right. there's a reason why I named one of my stories 'between distrust and devotion' because I just mean, come on: enemies to lovers is already an incredible trope but to have it be about people who make each other better but also worse is so much more fun (to me at least, if it's done right). and now to my actual point of me rambling like that: jwds = praise kink (I mean, a certain someone clearly liked being called pretty) gahan = choking kink (there is just so much choking going on in this series, one could mean Ga On was actually trying to get Yo Han to put his hands around his throat by any means possible)

Matching your freak is beautiful and all but what you really need is a boy who's infatuated with your freak. Down bad for your freak. Deeply intrigued by your freak. Eager to see more of your freak. Supportive of your freak. Gets bricked up witnessing your freak, even.

[httpwintersoldier]

『sweet little thing p.2 | b. barnes x reader』

pairing: bucky barnes x afab!reader words: it's real long okay, it even has a third part! summary: what happens when the guy you have a crush on happens to have a dad, who is older, hotter and rougher? 『 part 1 』

fluff ; angst ; smut

"I don't think the text was for me, darlin', but for the record, it looks good."

Your widened eyes stared at the text until the screen of your phone locked again due to lack of activity.

You couldn't believe you had been so stupid as to send without checking the contact beforehand! You cursed your slippery fingers, and the fact that their names started with "J". Thankfully you didn't mention any names in the text, or else you'd probably have to drop out and move elsewhere...

Once the embarrassment had washed away ever so slightly, you let his words sink in - "but for the record, it looks good". You gripped your skirt and pressed your thighs together as you imagined the man leaning closely and whispering that in your ear, telling you just how good you looked.

Another dilemma popped into your mind - now that he knew you thought it was slutty, should you really go out in it!? On one hand, Bucky told you it looked good, but on the other you'd basically admitted to knowing too much showed in that outfit...

The sound of a car honking outside broke you from your trance, and you walked over to your bedroom's window to find your ride already waiting for you. You muttered a small "fuck" under your breath gathered all of your things and stuffed them in a bag before taking one last look at the mirror.

"Oh, whatever, can't get worse than it already is." You said to yourself, grabbed a large jersey and threw it on top of the cheerleader outfit you decided to wear.

You sprayed some perfume and left the house, with your heart wanting to find Bucky right away, and your mind wanting him to stay as far as possible.

You all rode in the same car in direction to Andy's house, which meant that at least you wouldn't be alone with Bucky yet again - that alone calmed you down quite a bit. The ride was loud and full of music, but you couldn't stop thinking about your little (big) mistake.

Your friends noticed, but as far as they were aware, you had a thing for Andy, so they just brushed it off as being nervous to be around him or something of the sort.

Fortunately, Andy was the one opening the door this time, and he greeted everyone with a big, adorable smile that would have made you fall to your knees just a couple weeks ago.

"Guys, I need your help carrying the beer cases, the ice and the thermal boxes. Y/N can you and Jas go to the garage and bring the boxes? There's four of them, they're empty so you should be alright bringing two each."

You and the other girl nodded, following his instructions as to how to get to the garage. Once you got there, however, the boxes were nowhere to be seen.

"Can you go ask him where they are, Jas? I'll keep looking."

Your friend nodded and turned around, leaving you alone to look for the boxes by yourself. You tried not to make too much of a mess while searching for them, but you had looked as hard as possible without moving anything, and yet you had no luck finding what you were looking for.

"What happened to that little number I saw?"

You jumped and shrieked at the deep voice behind you. When you turned around you saw those steel blue eyes looking down at you, with a little knowing smile.

There was no point in playing dumb, you both knew what he was talking about. His eyes flew down to your hands that played with the hem of your jersey.

You felt so small under his gaze... You had never felt like this with any other guy - sure, you had been shy before, but when it came to Bucky it was like the words were caught on your throat and your whole body caught on fire. Maybe it was because he was older, maybe it was the confidence and power in the way he conducted himself - the image of a man who wasn't, for once, all bark and no bite.

He stepped forward, reaching right beside you to claim the beer he had left open on the counter that you were leaning against.

"Decided against my advice?" He took a swing of his beer, the playful, devilish smile on his face spreading wider "Andy would've liked it."

He was teasing you. He knew you were embarrassed and he was using it against you, for amusement.

"Why? Did you like it?"

The both of you were shocked at the words that left your lips - you didn't know where those words came from and Mr. Barnes wasn't waiting for something so bold to come out of you.

He chuckled and his eyes suddenly seemed to be darker, but that darkness wasn't the lack of emotion you had seen that day at the store, it was a different type... there was something sensual about his gaze rather.

"Maybe I did."

The two of you heard footsteps heading towards you. Bucky stepped away from you and faced the door just as your friend came in.

"Andy said that his dad already- oh, hello Mr. Barnes!"

"Hi there. Can I help you?" He asked Jas.

Bucky acted as if nothing had happened, as if he and you had just been having a casual conversation, as if the air was thick and tense from the sexual tension burning between your bodies.

"Andy told me and Y/N to fetch the thermal boxes, but he didn't know you had brought them out already." She explained.

"I see. Well, have fun girls." He said, looking between you and her, as you walked towards the door to leave with your friend.

Suddenly, an idea popped into your mind, a little bit of revenge for what he had just done to you. You needed to act fast, so thinking twice about the idea was out of the question, you just... did it.

"Aren't you going to watch the game, Mr. Barnes?" You asked teasingly, turning back around to face him.

Bucky scoffed, knowing exactly what you were doing calling him 'Mr. Barnes'.

"Might stop by and watch it, why sweetheart?" The man asked, with a curious look, taking another sip of his beer, something he did often to hide his smirk.

You took off the jersey you were wearing over your outfit, revealing the cheerleader getup you had just talked about, and handed him the item of clothing.

"You don't have anything to support the team! I can lend you my jersey." You said, your voice honest and innocent, as if you didn't know exactly what your words and actions meant, as if there wasn't a second meaning to what you did.

Bucky wasn't exactly subtle in the way he looked at you. His eyes were eating you up, from top to bottom, slowly taking in the view in the flesh. Eventually, he reached for the jersey and took it.

"Thanks, sweetheart, I'll make sure to give it to you when the game is over."

You mumbled a "don't mention it" and walked back into the house with your friend, so you could help everyone set up for the game.

"Dude, his dad is a real DILF." Jas whispered as you two made it to the front porch.

"I know, right?" You smugly agreed.

Whistles and compliments echoed in the room when you pulled up with the cheerleader outfit after ditching the jersey. Andy's eyes in particular stayed the longest on your body, and you felt a little guilty for nor caring about what he thought - the feedback that you truly wanted had already been received.

Bucky had joined the group not long after the game started, and you didn't miss the way his eyes stole glances at you whenever possible.

The man himself didn't know what was wrong with him. He was nearly twice your age, he could be your dad, it was a very possible scenario since his actual kid was your classmate, but for some reason, ever since you had walked into his house with that pretty little skirt and those big, shy eyes, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about you.

He knew he wasn't being subtle when eating you up with his eyes, but Bucky wanted you to know, to see what you did to him.

Both of you were aware of the painfully tense and erotic situation, as you'd spread your legs and cross them more often than not, giving Bucky a good view or your exposed skin, making him yearn for more.

"Shit, we need more chips." One of the guys complained.

"I can get them." You offered, since you weren't really interested in the game, and stood up, taking the two empty bowls with you.

It seemed to be impossible to ever be in that house without being left alone with James Barnes, but that time it wasn't accidental at all. As you were opening the chips and dumping them on one of the bowls, footsteps echoed behind you.

Suddenly, Bucky placed his hands on your waist and flipped you around, pressing you against the counter and trapping you between the furniture and his body.

"What are you doing, darlin'?" He asked, looking straight into your widened eyes.

"I-I'm refilling the chips..." You responded, pointing at the bowl behind you with your thumb.

"Fuck the chips, you know exactly what I mean, pretty girl." The man said, cutting right through your act, as he gripped your waist tightly and pulled you to him.

One of the corners of your lips twitched upwards, discarding the innocent façade.

"I'm doing just what you are doing."

"You're playing a dangerous game, Y/N."

The way he said your name sent a shiver down your spine, it rolled off of his tongue in a manner that couldn't be described in any way other than sensual.

"And you aren't?"

He chuckled, licked his lips slowly and then brushed his hair back with his hand, out of frustration. Your naive side had him going insane with desperation, but your bold side had the man wishing to fuck the brat out of you.

"You know what?" He said, taking his hand and softly placing the pads of his fingers right above your knee "I'd love to bend you over this counter and fuck you with this little skirt still on."

His hand trailed up your leg, slowly lifting your bottoms, revealing your white panties with a pink bow in the front. Bucky smirked and chuckled, a small patch of wetness was clearly visible.

"But?..." You questioned, teasing him as you slid one of your thighs between his legs.

"Y/N! How are those chips coming along, dude?" One of the boys yelled from the living room, snapping the two of you into reality.

"Yeah- coming! One second." You responded.

"I guess we'll have to finish this later, Sergeant."

You didn't give him time to respond, as you grabbed the two bowls and walked back into the living room, the wet spot between your legs now larger than ever before, seemingly.

What Bucky was feeling was wrong. He stood there in the kitchen, thinking about you, thinking about how he towered over you and how you looked at him with those eyes that switched back and forth from innocent to fierce, to tease him, to lure him even further.

His pants were tight and his head was filled with thoughts of your body, leaving over and pressing against every surface of that house, with him inside of you.

It was torture, he couldn't handle it anymore, and he couldn't go back into the living room with such and obvious problem - and with the source of the problem sitting so close.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Mr. Barnes going up the stairs, with a serious face and a quick pace. No one else seemed to notice, however, as they were too focused on the game.

"I'm going to the bathroom, anyone need anything from the kitchen?" You lied, looking for an excuse to leave the room as quickly as possible without being suspicious.

You had just come back from the kitchen with the chips, so everyone shook their head or mumbled a "no", so you stood up and followed up the stairs, looking out for any noise to find out which door Bucky had gone into.

As you walked down the hallway, you could hear faint grunts that grew closer with each step. Eventually you found the door of what you assumed was his bedroom, and your whole body froze. There was only one door between you, and the thing that you had fantasized for so long.

"Fuck..." You heard him groan from the inside.

Your hand grabbed the doorknob and slowly turned it, as the heat between your legs was too much to bear. You opened the door, just enough to be able to see him sitting on the bed, back against the wall and head leaning back, as his hand stroked his cock.

"Are you enjoying the show?" He asked, continuously jerking his shaft as he lowered his head and looked straight at you, his hair falling beautifully over his face.

Your face was burning up and your heart was racing, but your nerves were nothing compared to the pure hunger and desperation you felt for the man. You stepped into the room, carefully, as if stepping into a wolf's cage, and closed the door behind you.

Bucky watched as you walked over to him, eyes shifting between his hand's movements and his face.

His free hand flew to your hip, slowly guiding you down until you were sitting on his lap, your wet, clothed pussy applying pressure on his cock.

You stared at each other's lips for a very long time. Bucky's hand cupped your cheek and, slowly but surely, brought you closer, until there was no space left between you.

What started out slowly very quickly progressed, and the second your lips connected, his hands were all over your body, gripping you ass and toying with the little skirt he loved so much. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging on it ever so often as his tongue got bolder.

The two of you pulled apart, your lips were swollen and your eyes were glazed, obviously displaying how much the two of you needed more.

His eyes fell to your lips and he kissed you softly once more before looking up at your eyes.

"We shouldn't do this..." His mouth said something, but the curious fingers that played with the waistband of your panties told you a completely different story.

"Why?" You asked softly, placing small, wet kisses on his neck, causing him to close his eyes and groan.

"My son... Fuck- Andy likes you." Bucky said finally, gripping you tightly as soon as those words left his mouth, as if he thought you'd slip away at the confession.

You kept on kissing his neck, as that confession didn't faze you - if it was something that you would've been over the moon about just a month ago, it was now irrelevant. Bucky came into your life and took over your mind completely, you felt as if every release would feel subpar, unless he was the one helping you reach it.

"You really wanna stop? Hm?" You asked teasingly, as your hips began grinding against his, your wet panties rubbing on his cock.

The conflict on his face was brief, as he eventually threw his head back and let out a low groan. The male gripped your ass cheeks and flipped the two of you over as he attacked your neck.

