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gyuuberryy · 7 months ago

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no doubt !

loser!enhypen's reaction to your confession + their down bad behaviour

genre: completely fluff, slight crack

warnings: self doubt, very little stuttering

note: live, laugh, love hot loser men

word count: 2.3k

i love reading your comments and reblogs, so please do so if you liked reading this<3

HEESEUNG

heeseung was the guy who always sat in the back of the library, oversized hoodie pulled up and earbuds blasting lo-fi playlists. not because he was trying to look cool and aloof—he just didn’t know how to talk to people. heeseung’s whole vibe screamed ‘leave me alone’, and yet, you were drawn to him. maybe it was the way his big glasses always slid down his nose or how he’d stammer when the librarian asked if he needed help. there was a sweetness to his awkwardness, a genuine quality that made him stand out(not to mention how devastatingly handsome he was).

you started leaving him little sticky notes on the library desk when he wasn’t looking, simple messages like “nice doodles!” or “your handwriting is cute<3” the day he caught you in the act, his face turned the color of a ripe tomato.

“you think my handwriting’s c-cute?” he stuttered, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

a bit nervous, you laughed and nodded. “yeah, i do. and i think you’re cute too.”

heeseung froze, his pen dropping to the table. “wait, you… you think i’m cute?” he sounded so disbelieving it was almost funny.

when you confessed that you liked him, he spent two weeks in disbelief, constantly asking if you were joking. but after you assured him that no, you weren’t pulling some cruel prank, he became utterly devoted. he’d text you good morning every day, walk you to your classes while carrying your books (even when you insisted you could manage), and write you poetry—the kind of cringe, over-the-top poetry that made your heart melt anyway.

heeseung was the kind of boyfriend who’d get embarrassingly jealous but try to hide it. if someone so much as glanced at you for too long, he’d fidget nervously and mumble something about how they were probably just admiring how amazing you were. and if you hugged him in public? forget it. he’d be grinning like an idiot for the rest of the day.

when he wasn’t nervously doting on you, he was daydreaming about your future together. he’d scribble little sketches of the two of you in his notebook, complete with hearts and statements like “me + you = forever.” if you teased him about it, he’d turn beet red and try to deny it, but you could see the tiny smile playing on his lips.

rest is under the cut!

JAY

jay was the guy in your science class who thought he could blend in by keeping his head down. what he didn’t realize was that his nervous habits were endearing: the way he’d mumble answers to himself during group work or adjust his glasses every 30 seconds. he was always sketching random diagrams in his notebook—half for class, half because he was too awkward to make conversation.

you had a crush on him because, despite his shyness, there was something magnetic about the way he focused—his brows furrowing as he sketched diagrams in his notebook, the faintest pout forming on his lips when he was deep in concentration. one time, you caught him organizing the classroom supplies, his long fingers deftly sorting through tape dispensers and markers while muttering something about order.

when you mentioned you liked him, jay blinked at you like he couldn’t comprehend the words. “me? like me, me?” he asked, pointing to himself.

you nodded, trying not to giggle at how wide his eyes had gotten. “yes, you. i think you’re really sweet.”

jay’s face turned a deep shade of red, and he immediately started rambling. “i mean, i… uh, wow, okay, i didn’t expect this. are you sure? like, really sure? because i’m kind of a mess, and—”

once it clicked, though, he was all in. he’d send you paragraphs of text apologizing if he thought he said something wrong, shower you with small, thoughtful gifts (like your favorite snacks or a plant he’d researched how to care for), and eventually worked up the courage to hold your hand—though he’d sweat buckets the entire time.

jay would also start making lists—actual, physical lists—of things he could do to make you happy. “compliment her at least once a day,” “remember her favorite coffee order!,” and “learn how to not be a complete dork >:(” were scrawled on a sticky note tucked into his notebook. and when he wasn’t nervously doting on you, he was daydreaming about you, doodling your initials in the margins of his notes.

very soon, he was down-bad for you, which was evident through his real life and his social media activities. he’d post the cheesiest captions about you, like “can’t believe i’m dating the most amazing person in the world” with a blurry photo of the two of you. his friends teased him mercilessly, but he didn’t care. to him, you were worth every bit of embarrassment. late at night, he’d re-read your old texts and smile like an idiot, convinced he was the luckiest person alive.