His hands expertly slid your underwear down your legs, and the male began kissing down your neck, your chest, and your stomach, until he reached your pussy. Bucky teased you for a second, kissing your inner thighs, but he was just as desperate to taste you as you were to feel him.

As his tongue begins licking your cunt and circling your clit, your right hand covers your mouth, while the other grips his hair.

"Aren't you a sweet little thing?..." He whispers, after tasting you.

You almost came at those words, the pure filth of the whole situation leaving you dizzy with pleasure.

The man's cock throbbed against the mattress, but he was too drunk in your taste to let go - Bucky wanted to taste as much of you as possible. His tongue slipped in and out of you as he took a break from teasing your clit, and he didn't stop until your back arched, as Bucky wanted to make you cum with his cock.

Bucky's lips met yours once more, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. That kiss was meant to muffle your sinful sounds as he slipped inside of you and slowly pushed himself fully into you. His girth stretched you out in the most satisfying way, and, somehow, the thing you had fantasized about for so long was even better than you had imagined.

He started out slowly, looking into your eyes as if testing the waters, and picked up the pace when he saw you were comfortable enough. Thankfully the TV was loud enough to drown out the echo from the skin slapping sounds, but they wouldn't drown out much more.

Bucky covered your mouth with his hand as his hips snapped against yours at a feral pace - he wanted to make you scream in a way that you wouldn't be heard.

"Want to be a whore? Hm? Parading yourself in front of me with those pretty little skirts thinking I wasn't gonna fuck the shit out of you?"

Your tits bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts, and you thanked for the hand covering your mouth, allowing you to be as mouthy and as loud as you wanted to.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you looking pretty like this, sweetheart." He said, between pants.

Bucky wouldn't last long, as your ever-tightening walls and the erotic look on your face rendered him weak, but thankfully you were also near your climax - he could tell from the way your back arched slightly more by the second.

"Wanna cum for me, baby?" Bucky questioned, removing his hand so you could answer.

"Y-yeah, please, Sir."

He chuckled and smirked at the nickname that, to your credit, did have a nice ring when you were begging under him.

One of Bucky's hands slid between your bodies and circled your clit, until your eyes rolled into the back of your head and your toes curled. You had to bite your lip harshly, to stop yourself from moaning out Bucky's name. The latter pulled out and buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning and panting as he climaxed, spilling all over your stomach.

Knock, knock.

"Hey dad, have you seen Y/N?"

For a second your face went white and your blood froze - you begged that he didn't open the door, or he would come face to face with a rather unfortunate view. You simply stared at Bucky, trusting that he would come up with something

"Huh?" He said, pretending to be clueless at first, "Oh yeah, she had a bit of an accident." Hinting that you had gotten your period, a clever lie that Andy wouldn't question due to its nature "She was embarrassed and didn't want to tell everyone so I told her to just go home."

"Oh... Okay." Andy's voice seemed sad, and you heard his footsteps dragging on the floor and becoming quieter as he walked away.

Bucky looked into your eyes before pressing a kiss to your jaw.

"Guess you don't gotta go back down... Plenty of time for another round. Or two."

'minors do not interact' banner credit: @cafekitsune

[jynxpsiche]

always there for you

kang dae-ho (player 388) x fem!reader

🎐. summary: you already took part in the games with Gi-hun and survived that monstrosity. But even the strongest soldier has its weakness.

🎐. warnings: canon gore, squid game violence, no spoilers, swearing, fluff, female reader, no proofread. English isn’t my first language!

requests are open !!

You woke up in that shithole again.

You promised yourself to never ever put your foot back in there after the last time. You still didn’t know how you managed to survive last time.

In the game only Gi-hun and you were the only one left standing after an atrocious journey. Poor Sae-byeok, who at a certain point was injured, didn’t make it because killed by Sang-woo, who instead was found dead in the bathroom.

So the two of you were facing each other on the field of the last game, but neither of you decided to finish it, both voting to go home.

The prize money had been split between the two of you then everyone followed their path, but Gi-hun and you kept in touch.

He was obsessing with finding the recruiter and for the last two years he hired a group of men who would scour every inch of every subway line.

From the calls and video chats you both shared you undoubtedly noticed how his infinite search was draining him, both physically and mentally. He wasn’t taking care of himself properly.

Sometimes you went to his apartment and cooked something for him, hoping that some home cooked meal would have helped him a little, and even if he always vocalized his gratitude for your actions you knew that day by day he was losing himself completely.

An unhealthy obsession that was killing him slowly and painfully.

Luckily for him, you were there to help him grasp at that little sanity he had left.

“It must be annoying to look after someone like me”. He blurted these words once, a cigarette in one hand and a distant look on his face. He almost looked guilty and mad for disturbing you.

But he didn’t know that it was the least you could do. You couldn’t help him forget everything and live a happy and untraumatized life, but you could help by taking care of him.

He was the only one left for you, and you were for him.

And you cared so deeply for him that at a certain point you even decided to join his plan to finally find and confront the frontman.

The only difference was that it wasn’t in your plan to take part again in that murderous game. He knew that to obtain what he wanted he had to go deeper, but you weren’t ready.

Your eyes snapped wide open when you heard that familiar song. “God fucking dammit!” a few heads turned in your direction but you brushed them off.

The last thing you remembered was being in a fancy limo with Gi-hun and him talking with the frontman. Then black.

Now in that blue and white room again, on that nasty bed again that brought back so many memories but this time with different people, all too excited to win some cash.

When you looked down you notice that same outrageous outfit but a particular caught your eye.

003.

The same exact number.

Despite you scanned the room for that one familiar face you didn’t find him anywhere and that thought just made you paranoid.

It was impossible for him to not be where he exactly wanted to be? Maybe the frontman took him somewhere else? Where he could have been unable to fight back? Where he could have died without no one knowing?

That final realization hit you straight in the head and in an instant you stood up from your bed and tried to make your way through the other participants.

However, you had been stopped by a full body of guards walking in through the metallic door.

The square guard started with their usual speech, presenting the game and the rules, stressing every time his tone on how their rights and comforts were their main interest and always came first above everything else.

Merely bullshit.

You still hoped this was a fever dream or something like that.

But reality settled back in when you found yourself on that open field again and the colossal robot staring right back at you.

How you didn’t miss that place.

In the distance you spotted a slim figure running ahead the group, facing everybody.

It was Gi-hun.

“Gi-hun you son of a b—“

Alive.

Most of them managed to pass the game thanks to Gi-hun. 91 players were eliminated, 9.1 billions were now in the piggy bank.

And just that sum of money sent most of the players there out of their minds. And because of that the voting ended just as you expected.

By one vote the circle won and all of you were obliged to stay there and take part in another mortal game.

“These greedy people don’t even know what they got themselves into…” whispered through clenched teeth, your eyes thinned as you listlessly played with your food.

You reunited with Gi-hun and joined him and his best friend Jung-bae, now all seated on the stairs in a corner.

“I totally agree” a voice came from your right and when you lifted your gaze in front of you there was a broad man with half hair tied up and a gentle smile on his face.

His sudden appearance caught also the attention of the other two players, who simply stared up at him, distrust on Gi-hun’s face.

“I heard you during the first game! Everybody freeze!” The young man imitated your friend’s gestures with an excited spark in his eyes.

“And who are you?” Jung-bae asked while raising slowly from his seat, trying to flash him an intimating look and appear more manly.

He stared at him dumbfounded then regained his posture clearing his throat as a way to gain some kind of confidence.

His tone was a bit shaky but he tried to hide it in the best way possible “Kang Dae-ho. I was a former marine and I would like to join your team!” He beamed mainly, showing off his tattoo and then assuming a military position.

Jung-bae analyzed him closely and then not-so-casually rolled up his sleeve to show his own tattoo. Another former marine.

At that sight, Dae-ho stiffened his posture and saluted his fellow marine.

“I wasn’t expecting that…” you whispered to Gi-hun, who lowly snickered beside you.

However your words weren’t misheard by Jung-bae, who turned around towards you with an offended look on his face.

“And what do you mean by that?!” “Stop whining, you look like a big fussy baby…” you replied back nonchalantly and slowly massaging your temples.

Dae-ho stared at you silent, which was strange from him, and you took notice of that but did nothing about it.

He, on the other hand, thought he had not been caught red-handed, so he looked away clearing his throat, a light rosy veil framing his cheeks.

It was strange. He had always been an outgoing boy, a breath of fresh air, or so others had called him. A pure ball of energy and happiness, that's what he was.

A true golden retriever, ready to cheer up others and offer help when needed.

And now that he finally had a team he could trust he could help and feel useful so that they could all get out of that nightmare safely.

But when he looked at you, all the air in his lungs left him.

Sassy and witty, so confident and surely hot-tempered. What a woman.

Although he noticed the hard look on your face, your closed and reserved nature but not because of your personality, no, due to something else.

He sensed you had lived something traumatizing, just like him, but it was rude and vulnerable to show someone you just met minutes ago to show them said side of yourself.

He wouldn’t have done that either.

But he felt connected to you. He was attracted like a magnet and pulling away wasn’t an option for him.

Dae-ho wanted to be pulled, to be further attracted by you. Like a moth pulled by a flame.

He wasn’t scared to be burned but right now the lack of confidence was too pressing for him. He wanted to look his best for you and most importantly someone you could rely on. Even if it seemed you didn’t need one.

Although he noticed the way you deeply trusted Gi-hun and how unintentionally you counted on him. He was your anchor. Dae-ho didn't feel jealousy arose in him since he hyphotized you must have had a strong bond with him.

But he was craving that kind of affinity, to feel you so close even just spiritually, confessing him your dark past and your deepest fears. He wanted that. To be someone you could trust with all yourself.

And that opportunity came up. Unexpectedly.

The second game revealed itself to be not so intricate like many of you thought, but obviously with not a great team the minigames could have been a real pain.

Even if your team was already of five people, you decided to give up your place for a pregnant girl, probably your age, who desperately needed help and some kind of protection for her and her baby.

You couldn't have let her die in a place like that. For her and the baby's sake.

You were too good, you knew that, but fortunately you were also aware that a strange type of luck was by your side, due to you already surviving in a that place the last time you were there.

So you joined another team last minute. And you passed.

However, your team had been one of the first to play so when you succeeded you had to wait alone near your base for what felt like hours.

Groups of players were entering the dorms slowly filling the entire room, but there was still no sign of your group. Had Gi-hun and the others perhaps not made it? Gradually you heard the numbers of the players who had failed, but their numbers did not resonate within the cold walls of that glacial facility.

Maybe you were overreacting.

But you felt the tears blurring your vision and threatening to flow out.

You weren't ready to lose them. You knew to not create close relations in a place like this, but it was inevitable. It was the only way to push down an agonizing depression and an imminent madness.

Unoticed by you tears streaked your cheeks, creating deep furrows laden with repentance and sadness.

Dumbfounded you grazed your cheek with a trembling hand, your breath now harboured and often interrupted by soft sobs.

And then your ears made out the sound of the door opening for the last time.

You didn't want to look up, your heart wouldn't have withstood the blow. Soon after you heard his loud laugh.

Your head snapped up and tripping over yourself you managed to catch a glimpse of their figures, animated by fiery and excited spirits.

A breathy gasp left your lips and with tears still in your vision you jumped out from behind the beds and ran in their direction.

They still hadn't notice you but one by one Gi-hun and the others made out your approaching figure and swiftly got out of the way.

Dae-ho, although, hadn't spotted you and in a second he was engulfed into a bone-crushing hug, leaving him breathless.

Looking down he finally acknowledged your presence and warmth rushed to his cheeks when he saw your face buried into his chest and your devastated aspect.

A soft gaze possessed his features and warmheartedly he reciprocated the hug, gently cradling your head. You were still trembling and sobbing quietly so he gingerly shushed you by nestling your face into the crook of his neck.

You quieted down a bit, your sniffs and breath still hard and harboured, your grip strong on his shirt like you were scared he would disappear if you let go.

But he was there. Alive and safe.

"It's okay...I'm okay..." he reassured you calmly and reluctantly you backed up a little, meeting his tender eyes.

You shook your head, still not believing what you were seeing, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry” you repeated like a mantra and the poor guy in front of you didn’t understand.

“Why are you apologizing?” His tone was low and calm, one hand gently cupping your cheek and lovingly swiping away the tears, “you have done nothing…” you sniffed warily and nodded “I should have helped…somehow…I would have—“ you didn’t finish the phrase when another wave of tears and regret crushed your figure.

Dae-ho slightly chuckled and cupped your face tilting your head up to meet his warm gaze again. “Knowing you were safe and sound here gave me the strength to give my all…to come back…to you”.

You gazed at him agape, your mind blank and your heart tapping furiously against your chest. You felt warm and strangely…safe in his arms.

You didn’t know you could have felt such feelings into a place like this but it happened.

All thanks to him.

You leaned into his touch and closed your eyes, basking into his gentleness.

Your behavior didn’t go unnoticed by him whose heart immediately swelled at your action and a childish grin erupted into his face.

Without stopping cupping your face, he slowly and tentatively leaned in, half-lidded eyes observing your now calm expression.

You trusted him.

You found in him someone you could rely on.

Your foreheads connected and a shiver went down your spines at the contact.

“I’m here for you” he whispered lowly, his hot breath softly hitting your face “and you can count on me” he was there for you “remember that”.

He didn’t need to remind you.

You already knew that.

From the beginning.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi, sorry to bother you, I was just wondering if your planning on updating Congratulations! It's Triplets anytime soon? Because I kinda wanna see what happens once they actually sit down and talk through their misunderstandings because honestly although jazz is probably too busy to go through with it now she was training herself to be one of 2 courses in college which was either neurology or phycology so I figured she'd be the first to recognize that they need to have a sit down and talk with everything laid out or at least partially laid out, it being a really long really difficult conversion with tears trauma flashbacks and probably cake (because let's be honest this convo needs comfort food) and by the end of it they might not even fixed all the misunderstandings they had but it's a start in the right direction :)

"I'm sorry the kids threaten you. They can be a handful," is the first thing out of Jasmine's mouth. She is holding a glass tray with delicious-smelling lasagna, wearing a teal dress that hugs all her curves and seems dolled up for a night out.

She marches right by him, her long red hair falling into wavy curls down her back like waterfalls. They sway with her movement as she leads the way to the dining room.

On the table is a dinner set for two, red candles lit, and the lights dim. It makes him think of all those silly scenes in romance novels he consumed growing up. Jasmine places the tray in the center of the table alongside a salad. She carefully pours some bubbling water into two champagne glasses, humming.

Once done, she turns towards him, taking off the apron wrapped around her front. It reveals a nice but modest view of a split on her dress ending on the edge of her midleg.

"I told them to get you so we can have a dinner date. Bruce offered to babysit for the night." She proclaims, crossing her arms. "I want to see if there is a future for us or if the god of time is just an idiot."

Jason is so stunned by her beauty that he can't find any words to respond. He feels like she just pulled out a live fish and threw it at his face. While he's busy gawking like a fool, the three children squirm in his arms before he feels little hands fumbling around the edge of his helmet.

He jerks his neck away, a warning of bombs on his lips, only to bite his tongue when Dan bypasses his security to pull off the helmet with a laugh. At the same time, Dani reaches up to rip the mask off his face, fast and stiff enough that he swears she was a professional waxer in a past life.

He lets out a yowl, barely able to shift his words from a swear into a substitute. Danny pats his cheek, apologizing for his sibling's lack of manners. Dan doesn't seem to care because he scrambles off Jason's shoulders, head inside of the helmet that was too large for him, and races down the hallway.

"I'm unstoppable!" He screams in glee. Two seconds later, he rams into a wall, hitting it at full force due to the helmet blocking his view. He bounces off the drywall with enough force. He lands on his rear and a soft grunt.

Dani takes that chance to hop out of Jason's arms. She runs at a speed he's sure kids shouldn't be able to reach without having the Allen family gene, tackling Dan before his son can get up. In a tussle that looks too violent for five-year-olds, Dani rips the helmet out of Dan's hands and books it down the hallway, cackling like a loon.

"No! Dani! Give that back!" Dan demands, leaping to his feet and running after his sister. The voice modifiers of their outfits make them sound darker than usual, but it does not make them sound threatening.

Danny sighs heavily. "I better go stop them before that thing blows up. Treat my mom well, or I'll be forced to hurt you."

He patted Jason's cheek again, carefully climbing down to the ground. Despite his words, he calmly walks out of the room, hands tucked into his Prince of Gotham suit pants as if he were going on a casual stroll. The second he reaches the door, he grabs the handle and tugs to close.

Just as it's about to seal, he points two fingers toward his green glowing mask eyes and then points them aggressively at Jason. Once his warning is received, he finishes closing the door.

Jason is left standing in the room, confused out of his mind. It all happened so fast that he was unsure if the kids planned that exit or if they were honestly just like that. It burns to not be sure.

He should.

He is their father.

"Well, sit down. We have a date to get through." Jasmine commands, pushing some of her red hair out of her face. She levels an even calculating stare on him, making him feel she is more prepared for a business meeting than anything romantic. "Let's see what the god of time has in store for us."

[fear-less]

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 she can date whoever she wants to, i don't care.

pairing: james potter x f!reader

➥ In which, James and you still aren't on talking terms, he avoids you, never gets too close to you, yet complains to everyone when he sees you get close to your new charms partner.

Warnings: angst, fluff, james pov, this inspired by awae (aka the best show ever), r is a gryffindor lol, this is lowkey super short… 2.1k words, the next chapter will be better...trust

series masterlist ! - divider creds: i-mmaculatus & dollywons

It had been weeks. Weeks since James had last spoken to you, the last time you had talked was in december, now you're almost two weeks into february, and the rift between you only seemed to grow wider. At first, he told himself he was giving you space. He thought that if he stayed back, you’d eventually come to him, and things would go back to normal. But that wasn’t what happened.

Every time James worked up the courage to approach you, it was the same thing: you were with him.

Finn Laurier.

James hated how the name left a sour taste in his mouth. Finn wasn’t a bad guy—he was charming, clever, and polite. Too polite, in James’s opinion. Finn Laurier was completely different from James, and that only made the knot of insecurity and jealousy in James’s chest tighten.

While James was loud and brash, Finn had an easygoing, quiet confidence about him. Where James was all about grand gestures and bold declarations, Finn had a knack for subtlety and knowing the right thing to say at the right time. It didn’t help that Finn had somehow managed to claim the spot James had always held at your side, and you didn’t seem to mind.

From across the common room, James watched as Finn leaned in closer to you, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. You laughed at something he said, the sound tugging at James’s heart in a way that made him feel like an idiot.

He slumped back against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. “What does she even see in him?” he muttered under his breath.

Sirius, sprawled out beside him, didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You mean aside from the fact that he’s good-looking, smart, and doesn’t look like he’s been moping for weeks?”

James glared at him. “I’m not moping.”

“Sure, you’re not,” Sirius drawled. “That’s why you’ve been staring at them for the past ten minutes like you’re about to hex him.”

“I’m not going to hex him,” James grumbled. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s very mature of you, Prongs,” Remus chimed in from his corner, not looking up from his book. “But maybe instead of glaring at him, you should focus on fixing things with her.”

“Yeah, because that’s gone so well for me so far,” James shot back bitterly.

“Have you even tried?” Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow.

James opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. The truth was, he had tried—at least, he thought he had. But every time he saw you, Finn was there, making you laugh, leaning just a little too close. And every time, James felt like his chances were slipping further and further away.

Meanwhile, you were doing your best to ignore the knot of confusion and hurt that James’s behavior had left behind. You weren’t blind to the way he’d been avoiding you, or how he seemed to retreat every time you so much as glanced in his direction.

Finn had been a welcome distraction. He was kind, easy to talk to, and, most importantly, he didn’t make you feel like you’d done something wrong. But even as you laughed at his jokes and listened to his stories, you couldn’t shake the feeling of James’s eyes on you from across the room.

“Everything okay?” Finn asked, his voice cutting through your thoughts.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’ve been quiet all of a sudden,” Finn said, tilting his head slightly. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, you’re fine,” you said quickly, offering him a small smile. “I just… I guess I’m a little distracted.”

Finn nodded, his expression understanding. “Fair enough. If you ever want to talk about it…”

“Thanks, Finn,” you said softly, though your gaze drifted back toward James.

He was still sitting on the couch with Sirius, looking like he was caught between frustration and defeat. When your eyes met for the briefest of moments, he quickly looked away, running a hand through his already messy hair.

You sighed, your chest tightening. Whatever had happened between you and James, it felt bigger than anything you could fix with a simple conversation. But you weren’t sure how much longer you could handle this silent stalemate.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

It was now James’s second least favorite day—Valentine’s Day. His least favorite day was still the one he’d sat in Charms class and watched you laugh with Finn Laurier for the first time. That moment had burned itself into his memory, playing on a cruel loop every time he closed his eyes.

But this… this was a close second.

If you had told James back in December that he’d be avoiding you on Valentine’s Day instead of spending it as a happy, loved-up couple, he would have called you mad. Back then, he’d been so sure of himself. So sure that his letter, his heartfelt, trembling confession, would be the thing that finally made you see him as more than just James Potter, your goofy best friend.

And yet, here he was, slouched in a chair in the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by heart-shaped confetti that refused to disappear no matter how many times he swatted it away. The house elves had really outdone themselves this year—floating cupid decorations zipped around the room, shooting glittering pink arrows into the air. James glared at one that came a little too close, muttering something about “bloody overkill.”

“I hate this,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and sinking lower into his chair.

“Well, don’t be sulking for the whole day,” Sirius said, perched on the arm of the couch nearby. His tone was a mix of amusement and exasperation, his gray eyes twinkling with mischief. “We’re all supposed to go to The Three Broomsticks soon, remember?”

James let out another unintelligible grumble, something that sounded suspiciously like “don’t want to,” though the exact words were lost in his sulk.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Come on, mate, this is getting ridiculous. You’ve been moping around for weeks.”

“I’m not moping,” James shot back, though the words lacked any real conviction.

“You’re literally the definition of moping,” Sirius said, smirking. “You’re sitting here, arms crossed, glaring at a cupid like it personally insulted your family.”

“I don’t want to go to The Three Broomsticks,” James muttered.

“And why not?” Sirius pressed, though James could tell from his tone that he already knew the answer.

James sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Because she might be there,” he admitted quietly.

“She, as in you-know-who?” Sirius teased, though his smirk softened slightly when he saw the genuine frustration on James’s face. “Look, Prongs, you can’t avoid her forever. It’s a small castle. You’re bound to run into her eventually.”

“I know that,” James said, his voice tight. “But I just… I can’t deal with seeing her with him today, alright? Not on bloody Valentine’s Day.”

Sirius leaned back, crossing his arms. “You’re assuming she’s spending the day with Finn, but has she actually told you that?”

James hesitated. “No,” he admitted reluctantly. “But why wouldn’t she? He’s—he’s Finn Laurier, for Merlin’s sake. He’s perfect. Why wouldn’t she spend Valentine’s Day with him?”

“You’re an idiot,” Sirius said matter-of-factly.

James blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Sirius said, standing up and stretching, “that instead of sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, you could actually try talking to her. Maybe, just maybe, things aren’t as hopeless as you think.”

James stared at him, his heart hammering in his chest. The idea of approaching you now, after everything, felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. But Sirius’s words planted a small, stubborn seed of hope in his mind.

“Fine,” James muttered, standing up. “But if this goes horribly wrong, I’m hexing you.”

Sirius grinned. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

As James followed Sirius out of the common room, his mind raced with a hundred different scenarios. He wasn’t sure what he’d say if he saw you—or if he even had the courage to say anything at all. But one thing was certain: he couldn’t keep hiding forever. But it looks like the odds were not in his favor–he felt like his world was crumbling. He knew he shouldn't have listened to Sirius, it just made things worse. You had said yes to being Finn’s valentine–and worst of all, who asks a girl out on valentine's day?

James scoffed, his sadness shifting into a simmering anger. He quickly left the scene, Sirius trailed behind him, struggling to keep up with his brisk pace.

“Slow down, Prongs!” Sirius called.

James didn’t respond, only slowing when they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. He paused there, allowing Sirius to catch up before muttering the password under his breath. As the portrait swung open, James turned to his friend with a scowl.

“I’m never listening to you again.”

“Oh, come on,” Sirius protested, throwing up his hands. “How was I supposed to know Laurier would swoop in right then and there?”

Inside the common room, Remus and Peter exchanged curious glances.

“What happened?” Remus asked, his tone cautious.

“She was right there,” James burst out, his voice rising with frustration. “And so was Laurier. He asked her out! They didn’t even see me—or Sirius, thankfully—but still!” He threw himself into an armchair, running a hand through his already messy hair.

The others stayed silent, unsure how to comfort him.

After an awkward three minutes, Peter cleared his throat and attempted to lighten the mood. “Why don’t we head to the Three Broomsticks? A bit of butterbeer might help take your mind off things.”

For a moment, James said nothing. Then, as if possessed by some newfound resolve, he stood abruptly.

“You know what? You’re right,” he said, surprising everyone. “If she can be completely unbothered after I confessed my undying love for her, then ignore me, and worst of all—start dating some tosser who’s the polar opposite of me—then fine. I’ll move on too. Starting now. Let’s go.”

The other Marauders stared at him, dumbfounded. This wasn’t the James they knew—the James who would spend hours pestering Sirius about why you hadn’t replied to his letters, the James who badgered Remus for details about your every interaction, the James who constantly begged Peter for updates about you in the classes you shared.

It was as if the James Potter they knew had been replaced by someone else entirely.

The streets of Hogsmeade were blanketed with snow, the cold biting at their cheeks as the Marauders made their way to the Three Broomsticks. James led the group, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his jaw set tight. He was unusually quiet, his normal easy going demeanor replaced with something sharper, more defensive.

Sirius tried to break the silence first. “Prongs, mate, you know she didn’t do it to hurt you, right? She probably didn’t even know how you felt.”

James let out a sharp laugh, his breath clouding in the cold air. “She didn’t know? Oh, she knew. I wrote her a bloody letter, Padfoot. I poured my heart out. If she didn’t get the hint, then she’s thicker than I thought—and she’s not thick.”

Sirius grimaced, clearly regretting his choice of words. “Alright, alright, bad point. But still, Laurier? The guy’s got the personality of a Flobberworm.”

“Doesn’t matter,” James muttered. “Apparently, she likes Flobberworms.”

Peter, trying to ease the tension, piped up, “Well, maybe Laurier’s just a rebound, you know? She’ll realize what a tosser he is soon enough.”

Remus shot Peter a warning look, but James seemed too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice.

“Rebound from what?” James muttered. “She’s never been with anyone to rebound from.”

They reached the Three Broomsticks, the warm glow from inside spilling out onto the snow-covered street. The group filed in, quickly finding a table in the back corner. The usual bustling energy of the pub seemed muted to James, his mind too occupied with replaying the moment he’d seen you say yes to Finn Laurier.

A round of butterbeers arrived at the table, and Sirius pushed a tankard in front of James. “Alright, here’s the plan,” Sirius said, leaning forward. “We’re going to have a laugh, you’re going to forget about Laurier, and tomorrow, you’ll go back to being your annoying, charming self. Sounds good?”

James took a long sip of his butterbeer, the warm liquid doing little to ease the ache in his chest. “Yeah, sure. Forget about her. Easy.”

“James,” Remus said gently, “it’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to act like it doesn’t bother you.”

“I’m not acting,” James snapped, though his tone softened almost immediately. “I’m fine. Really.”

Sirius exchanged a glance with Remus, both of them unconvinced.

enjoyed? check out my navigation

taglist!!! @daemontargaryenwhore , @ellitheflower , @lolalleins , @happycatanxie , @somwhereonwenus , @reneeblack6230 , @doiejwi , @spidermansfangirl , @mallowsweetie , @trulyyoursniki , @luvv-danielle , @strollnstroll , @joeytribbiani18 , @mimisamisasa , @noihatemyself , @ravisinghs-wife , @moonymeloncholymoney , @evangelquill , @hisparentsgallerryy @watchmerora , @accioxtina , @akanmizuki-blog-blog , @pottersdeer

[hivemuthur]

Eee sorry about the vague request lol. I'm thinking maybe reader is unknowingly giving someone else a lil too much attention at a house party or something like that and Vik gets jealous and pouty about it and reader makes it up to him 👀👀

Clearly im not great at wording requests lol, I hope this makes sense

<3

Hi! I love you, so after I've written the first part of smut for this, I went to pray to the smut fairy and she gave me more smut :v @rennethen we thank you, we bow to you. And yes, there is no other point to this story than smut, because we had a lot of emotional stuff happening on this blog in the last couple of days :')

Eat Me

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! Viktor is jealous, therefore: smut, also dom!Viktor

word count: 3,3K

—

“Yes, I suppose you could say that,” you laughed sheepishly at—what was his name again? Mark? Maurice? Never mind, you politely laughed at his joke. Somewhere in the middle of this conversation, you had felt Viktor’s hand slip off the small of your back as he walked away to have a chat with Jayce. You could swear you heard a sigh accompanying the action, but the number of people talking at you simultaneously was too great to stir your mind to focus on one thing.

You looked around the room; the party had visibly dispersed into small groups— a few people splayed on the floor, talking in hushed voices; a smoking gang squished on the small balcony; a not-very-promising-looking queue to the bathroom; very loud voices coming from the kitchen, where some groundbreaking conversations were definitely taking place. Exactly opposite you and Mark—or Maurice—Viktor stood leaning on the doorframe, a glass hanging limply from his hand. He seemed very determined not to glance in your direction, no matter how many smiles you tried to send him.

You remained unalarmed until it was Mark’s—or Maurice’s—hand travelling to the small of your back, his mouth closing in on your ear to whisper, “So… can I get your number?”

At that point, Viktor scoffed and retreated into the corridor, out of your sight. You shifted uncomfortably, sliding yourself away from the intruder’s touch, and squeaked, “Eh, sorry, I don’t think… I don’t think my boyfriend would be happy about it, you know?”

Mark—or Maurice—raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, saying, “Forgive me, I didn’t know. Enjoy the party.” He patted you on the shoulder, his touch immediately shifting from seductive to friendly, his eyes moving from your cleavage to your face, and began snaking deeper into the room, leaving you alone and a little stunned by the windowsill. Huh, that obvious.

You downed your drink and left the glass behind, ready to find the lost boyfriend. You searched Jayce’s cramped apartment room by room, people trying to pull you in for a drink occasionally slowing your progress. Jayce, already moderately drunk and flushed from all the hands invading his personal space, pointed you toward his study. The door was ajar, and a faint glimmer of light was coming from inside.

“Hello?” You peeked your head through the door, only to see Viktor slumped behind Jayce’s desk, engrossed in a book. He didn’t look up at you and only threw you a dry, “Hello,” in return.

“Tired of the crowd, hmm?” you hummed after slipping inside and leaning over the desk opposite him. Your fingers tapped on the wood, awaiting a reply, only to be given the cold shoulder in the form of a quiet, dismissive hum. “Well, do you want to go home?” you tried again, inching your fingers to sneak under his sleeves, and Viktor shuddered.

“Home? No, I am quite content where I am. Also—” he paused as his eyes landed on your hands before retreating further into the chair to avoid your touch. “You seemed quite content with where you were as well,” he retorted, flipping to the next page.

“I’m not sure I quite follow?” You gave him a puzzled look, hoping he saw at least a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye. “Viktor?” you asked, splaying yourself all the way across the desk to pluck the book from his hands. “Why are you not looking at me?”

He sighed, his hands frozen in the air exactly where the book had been a second ago, and finally did look at you, at which point you started to wish he hadn’t.

“You were in quite stimulating company, no? Has Gregory abandoned you that you decided to pay me a visit?” Ah, yes, Gregory, not Mark or Maurice. He gave you a cold stare and an unforgiving smirk, and you choked on a snort.

“Excuse me? Viktor, are you being jealous?” You were now both leaning over the desk, playing a game of stares. Viktor blinked first but made it look like he had won.

“From where I was standing—and I will add that it was many different angles I got to observe—he was quite ready to eat you all right up,” he cocked his head to the side and left you to deal with the statement.

“Eat me? We were just talking,” you said, pointing your finger between the two of you to accentuate that, up until some point, Viktor had also been a part of the conversation. Realising the new round of the staring game had just begun, you relented, “Still—that’s completely irrelevant, as the only person I would wish to eat me is you.”

“That’s very unfortunate then, given that I seem to have lost my appetite.” Viktor took the opening and squeezed it dry. He picked up the book, opened it to a random page, and pretended to sink back into reading.

You straightened, taken aback by this... ridiculous display of mistrust. A smile played under your nose as you circled around the desk, turned the chair to make Viktor face you, and leaned in to touch his mouth with yours. “Are you sure I can’t even interest you in a snack?” you murmured against his lips, placing a lingering kiss there.

Viktor didn’t move, and soon you felt the handle of his cane poking at your stomach, beckoning you away. You shot him a questioning look and moved the cane aside with your hand, only for it to return to where it was, his eyes still fixed on the book. “I said, I am not hungry,” he said, his tone feigning exhaustion.

“Really? Are you telling me you would rather read—” you paused to take the book away and glance at the cover, “Jayce’s journal, rather than quit this pointless display of sulk and spend some time with me?” You held it expectantly in your hand, bemused.

“Yes. And give it back now.” He leaned forward, his hand reaching for the tome, only for you to swing it behind your back and move your body so your face met his.

“What will I get in return?” you asked sweetly, your breath ghosting his cheek. But Viktor wouldn’t give in. He shifted away, gluing his spine to the chair’s backrest.

“How about freedom to roam the party as you please, with whomever you please? Ah, right, apologies—it seems you already took that opportunity,” he mused, his tone almost annoyed as he kept his hand extended, expecting the stolen good to be returned.

“Viktor—” you scolded, growing more and more impatient. The book dropped to the desk with a thump, and before Viktor could reach for it, you straddled his lap, ignoring all the huffs of protest and palms trying to push you away. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your face to his, whispering into his ear, your voice needy and keen, “What I want is my man to stop sulking. I can apologize, if you let me.”

Viktor hesitated until his hands rested on your hips, the rest of him still frozen in place. “I’m listening,” he muttered, causing a satisfied smirk to bloom on your lips.

You took the cue and slid your palms flat onto his chest, tugging at his collar. “Well, how would you like your apology to be served, mister?” You licked at the seam of his mouth and sucked on the crown of his upper lip. Viktor allowed it but still wouldn’t engage much, keeping his façade of a man who was hurt. Your tongue travelled down to his jaw, then up to the pulse point below his ear. Finally, you were rewarded with a shudder and a sigh. “Hmm, that seems to be working, no?”

“I’d say your little stunt requires some more remorse to be shown for me to forgive you entirely, my girl,” he murmured, his hands squeezing your hips in tandem with a grunt coming out of his mouth.

“Remorse, huh? I might know one universal way to repent,” you said, sliding off him to the floor, your knees resting on the carpet between his feet, your fingers already tugging at the buckle of his belt. “I’ve heard begging on one’s knees can work wonders.”

He uttered a quiet fuck along with your name, eyes fixed on yours, as you beckoned him to lift his hips, allowing you to slide his pants down his legs. His thumb brushed on your lower lip as he gave you a thoughtful look. “Show me. How sorry you are.”

You smiled and propped your hands on his hips, as you leaned in to tease him. His cock was still soft, twitching slightly under your breath. You began to place lingering kisses across his length, all the way from his balls to the tip, not moving it from the crease of his hip where it rested. Then, you flipped it to the other side with your nose and proceeded to do the same, from the top to bottom, watching it harden after each peck.

Viktor’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into your hair, as he pressed his hips into your face and rasped, “I will have to see some more initiative if you want me to believe you.”

You immediately responded with opening your mouth and letting him drag his half-hard length on it, his cock now splayed between your mouth, side of your nose, the tip resting somewhere around your eyebrow, smearing your own spit all over your face. Viktor’s brows pinched together, his lips parted into a toothy smile as he sat back down. “Good,” was the only praise you got so far, and you felt yourself aching for an addition of girl next to it.

Your kisses deepened, more passionate and lingering on the base, your tongue reaching down to his perineum, releasing a startled chuckle somewhere from the depth of his chest. You cocked your head, taking the side of his cock between your lips and started dragging it leisurely up and down, pausing to tease a sensitive spot below the head with the tip of your tongue.

Viktor remained still, his hand resting tangled into your hair, the other gripping the arm rest tightly as his eyes followed your every movement. You glanced up to meet his gaze—blown pupils, cheeks already flushed, lips shining from constant licking. Pleased with the view, you took him in your hand and patted the head of his cock on your flattened tongue, baring your teeth in a smile when his eyes rolled back, and he gave you a quiet ah sound as a reward.

“I feel like you are enjoying it far too much for a proper atonement,” he smirked. Before you could respond, he gripped your hair tighter, motioning your head to rest on his lap, as he slid himself inside your mouth. You groaned against him, grabbing his forearm and he only tsk-ed at you. “Bad girl. Tongue out, breathe through your nose,” he commanded, and you immediately obliged.

He fucked your throat steadily, retreating right before you were about to gag, soft praises falling from his lips. He watched himself appearing and disappearing between your lips and the hand that was previously whitening at the armrest travelled to cup your face and caress your cheek. You closed your eyes at the touch and let the drool roll out of your mouth onto his thigh, your breath heavy through your nose as you tried to even out its rhythm with the one of his thrusts.

He retreated to rub himself all over your face, smearing your makeup in the process. “So pretty like this,” he cooed, stroking your hair. “Are you sorry?”

You nodded, looking at him from under glued eyelashes. And Viktor looked so in love you couldn’t help a smile forcing itself onto your lips.

“Let’s apologize some more, are you ready?” he asked hoarsely, already lining himself against your mouth. Wordlessly, you opened, splaying your tongue out, coating your teeth with your lips to avoid any accidental scratches. He pushed himself deeper, tickling your uvula, while plugging your nose with his fingers and holding you in position.

“Are you sorry?” He leaned in to whisper into your ear, and you nodded, as much as you could. Obediently, you stayed for as long as your breath allowed you to, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes, before patting his thigh three times, and Viktor released you with a loud groan, spit glistening on his length.

“Good girl,” he breathed, and you felt something perking up inside you as you reached back out for him to suck on his head. He leaned in the chair, granting a few languid rolls of his hips into your mouth, whispering quiet praises when you gagged yourself on his cock. Undying affection seeping from his eyes, from his touch, pumped air into your lungs, when your nose couldn’t.

“Will you be a good girl and eat me up?” he asked, feeling the lance of lust twisting his guts, his movements speeding up, his breath hitching and you mumbled something sounding like a yes against his thrusts.

His body curled in, hands cupping your face, thumbs digging into your cheeks, wiping your tears away. You felt him hitting the back of your throat a couple of times, drool leaking out with each movement in and out, before his stomach tensed up and he coated the inside of your mouth with his cum, distantly whispering “Yes, yes, good girl.”

You swallowed the salt of him, not letting him out, making sure to lick down every last drop. Viktor shuddered, suddenly overstimulated, and gently pulled you up to sit back on his lap. The thin layer of your knickers so wet it almost disappeared as your cunt pressed on his softening cock. He licked his thumb to clean the smears of mascara cascading down your cheeks and murmured, “You did very well. I forgive you,” before kissing you on the mouth lovingly.

A giggle forced itself out of you, as you wrapped your arms around him and nuzzled your face into his neck. “Were you really so upset?” You asked quietly, tracing your fingers up and down his chest.

“Of course not,” he chuckled, massaging the nape of your neck. “I wanted to see how willing you would be to apologize though.”

“You are such a bastard,” you smacked his chest and bit his neck, making him wiggle and wince underneath you. “Now you have to apologize to me.”

“If you accept apologies delivered while laying on my stomach, I am willing,” he stated with a shit-eating grin. His expression softened, when he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Well, tricked!” you exclaimed, narrowing your eyes at him. “I’m alright. Pleasantly full, I might add,” you added with a smirk and placed a peck on his lips. “You?”

“Eh, quite alright myself. Pleasantly devoured, though slightly hungry,” he mused, nipping at your lip, before deepening the kiss. You felt breathless again, his hands sneaking under your shirt, when you mustered some strength to pull away and breathe into his mouth, “I might have something to eat for you when we get home.”

“Or—” Viktor cocked his head, eyeing your knees with a knowing smile.

“Or… what?” You arched your brow, knowing exactly where this was going. Viktor licked his lips.

“What if I am too hungry to wait? Would you accept my apology now?” He asked and his smirk deepened as he tapped your hip three times signalling you to stand up. “And maybe lock the door? For a good measure. Unless, of course, it was a part of your little plan.” His eyes feigned innocence as he played idly with the hem of your skirt, and you could feel your face flush red. Of course, the door was still ajar.

“R-right,” you stuttered sheepishly and went to lock it, your legs wonky. You almost skipped coming back to where Viktor’s finger was pointing on the desk. He let you in between him on a chair and the edge of the wood and pushed his palms flat underneath your skirt to yank your knickers down to your ankles. You shuddered at the sensation of the material ungluing itself from you.

“Up,” he commanded and once you were seated, he leaned down to pick up your underwear, sniff it obscenely to finally put it in his pocket. Your eyes were so transfixed on the action, that the touch of his hands under your knees startled you, as he scooted the chair closer to the desk and hooked them over his shoulders.

And then he paused, eyes staring at your weeping cunt, his breaths deep and steady as he inhaled your scent. “To think you would let this waste and make me wait until we get home deserves a punishment in itself, I might say,” he murmured and the hot air coming from his mouth fanned your skin. His flat palm travelled up from your navel to your stomach, pressing you to lay down.

He didn’t wait for your spine to meet the desk fully, so when he dived in, the back of your head hit the wood with a quiet thump. His tongue stroke a rapid lick along your seam before coming to your clit with a chuckled hum of approval. A very vocal moan pushed itself past your mouth and you were grateful to your past self for closing that door. Soon your voice pitched higher as you breathed an incomprehensive, “Ah, Viktor,” while trying to bring your hips closer to his face, but his grip on you rendered it utterly impossible. His licks, fast and precise, caused your thighs to shake on his shoulders.

His hand slid from pressing on your stomach down to your navel, his thumb brushing your clit, when he asked hoarsely, “And what do we say to a Gregory, next time we meet him, hm?”

Completely confused and frustrated at the sudden change you managed to rasp, “Who?” and Viktor chuckled warmly, straight into you. “Good girl.”

His tongue slid down to your entrance, giving you shallow thrusts, while his thumb rubbed even circles on your clit, keeping the previous pace. Another thump of your head, fingers whitening at the edge of the desk as you tried desperately to move underneath him.

He began to deepen his movements, pressing his face hungrily into your cunt. Feeling your walls closing down on his tongue and mouth, his thumb picked up the pace. And you felt it so strongly, the orgasm wrenched out of you, built up by the last hour of apologizing on your knees. You felt it down to your toes, your heels digging into Viktor’s ribs as he hummed into you, drinking you all up, and keeping your thighs hooked with his arms. Only when you patted his shoulders blindly, he released you, placing one last kiss on your pubic bone.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, exhaling shakily, your chest heaving. You heard him getting up, allowing your legs to hang limply from the edge of the desk, as he circled around it, and took your jaw in his hand. He leaned in to give you a sweet kiss on the mouth and asked, “Am I forgiven?”

“Yes. Am I?” you murmured against his lips, and he smiled again.

“Not sure. You might want to check again at home.”

[bloodstainedsapphic]

your quick footsteps slow to a crawl in the snow from last night's flurry. the blanket of white dampens your boots and muffles the impact. you come to a stop next to your favorite auburnette, also up bright and early—and equally grouchy about it.

"hey," you mutter a greeting, eyeing ellie's figure, but her attention is locked on the zipper of her green jacket.

"hey." it comes out as a low grunt as she irritably yanks at the zipper, clearly snagged on something.

"need help?"

"no, i got it—"

you don't wait, stepping into ellie's space so your nimble fingers can wrestle it for her. ellie lets her hands fall to her sides, fists clenched tightly, cherry color blossoming on her cheeks. the tense air between you is so thick that she can't bring herself to look at you. instead, the wood paneling of the nearest building suddenly becomes the most fascinating thing she's ever seen.

a few seconds of tugging and angling the zipper in several impossible directions later, you hit the sweet spot that allows you to glide it smoothly to the top with one final pull, properly shielding ellie from the frosty weather.

"there," you say softly, reluctantly letting your hands drop away.

ellie's eyes remain stubbornly skyward, but she replies with a sheepish, "thanks."

you don't step away, though, as this unexpectedly charged closeness presents the perfect opportunity to ask the real hard-hitting question.

"why have you been ignoring me?"

ellie's green eyes widen into saucers, panic stiffening her entire body. it's true. she has been avoiding you—going from spending every day together to ducking out of every room you enter for weeks or forcing her attention on everyone besides you during group hangouts. the abrupt change has been eating away at you. despite her attitude having more bite than the surrounding chill, you miss her, so you won't let her blow you off any longer. ellie realizes it too.

"seems like you've been busy," she grumbles.

you blink. "busy? with what?"

ellie can't resist the temptation to admit the truth, just hoping to get the words out in a way that doesn't sound too bitter.

"with zoey."

"z—zoey?" you ask, thrown off by the mention of a new friend you've barely hung out with. you practically gawk at ellie, mentally trying to paint a picture of whatever the hell has been going on inside her head.

ellie picks up on your disbelief, fidgeting as she realizes she at least owes you an attempt at a plausible explanation.

"zoey," she repeats, the name sour on her tongue. "i've seen you hanging around her a lot, i guess. saw her take you out to practice shooting, didn't wanna like, get in the way or anything," ellie's voice wavers as she digs herself further into a hole with every word.

ellie's trying to make avoiding you over a new friend sound believable, but it's weak. she knows it. ellie also knows it's unfair to you and feels the weight of guilt knowing how much her absence has affected you. what she won't admit is how much she misses you, how much the space affected her too.

you tilt your head, trying to understand. the silence stretches on for far too long for ellie's rapid heartbeat beneath her now-snug jacket.

"she taught me some, i guess," you agree, oblivious to the implications.

"well, like... i could show you how to shoot, too," ellie suggests tentatively, aware that she's leaning into the patheticness now. her gaze, once stuck in the sky, suddenly drops to the ground, glued to the toe of her sneaker, tracing circles into the skiff of snow.

you scoff at this new, flustered side of her, glancing around as if to say, 'is anyone hearing this?' ellie is always deeper than the front she puts up, but this is different.

"ellie, if you wanted to join, i'd love that—"

"or just us. easier to focus that way—" ellie butts in, grasping flimsily for excuses. how inconspicuous.

you start to see through the cracks in her demeanor. it's always been clear to anyone—aside from you, apparently. ellie can't understand why you're upset with her avoidance, and you can't pick up on the source of her frustration. loser lesbians doing their thing.

"oh, okay, um—" you scramble for a solution.

"don't worry, you've probably got a lot of practice with her, i'm guessing," ellie starts to brush off the idea before you can reject it, but you interrupt her.

"but. i want you to show me, ellie," you insist earnestly, shutting down her assumptions and giving ellie the opening she's been yearning for. she thankfully gets it, meeting your gaze for more than a millisecond.

"you sure?"

"yeah. like, really sure."

for a moment, ellie stares, a faint flicker of something you can't quite name lighting up her expression. then, finally, she subtly nods, stuffing her hands deep into her pockets. she looks a little less like she wants to run away and more like the frigid distance between you is starting to melt.

"okay," she says, her voice almost shy. "cool."

[suicidal-socialist]

Blaming individual people is often, though not always, reasonable in actually individual matters they have (almost) total control of, e.g. my decision to go for "just one more YT video" last night - there was no external force influencing my decision in any way, besides the character of the options, which is necessarily a given.

Even then, there's an argument to be made about general alienation and the inevitable longing for some sort of meaning and joy, or at least fun and distraction. But the influence of this factor is one of a general background character, a weak though constant one, thus pretty manageable, unless one tries to find happiness, to go beyond the reasonable life expectation of a fair dose apathy and calm boredom, which would be the silliest of endeavors indeed

However, when there is definitely an influence from the side, which one must fight against, the blame properly lies on them both in proportion to their relative strengths. The strength of the individual in this struggle being the more easily and reasonably changeable compotent, an influence on their will - indifferently of the degree of ontological freedom one attributes to it - is appropriate for there is oftentimes no possible alternative solution, and only in some of these cases it is a reasonable one

This is the case of one or few individuals, which can simultaneously be influenced, in one way or another, by your call to action. Only such a factor that can simultaneously affect the whole or a large part of the group, whose action is being examined, is to be taken seriously. Such factors come from structured institutions, general situations (e.g. a war or a general jump of prices) and the public, social media propaganda and such belonging to the last type, being but one of many. Moreover, in this situation it is one against the many, including even itself - for the support of the Dems was by no means unanimous, with a fair deal of direct opposition.

To blame the people in this case is pointless, as it would imply the addressing to them with a demand of a *simultaneous* burst of will, sufficient to tip the scales against so many factors, without any factor that could realistically cause such an exatlation. It would be akin to a daily complaint that the day before they didn't rise up against the ruling class and was it away with a glorious wave of revolution - it would be demanding not necessarily the impossible, but definitely the unreasonable

But blaming the institutions - or at least not immediately scapegoating the people with no further analysis - allows us a more workable picture than "the people are bad and did a bad thing", at least a more proper understanding of the matter at hand

It fails to give a singular correct, simple and definitive plan of action, while the other one demands only complaining, but it does give at least the material for an actually worthwhile one

I know not why I took the time to type this stretched-out passage, I only know that this question didn't visit me before the halfway point, at which abandoning it would seem like a waste of... something

Gotta admit the headline is a banger.

[pelova4president]

My treat I

sugarmommies!Ingrid x Frido x sugarbaby!Reader

summary~ you get caught staring for the second time and two of the most beautiful women take an interest in you. this is just the beginning, so there’s not much tension yet. not proof read.

As an intern you were supposed to feel a bit out of place, like you aren’t really supposed to be there. Like you’re invincible.

Invincible, it’s the perfect word to describe how you felt. You found yourself in a room full of journalists and professional athletes. You weren’t a professional athlete nor a real journalist, at least not yet.

The room was bright. The lights were fixated on the footballers walking through the door. There were voices coming from all directions of the room. Question were asked and answered. Player after player came walking through that door until the last one arrived.

Engen, that’s what the interviewer from DAZN called her. She caught your eye. Her long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The effort she had put into the game was seen in little droplets of sweat across her face.

The woman answered the question quick and confident. She answered the questions in almost fluent Spanish, it made you wonder where she learned the language. The interviewer thanked her and Engen gave her a nod before she looked over the interviewer’s shoulder, at you.

She had caught you staring. Well, it was kind of your job to do that but for some reason you really did felt caught by her. Engen didn’t give you much of a reaction, only a tiny smirk appeared.

Weeks later, back in Manchester you she caught you staring again.

Done for the day you let your friends convince you to go out to a bar. It had been a long day, writing whatever came to mind in the hopes it was good enough for your assignment. You really needed to get drunk and forget about whatever you had to do the next day.

The bar was dimly lit, something you would’ve found unsettling if you weren’t already four shots down. There was a soft jazz playlist on in the background as your heels hit the wooden floor. Your friend walked you to the bar where you ordered a porn star martini.

As you sat on one of the creaking barstools you looked around. In the booth left to you sat a couple that was clearly in the honeymoon phase. Next to them sat group of men, laughing at some sexist joke.

The bartender placed your martini down when she caught your eye again. But Engen wasn’t alone. There was a blonde next to her and even with the horrible lighting you could see her eyes sparkle.

The dark haired woman had a black dress on and the blonde a dark grey suit. They were gorgeous.

You looked away as quickly as you could but the damage was already done. You sipped nervously on your drink in the hopes she wouldn’t recognise you.

But your prayers weren’t heard. You felt someone tap you on your shoulder. You closed your eyes and when you didn’t turn the person spoke. “I know you saw us, Ingrid recognised you.”

You turned your head slowly, showing a shy smile. “You’re pretty cute, come sit with us.” the blonde ordered more than offered you.

You got up from your seat and followed the woman to her booth. She let you get seated first, next to Ingrid, in the middle. You felt like you were trapped between the two women.

“I knew i recognised you from somewhere. You are the staring girl from that DAZN interview right?” Ingrid asked you. You looked down at your drink and nodded.

Frido and Ingrid looked at eachother and Ingrid spoke up again. “Frido here thinks you’re very pretty.”

The blonde scoffed at that. “Like you weren’t talking about her for the last few weeks. I was just interested to see her in the flesh. And yeah, i’ll have to agree with you, she really is as beautiful as you said.”

You looked at Frido and she gave you a warm smile. “Thanks” you told her.

“So tell us about yourself, your work, your boyfriend maybe?” Ingrid asked you.

“No boyfriend, or girlfriend and uhm i’m an intern at the moment.” you told them. They seemed to exchange a smile at that.

You asked them about their interest and lives. You got to know they both play for Barcelona and were born in Norway and Sweden. Frido placed her arm around your shoulders as you took the last sip of your drink.

The footballers wanted to know more about you, so you told them more. They were practically strangers, but hot strangers that showed interest so that doesn’t count anyway.

It was 1:30 am when you told them you should probably start to get home. Frido hummed at that. “Yeah, we should too.”

Ingrid walked to the front with you as Frido paid for the drinks. “I really enjoyed tonight, maybe we could do it again some other time?” she asked you.

Ingrid’s eyes looked into yours as she stood infront of you “I really enjoyed tonight too. Maybe we could yeah.” you told her.

“You’re really pretty, even with that shitty lightning i could see how beautiful you are.” she told you.

You couldn’t help but smile as the leaned in. The kiss was soft and genuine, just like her words.

It wasn’t until you heard the door shut that you broke the kiss off. “So you gave Engen the first kiss?” Frido spoke.

You really didn’t know what they had, if they did have anything going on at all. This dynamic was beyond confusing for you.

“Oh come on, if you had the chance you wouldn’t wait either.” the Norwegian defended herself.

“Hmm, it would only be fair if i would get one too huh?” she smirked at you. The blonde placed her hand under your chin and kissed you just as genuine. Frido was passionate and controlling the kiss.

When your uber arrived they gave you their phone numbers and told you to text them when you got home. You placed a kiss to both of their cheeks as you thanked them for the night.

You opened the door to your shared apartment, it was dark inside. Your roommates were most likely asleep or staying at their partners place.

Everybody knows that living as a intern is hard. You put all your effort into your work and don’t even get a moment of appreciation. Your salary was low but you already knew that when you signed the contract. But even though it was hard, you really enjoyed the work you did and the people you worked with.

As you got into bed you typed something to the two women. ‘hi, this is the staring girl-‘ no that’s cringe. ‘hey, this is me from tonight-‘ no too weird. ‘hi, i’m home. I really enjoyed tonight :)’ that’ll do.

‘thank you for texting, we loved it too. especially the end ;)’ -frido

‘we only have a few days left in manchester, so maybe we can cook you something on tuesday?’ -ingrid

‘yeah, that sounds really nice. I’d like that.’

A.N. i’ll need some ideas/prompts/hc’s for the next chapter so send them in because i need motivation

[tsukii0002]

I like to think that Barbatos doesn't sleep, sometimes he does it for pleasure, but he doesn't really need it. So he spends his nights wandering around the nooks and crannies of his room, looking at the different doors or seeing how the flow of water or a staircase has changed direction. Consequently, Barbatos does not have a bed in his room.

However, after what happened with Belphie and Mc, Mc would stop by his room constantly, to thank him (again), deliver homemade cakes or drinks, or just to see how he was doing.

At first the demon could not understand the human, weren't they afraid of that place? Weren't they uncomfortable with the certainty of the time represented in his room? Weren't they terrified of being so close… to him?

Those questions never left him, but he grew accustomed to the human's presence, he liked listening to them talk, how attentive they were to him. Sometimes he let them wander freely through the places he had so often wandered at night. And after a while he began to look forward to Mc's visits.

First he waited for the visits, then he began to crave them, later one visit was too little and he began to drag it out until Mc had to spend the night at the palace because it was too late…. But it wasn't enough, he felt he had to monopolize their ephemeral time, he needed those moments to belong to him alone.

Barbatos: Mc, are you coming today?

Mc: Barbatos! Yes, I'll bring the candy I told you last time.

Barbatos: I'm glad… By the way I have incorporated a new element in my quarters.

Mc: ????

Barbatos: A bed, thanks to you I find it more pleasant to sleep, so I thought I'd need one.

Mc: That's great!!! Hahahaha *with a mocking tone* so I can sleep in your room now?

Barbatos: *chuckles* I hadn't thought of that.

That's how the time-controlling demon did something he never imagined, incorporating a bed, even though he didn't need it, for a single human, was something strange to say the least. Although, of course, that a human would enter his most intimate domain without any fear was the strangest thing of all. And there was no greater pleasure than curling up next to Mc and sleep.

.

.

I've been going through a lot of Barbatos stories in devilgram and in many of them Mc falls asleep in Barbatos' room, but then I look at her room and I can't help but laugh at the thought of where the bed would be, because in that space a bed doesn't even fit 😂😂😂, so I think it's funny to imagine the origin of that supposed bed in a room that looks like a mystical ruin.

Thanks for reading 🩷

.

.

[sentientthing]

Reader adopts a big fluffy dog that's very opinionated, when and where walks happen is entirely the dogs decision. It's a good dog, perfectly pleasant but thick headed as a bull. Demands pets with authority a dog has no business having.

They love that mutt, got it from a shelter and doesn't have the heart to take charge when being a bit bossy is the only 'misbehavior' the dog ever shows, until it's walkie time in the middle of the night, new moon and cloudy, pitch black. Resigned you get the harness, leash and treat bag and bundle up. In a hurry to get the head of the house their wish you forget any kind of light, left your phone on your bedside table when you heard the grumbles of demands.

It seems to be a night for adventure, leash pulled taught in a direction you've never even walked by daylight and nose glued to the floor. The gates to a park at least let you know where you're going, not that you recognize the name, its far out of your usual range especially in the middle of the night. You cope by clinging to the 'scary dog privilege' even though the mutt never showed an ounce of aggression towards anything.

Looking around to not get caught off guard by a malicious stranger you miss your dog perking up, fixating a direction and taking off, the "STOP" leaves your mouth the second your body is jostled but its no use. You're dragged across the park, thankfully mostly grass but it still hurts. Digging your feet in is no use, hopelessly outmatched by the dog the shelter told you was perfectly sized for you. "Manageable my ass you stupid dog stop running!", you scream no care for time of day when you come to an abrupt halt, sliding a little on the muddy ground until someone grabs the leash and is immediately crowded by the traitor. All wags and tip taps, it'd be adorable if you weren't on your ass god knows where thanks to him.

"Bad dog thief if you can't even train one.", you can't place the tone, or read the strangers face through his balaclava. Thief? You would never steal someones beloved pet. "Fuck you, I'm no thief. He's from a shelter, if I wanted a free dog I'd get a stray." The amount of awkward eye contact that followed made your skin crawl, you shivered in discomfort from your mud caked clothes to the scary stranger starring you down. Was he not going to react at all? Your attitude had always been your biggest flaw. Why couldn't the floor just open up and swallow you whole? You were going to die for mouthing off for sure, or worse. "C'mon boy, home.", he was looking at you but definitely talking to the dog, voice even as he yankes you up by the leash and herds you after the dog happily trotting the way it came. Oh no, your dog was going to YOUR home, backtracking through the park, mindful of the grooves he, or rather you, left. Caring about tripping you now, between treating you like a crash dummy and a lamb to the slaughter.

The streetlights flickered back on one by one, the silent man at your back cast eerie shadows over you every time you passed one. You could barely breath, fear clogged your throat, choking you. Running was out of the question, he would catch you, no doubt in your mind. You didn't dare think about what your- well, his dog really would do. He might even be trained to bite, maul you to bits for the crime of displeasing his master. Tears threatened to spill over your lashes at the thought, you blinked them away as hard as you could, whatever he thought of you now wouldn't be improved by turning into a sobbing mess. No crying about whatever this was, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you dissolve, if he wanted to he would crush you either way.

Your front door looked like a guillotine, the slanted window that once charmed you now made your stomach turn. You fumbled with the keys, hands shaking in helplessness. When they slipped your grasp, a gloved hand reaches out from behind you and catches them, palm up, the keys to your doom cradled in the hand of death. Slowly, you lifted your hand to take the keys back. The thought to stab him with them crossed your mind, but you had no follow-up. You stretched your fingers towards the house key. The next moment, you were crowded against the door and heard the keys jingle. The hinges protest when the door swung open. Unsteady legs carry you inside, mechanically taking off the harness and hanging the gear up in the dog corner.

The door clicks shut, and you refuse to acknowledge it in any way. Frozen in place, no useful thoughts in your head, your mind was screaming to do something anything at all. Time trickled by you in slow motion, for the first time you heard footsteps that weren't yours on your living room floor, the clicky noise of dog paws soon followed. Sounds from the kitchen startle you back into thought. That's where your knives are. He could take the damn fridge for all you cared right now, but you were not getting stabbed by knives you had picked out and paid for without a fight.

The sound of water hitting something metal had you confused, that weirdo did not follow you home to fill his dogs water bowl, that would be insane, and yet a few seconds later the water is being gobbled up loudly.

Something fills with water again, you're still looking at the slow swinging leash on the hook.

The stove beeps, the glasstop clinks quietly, something was placed on it.

Nails on the floor tell you the dog is scampering towards you, probably dripping water all the way. Soft fur brushes your fingers accompanied by the wet nose and tongue licking your hand. "You broken, pet?", leaning against the wall as nonchalant as the question he asked. The nickname had you glancing at the dog for a second before it clicked - this fucking guy dragged you around on a leash and called you pet like it was a normal thing to do.

You turned to give him a piece of your mind, freezing again when you saw him in the light. He'd been scary outside, dressed entirely in dark clothes and towering over you like a bad omen. In the light he looked downright terrifying, the skull print balaclava blending with his eye black, equally dark eyes looking at you with a bored expression, you had to guess. Good thing you hadn't tried anything, he looked perfectly able and willing to really hurt you. Not like how your bruised body ached from being dragged, real agony that would rip through you and fray every nerve you had. You were once again starring at each other, him waiting for a reply and you desperately trying to keep it together, whether you'd laugh or cry or attack him you didn't dare guess but something was boiling over.

The kettle whistles - you burst into a fit of nervous giggles.

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. breeding kink. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

[wisecura]

Sheets

megumi fushiguro x fem-reader

p.1

p.10  ( ⸝⸝꩜ ᯅ ꩜⸝⸝;) p.12 (getting close to the end)

p.11

AN: very very very sorry for the late post! I do have a clear ending in mind for this (typed up my outlines and everything) and I'm hoping to wrap it up soon--thank you for your love and support! and my cute anons asking for updates. it really had been encouraging even when i'm not feeling great. I hope this chapter is up to par, been feeing a bit of a block and a bit shy with posting. sometimes I focus on the negative and forget i'm doing this as a hobby. (get a bit self conscious and wonder if i'm even good at writing haha) so thank you again for the love and support. If this sounds disorganized please tolerate me ♥️ i'm ranting now, so please--

warnings: this story may cover sensitive and uncomfortable topics. please read at your own risk, violence, lashings, blood, mental breakdowns, yandere, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, mommy kinks, mommy issues, arranged marriages, forced marriages, angst, eventual smut, clan politics, age gap (5 years from meg, and a little over 10 with toji), toji aint the best dad, mentions of child abuse, slowww build.

Short summary: Your arranged marriage to Toji Fushiguro had been sudden and unexpected, but now you found yourself living under his roof alongside your moody stepson. Your only directive from your clan head before moving in was clear: keep a close eye on Toji, the notorious Sorcerer Killer, and his son, a potential sorcerer prodigy.

anons, anons, anons (if i say it three times will you appear?♥️)

Your eyes locked onto it immediately.

He’d forgotten his school bag at home, which was so uncharacteristic for the always-on-top-of-it Megumi. The fact that he's gone off without it was a surprise in and of itself.

And being the good, responsible figure you were, you decided you needed to get it back to him. Sure, you could’ve just texted him, but the nagging curiosity ate away in the back of your mind.

You deserved that much…right? 

Over the past few years, both you and Megumi had grown, though in ways that felt fundamentally different. It seemed like only yesterday when you towered over him by at least a foot, but now, at 22, standing on the edge of what felt like both everything and nothing, you began to pick up on more around you. Each time he came back, it was as though he had learned something new, gained some insight or skill that added to the ever-growing distance between the person he was and the person he was becoming.

And with those changes came those unwelcome feelings that gnawed at the back of your mind. Jealousy—Admiration. A sense of responsibility that weighed heavier than it had any right to. Overwhelming affection that felt almost instinctive, but no less unsettling. A little too...much for deep thought. And astonishment at the person who regularly sat in front of you at the dinner table—so far removed from the boy you once knew. 

Meanwhile, your life felt stuck in place, confined to the monotony of daily errands and long hours indoors. Days blurred together, weeks slipped by unnoticed, and yet that nagging ache in the back of your mind never left. So desperate to go off the beaten path. 

And the trail leading to Jujutsu High was gorgeous. Thick trees lined the path, their leafy branches casting intricate shadows on the pavement. The sunlight peeked through in golden streaks, making the entire scene feel almost surreal. The warmth on your face nearly euphoric. You’d only ever seen pictures of this place when you looked it up online, but they didn’t do it justice. 

“Woah. And who might you be?” 

The sudden voice shattered your focus, making you spin around so fast you nearly lost your footing. Your pulse spiked, heart pounding in your chest as you stumbled back a step, clutching the two bags in your hands like a damn lifeline. For a brief moment, the world around you blurred, leaving only a splotch of leaves in your line of sight.

Your gaze snapped to a face far too close for comfort—definitely too close.

White, unruly hair, gleamed in the sunlight, but it was his eyes, so unnervingly blue, that froze you in place. He was undeniably handsome. But the smirk that graced his face and the look in his eye as his head tilted slightly, was unnerving. As if you were some curious puzzle he’d stumbled upon.

“Lost?” he asked, his tone light and teasing, but there was an undeniable weight in his presence that sent a shiver down your spine. Then it hit you—the suffocating wave of cursed energy radiating off him. It was staggering, an oppressive force pressing down on your chest and making it hard to breathe. How had you not felt it before? It rolled off him in unrelenting waves, so overwhelming it left you momentarily speechless, rooted to the spot.

“What? You shy?”

His voice broke the silence, dripping with that insufferable amusement. He was just as bad as Toji it seemed. He tilted his head a bit more, his eyes glinting mischievously, as if your reaction was the highlight of his day. Your irritation felt obvious, but it was quickly drowned out by the lingering unease that his cursed energy evoked. Stranger danger. stranger danger.

You instinctively stepped back, trying to create some distance, but he didn’t budge. If anything, he leaned in closer, his presence invading your space with an air of lazy confidence, like he had all the time in the world to unravel whatever it was he found so intriguing about you.

You hadn’t even realized you were staring until he spoke again, the lilt in his tone making your cheeks heat with something closer to indignation. Still, you weren’t about to be rude—not with someone who exudes this kind of power. Not when he was the only one walking down this path with you. Not another soul in sight.

“Sorry,” your voice wavering slightly. “Do you… work here?” The hesitation in your tone was unmistakable, and his response was immediate—a wide grin stretching across his face. Fitting.

“That depends… who’s asking?” 

Before you could respond, your name rang out, a deep voice, heavy and familiar, cutting through the air from behind you. The grin faltered on the man’s face for the briefest of moments, replaced by a flicker of surprise as his eyes shifted past you to the source. You turned instinctively, already recognizing who it belonged to, even before you saw him.

Of course, it was Megumi.

“What’re you doing here?” His voice was blunt, almost tense, as he closed the distance between you in a few long, purposeful strides. There was no warmth, no casual greeting—just that demanding tone that made your chest tighten.

Why did he look so upset?

Oh, did you... mess up?

You barely had a chance to open your mouth before he was standing right in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly. His eyes scanned over you as if he was checking for some kind of damage you hadn’t even realized might be there.

“You... left your bag at home,” you voice was soft, quiet. He didn't seem to acknowledge your words as you attempt to hold up the bag. Proof of your...innocence? Why would you even need a reason to be here? You weren't doing anything wrong.

His expression never wavered, the clench of his jaw making it clear that your answer hadn’t fully soothed whatever was bothering him. His grip on your shoulders softened slightly, though he gave them a small squeeze, almost reassuring. But his attention shifted.

Gaze moving past you, and you felt the change immediately. His posture stiffened, his whole demeanor shifting into something colder, more guarded. Without a word, he stepped in front of you, his body casually yet deliberately placing itself between you and the white-haired man. His shoulders completely blocking you from view. The movement was subtle, but the message was clear. Just how did Megumi know a man like this?

“Gojo-sensei,” —Ah.

“What’re you doing here? I thought you were on a mission.”

The man—Gojo—let out a heavily dramatic sigh, looking completely unbothered by Megumi’s tone. “Finished early,” he replied with a casual shrug, hands crossing behind his head, far too relaxed. “But who’s this you’re hiding?”

His voice gave you chills, and you shifted uncomfortably, not able to see him, but no doubt that creepy grin was still slapped across his face. Gojo didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned slightly, trying to catch a better look at you around Megumi’s frame. “She’s not your girlfriend, is she?”

“No,” Megumi shot back, the word flat and final, his tone leaving no room for interpretation. Gojo raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Touchy, huh?” His voice was playful, almost sing-song, but the way his gaze lingered on you felt a little too probing, a little too long for comfort had Megumi clenching his fists.

You swallowed hard, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was from embarrassment, unease, or the palpable tension between him and Megumi, you couldn’t quite tell. You hadn’t interacted with Gojo much, but the way Megumi’s entire presence had shifted told you everything you needed to know—Gojo wasn’t exactly a welcome sight. Whatever lightness existed in the air before was gone, replaced by an invisible but tangible weight pressing between the three of you.

Gojo might not have been dangerous, but he definitely gave the impression of someone who liked to push boundaries just to see how far he could go. His teasing nature seemed to thrive on reactions, and you could tell Megumi wasn’t in the mood to indulge him.

A stray thought crept into your mind....maybe Megumi had never mentioned you to anyone here... The idea hit harder than you expected, a dull ache settling in your chest. You banished it before it could take root—now wasn’t the time.

“Yo! There you guys are!”

A bright and cheery voice shattered the lingering tension. You turned to see a pink-haired boy jogging toward the group, a huge grin plastered across his face. His eyes were wide and warm, his energy unmistakable—this had to be the friend from the photo Megumi sent. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, a friendliness so genuine it seemed to pour off him in waves, reminding you immediately of an overexcited puppy.

Megumi stiffened beside you, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch before reluctantly offering a grumbled greeting. Yuji skidded to a stop just in front of you, planting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He straightened quickly, his grin softening into something almost shy when his eyes landed on you.

“Oh, hi!” he said, a light blush creeping onto his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his smile still firmly in place. “Sorry—I’m Yuji Itadori! You must be… uh…” His voice trailed off as his brow furrowed, the wheels in his head clearly turning as he tried to piece together who you might be.

Megumi let out a long sigh, his irritation practically radiating off him. “She’s with me,” he said flatly, stepping just slightly closer to you, his tone making it clear he wasn’t in the mood for explanations.

You couldn’t help but smile at him, his presence a much needed distraction. “Nice to meet you, Yuji,” you said warmly. Yuji’s face lit up even more at your friendly response. “Wow, Fushiguro never said anything about—”THWACK!

Before he could finish, Megumi stepped forward and smacked Yuji on the back of the head with a loud thunk that echoed down the trail, making you jump.

“Megumi!” surprise flooding your tone, trying to sound somewhat scolding. This had to be a first. You'd never seen Megumi so...

Yuji barely flinched, rubbing the back of his head for a second before laughing. “Jeez, Fushiguro! What’s with you today?” His grin stayed intact, though you couldn’t miss the slight wince that suggested the hit hadn’t exactly been gentle.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, still chuckling. “It’s fine! I’ve got an extra-thick skull anyway,” he added with a playful wink in your direction. You noticed Megumi seemed even more frustrated with the additional member, but he didn't comment on it. You wondered how long he'd hold out until he just left.

“Well, Megumi,” Gojo emphasized the name with a teasing lilt, his eyes flicking to you as if testing the waters. “This is…interesting. Didn’t mention you’d have company today.”

Megumi’s scowl deepened, his eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s none of your business,” he shot back without hesitation. He hadn't even known you were coming. A mistake on your part obviously.

“Whoa, Fushiguro, didn’t know you were the overprotective type,” Yuji joked, though his curiosity was evident beneath the teasing tone.

Gojo leaned slightly. "She a friend or something?"

This all but confirmed your earlier suspicions. Megumi doesn't talk about you. You drew in a breath. “I’m his—” 

Megumi’s hand shot out, his grip firm but not harsh as it wrapped around your wrist. “We’re done here,” he muttered, his tone low and decisive. Without sparing a glance back, he began steering you away with purposeful steps, leaving no room for protest.

“Wait—what?” Yuji’s voice followed after you, completely baffled. But neither tried to stop him. Gojo chuckled quietly and gave a lazy wave. “See you around… whoever you are,” he called out, lighthearted, his eyes trailing you.

Why the hell was he so curious about you.

Megumi kept his grip on your wrist, practically dragging you along until the two of you reached a more private spot—a quiet little area tucked beneath an overgrowth of trees. Thick bushes surrounded the bench, adding a sense of seclusion that felt both calming and suffocating all at once. You recognized the place from earlier on your walk. It wasn’t far from the front entrance, and the realization sent a small pang through your chest. How many times would he make it obvious he didn't want you here until you'd get it? The self conscious part of you brain was screaming at you. feeling oddly shy with being here.

You stole a glance at him, catching sight of his face. His jaw, clenched, his gaze sharp and tunneled, like he was too lost in his own frustration to notice anything else. The tension in his features was unmistakable, and that tightness in your gut only grew.

When he finally let go of your wrist, you felt the cool air replace the warmth of his touch, though it didn’t ease the knot forming in your stomach. He sighed, his shoulders sinking slightly as some of the tension eased from his posture.

“What’re you doing here?” his voice, low but softer than before.

You could easily cry. Despite being the older one here, you felt more like a scolded toddler, small and out of place. But when your eyes met his, something shifted. The hard glare he’d been wearing was gone, replaced by a calmer expression, maybe even a little tired. His hands moved to his face, rubbing across his eyes as if trying to wipe away the remnants of his frustration.

You really needed to get ahold of yourself. Since when did it matter if he wanted you there? You were there to drop off something he forgot. Maybe it was just the embarrassment teens get when their overly affectionate parent comes to dote on them in front of their friends. Maybe theyd tease him about this later....

When he looked at you again, there was that particular softness in his gaze, the kind that made your chest ache. Your thoughts immediately cleared. Maybe he wasn't so upset with you...

“You embarrassed of me?” you joked weakly, forcing out a laugh that didn’t quite land. You prayed the faint hurt in your tone wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

Megumi’s eyes widened, caught off guard. Like he hadn't anticipated you actually being hurt by his actions. He could sense the tension in your voice, much like how you could sense his. He stared at you for what felt like forever, his mouth opening slightly as though he wanted to respond, only to close again as the words faltered. His head tilted just a fraction, his brows furrowing in thought, like he was scrambling for an excuse but coming up empty. The silence stretched between you, and for a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t sure what to say—or if he even could.

You chuckled, stepping forward to pinch his cheek lightly. “Relax,” you teased, quickly shoving down the lingering sting of your own feelings as you swung the strap off your shoulder and held the bag out to him. He wasn't mad at you. “I told you—I brought your bag. How can someone as responsible as you forget something like this, hmm?”

For a moment, Megumi just stared at the bag, like he couldn’t quite believe you’d gone out of your way for something so trivial. Slowly, he reached out to take it, his fingers brushing yours in the process. The brief contact wasn’t much, but you caught the faintest flush creeping into his cheeks.

“Thanks… mom,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, almost shy.

He eyed the second bag slung around your shoulder.

"Oh! And this is for you." He took the bag quizzically, peeking inside only for his eyes to light up. "Thought I'd at least bring your favorite." The packed dinner was a good choice. The awkward tension from earlier melted away as a warm smile spread across his face.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at how cute he was, the tense atmosphere already fading away. A small lull settled between you, the kind of silence that felt comfortable rather than strained. The overgrown trees swayed gently overhead, their leaves whispered softly in the breeze, wrapping the moment in an almost serene stillness. It was starting to get cold out. Soon enough, he would be due for another birthday. Yours had already passed a few weeks back.

Without warning, Megumi stepped forward, pulling you into a tight hug. His arms wrapped securely around you, holding you close as his chin came to rest lightly on top of your head. The embrace was firm, not overbearing, and for a moment, you froze in surprise before leaning into it. He was always one for affectionate gestures... but....

“You should head back,” he said quietly, though there was a faint reluctance in his tone that made you nearly hesitate. You didnt want to leave just yet.

You nodded, your hands brushing his arms briefly before you pulled back. “Alright,” you replied softly, offering him another small smile before turning to leave.

As you walked back toward the path, you spotted Gojo and Yuji nearby, standing a little too still to pass as innocent. You were sure they were supposed to have left already, but there they were—watching. Not that you had anything you were particularly secretive about.

But Yuji’s gaze seemed to dart to anywhere but you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, while Gojo leaned casually against a tree, the ever-present grin on his face somehow managing to look even more smug.

The second your eyes met theirs, Yuji’s face flushed bright red. He muttered something under his breath, quickly averting his gaze as though he could disappear by sheer will. Gojo, on the other hand, stood there shamelessly. All cocky and arrogant. Immediately irritating you again.

Megumi stepped out from behind you, their eyes shifting over immediately. Gojo’s grin turned absolutely wicked, his quirked brow seeming ready to tease him endlessly. Yuji’s mouth twitched, as though he was trying—and failing—not to laugh, his wide eyes flicking between the two of you. 

Megumi, however, barely acknowledged them. He strode past you without a word, but as he did, you felt the faintest brush of his hand against your back. The touch was light, almost imperceptible, but deliberate enough to send a jolt through you. Your cheeks warmed instantly, and before you could even process the moment, Gojo gave an exaggerated cough. 

By the time Megumi reached their sides, Gojo and Yuji were all over him, poking his cheeks and teasing him relentlessly. You couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever let him live down whatever they thought they’d seen. For someone as stoic as Megumi, seeing him soften must’ve been quite the sight for them.

You sighed quietly, feeling a little secondhand embarrassment for him.

The walk home was pretty silent.

It was hard to find much to do when the house was as silent as it was. Time seemed to crawl as you went through the motions of your routine, everything blurring together in the same, boring monotony.

You and Megumi exchanged texts here and there, but as always, he was evasive about certain topics. He avoided talking about his friends, that teacher, and especially his missions. No matter how many ways you tried to bring it up, he always managed to steer the conversation elsewhere.

But he seemed more comfortable sharing through photos—pictures of the meals he was eating, scenic views, and even the occasional selfie with a classmate or two. It seemed he was trying to include you more in his day to day life, maybe sensing your growing urge for something different. You couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about it.

He wasn’t supposed to be worrying about you like this—but when had Megumi ever not been thoughtful when it came to you?

He was always helping around the house, bringing home things you needed. He’d carry the heavier bags without being asked, and when he was home, he never went out much. Instead, he’d linger in your presence, watching the same TV shows you liked, or even sitting in complete silence, or even sun napping on the couch. A second shadow.

And if you were forced to admit it, he made the loneliness and monotony a lot easier to bear. His presence had a way of filling the empty spaces, making the house feel less like a silent box and more like a home.

When it came to you, Megumi seemed to have a sixth sense. He was always away at school when you were called out to your clan house, yet, without fail, he’d send you a message the second you got back, asking how you were. He always seemed to know when you were stressed or needed something—sometimes even before you realized it yourself. Megumi wasn’t just thoughtful. No, he was in tune with you in a way that felt almost uncanny.

And now that he was older… you couldn’t help but wonder. Did he still harbor that same puppy crush he had when he was younger? The thought made your head spin. Was he still seeing you in that light, or had it faded? He’d never fully confirmed it back then, never said anything outright. But he’d always been affectionate—hadn’t he?

Wasn’t he always like that? 

And yet… how would you feel about that?

No.

These weren’t the right questions to be asking. You still had a place here. You were still his stepmother. These weren’t the thoughts you should even be entertaining, not for a second. But the thought made you freeze in your tracks, the shirt you were folding suddenly feeling heavier in your hands. It was nearing his graduation—just a week away—and you didn't have the faintest idea what came after.

Would he be moving out? Would he stay home for a while to plan his next steps? Would he be doing Jujutsu work? 

And then there was the question you didn’t want to ask, the one that made your stomach twist. Would you still be allowed to stay here? Or would your clan come calling, pulling you out of the life you’d carefully built over the years? The main reason for you being here was Megumi and Toji. Forming those relationships and feeding small bits of information. But if neither of them were even going to be home....

No, surely they wouldn’t. Not after all this time. If they were going to do that, they would’ve already done it… wouldn’t they? Surely....They hadn't mentioned it before at least.

Toji had come home briefly the week before Megumi’s graduation, but it didn’t take long to learn he’d already taken on yet another mission. Despite the two of you growing closer over time, it never seemed to slow him down when it came to picking up those lengthy assignments that kept him away for days at a time.

This time was no different. He mentioned it was a high-profile case, one with the potential to drag on longer than expected. “Two weeks minimum,” and he wouldn’t be back in between.

It wasn’t anything new. Toji’s comings and goings had always been unpredictable, and you’d grown used to the empty spaces he left behind. But something about this mission left you uneasy. 

But for now, all you could do was wait.

come home

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[4:47 am]

(cw: wife!reader)

CEO!Johnny had been mad since the second he heard about this early meeting. That was a week ago. Well, not mad, more like pouty. For a few months now he’d gotten used to going into the office a little later so that he could have his mornings with you. Nothing too crazy, just a half hour later, but after all the hard work he’d put in for the company, he felt he deserved the half hour with his wife. The mornings were blissful, waking up and cuddling with you. Following that up with coffee and breakfast together and bidding each other goodbye with a kiss before heading in your respective directions.

But today, today felt like hell. He was up before the sun was coming up, waking up while bakers were still baking for the morning rush, while children were still fast asleep and in dreamland before going to school. Getting ready before you were even thinking about waking up. Hell, you were deep in rem sleep right now.

A part of him wanted to be selfish and wake you up. At the very least, to have your company. He wouldn’t force you out of the warmth of your shared bed. He just missed you… and today would be a long day. Going in early to talk to overseas investors and spending the rest of the day finalizing reports for the end of the quarter. He was already tired of it all.

Johnny dragged his feet while he sipped his coffee and willed the caffeine to kick in. He was bone tired. He had even stolen some of your under eye patches to help with the puffiness under his eyes. He sighed tiredly, tying his tie and fixed his hair one last time.

He turned off the light in the bathroom and padded across the bedroom to your sleeping form. He pressed a kiss to your forehead whispering a quiet, “have a good day, baby.”

He wishes he could say he felt accomplished since he had been awake so early and working almost as long. He talked to the investors, he got a lot of paperwork done, and he drank a lot of coffee. And still he didn’t feel good knowing his soft mornings with his wife had been torn away.

So it came it as no surprise when your FaceTime call came in at your usual wake up and get ready hour. He smiled brightly as his thumb slid across the screen to answer your call. He was met with your pouty face surrounded with the white sheets of your shared bed, “you didn’t wake me up.”

Johnny laughs, “baby, it was like 5 in the morning! Good morning though, how are you?”

“I dunno,” you grumble, “my husband doesn’t love me so…”

Johnny chuckles softly, slumping back in his very expensive desk chair, “I do love you. I love you so much that I didn’t interrupt your sleep. I did consider it though.”

“If you really loved me you’d have woken me up,” you argue playfully.

“I think you’ll love me when you see what I left you in the kitchen,” Johnny tells you, lifting his brows with a smirk.

He watches you move through the halls, hair messy and free. He watches your eyes light up when you saw the surprise he’d left for you. “Breakfast and coffee. Wow, I guess you do love me,” you tease, “thank you though, baby. I appreciate it.”

“I think you’ll also be happy to know that I’ll be home early today. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I will be. I deserve it after waking up at 4 in the morning."

"I don't think your secretary would approve of that," you chide, arching your brow a him through the camera.

"Well, she wasn't here at 5 in the morning was she? Plus, she'll like it when she gets to go home early too," Johnny yawns, "I'll pick up dinner on the way home, baby. Have a good day. You off to work?"

You shake your head with a smile, "nope, took the day off. I'll see you later. I love you."

"I love you too," Johnny responds before hanging up. Damn, he should have taken the day off too, especially since his CFO was more than capable of doing this on their own. He drags a tired hand down his face, he was definitely going to put in for a long vacation and it you off to some resort where you both could spend the whole day in bed if you wanted to.