JAKE

jake was a lovable mess. he wore mismatched socks, always seemed to forget his pencil, and somehow managed to trip over air at least once a day. his “plan” to talk to you involved him awkwardly hovering near your desk and pretending to need help with math problems he already knew how to solve. you knew from the start he was a bit of a loser—but that’s exactly why you liked him along with you finding everything he did adorable.

“wait, wait,” he said when you told him you were into him. “you like me? like, romantically? or is this a ‘pity me’ situation?”

after realizing you genuinely liked him, jake became a golden retriever in human form. he’d facetime you at random hours just to say hi, take you on chaotic “dates” that involved him occasionally tripping over things in public, nervously ordering food for you both and all silly fun activities like arcade games and amusement parks. it was never a dull day with him! after your first kiss, he couldn’t stop grinning for hours, texting his friends in all caps: “GUYS I JUST KISSED THE LOVE OF MY LIFE AAHJKHSSSK”

jake’s down-bad behavior reached new levels when he started making playlists for every possible mood you might have: “songs to cheer you up,” “songs that remind me of you<3,” and even “songs to study to (but only if you want to study with me):3” he’d even text you mid-class to tell you he missed you, even if you’d just seen each other that morning.

jake was also the kind of boyfriend who’d insist on carrying your bag even when it was clear it was too heavy for him. “i’ve got this!” he’d say, wincing slightly but refusing to let you take it back. and if you ever mentioned feeling sad or stressed, he’d immediately panic, asking, “what can i do? tell me, and i’ll do it!” he’d even write you little notes with nerdy jokes or doodles to make you smile, slipping them into your locker or bag for you to find later.

SUNGHOON

sunghoon thought he was slick, but his ‘cool guy’ act was so transparent it was almost cute. he’d lean against the lockers during breaks, pretending not to notice you, but the way his ears turned red every time you walked by gave him away. despite his awkward attempts at being aloof, you found his loser tendencies adorable: like how he’d secretly google pickup lines but chicken out before using them.

when you confessed your feelings, he genuinely choked. “wait, you like me? oh wow… you have bad- I MEAN great taste ahem.” he spent a solid week trying to act nonchalant, but once you started dating, his loser side came out full force. he’d ask you to “rate his outfits” before dates, send you selfies captioned “just thinking about you bbg,” and blush furiously every time you complimented him. sunghoon may have tried to act smooth, but deep down, he was utterly whipped.

sunghoon would also start practicing ways to compliment you in the mirror—only to mess it up completely when the time came. “y-you look… uh, very… beautiful? no, wait, gorgeous! that’s the word i meant!” and everytime you smiled at him, he’d be texting his friends, “she smiled at me again!!!!! i’m gonna pass out.”

his devotion extended to doing the smallest things for you, like bringing you your favorite drink or snacks without you asking. he’d even memorise your schedule so he could “accidentally” bump into you between classes, claiming it was coincidence even though the timing was suspiciously perfect. at night, he’d lay awake replaying your conversations, smiling at the ceiling like the lovesick fool he was.

SUNOO

you had noticed sunoo always sitting at the edge of friend groups, laughing along but never quite joining in. he was bubbly and fun but had an air of self-doubt that made him endearing. you started noticing how he’d always bring extra snacks to share with classmates or go out of his way to compliment people—little acts of kindness that made your heart flutter. not to mention his angelic beauty, that had you look twice the first time you had seen him standing near the water cooler awkwardly.

it was hard not to develop a crush and when you told sunoo you liked him, he’d blink in disbelief. “no way. you’re joking, right?” but after realising you were serious, he’d giggle nervously and hide his face in his hands. once you started dating, he became the most attentive boyfriend ever, remembering every small detail about you and hyping you up like you were the main character. he’d also send you cheesy tiktoks at 2 a.m. with captions like, “this is so us babe ><”

sunoo was head over heels for you, the literal epitome of “she fell first but he fell harder”. he did adorable things like creating a secret pinterest board filled with date ideas and texting you pictures of cute animals with captions like, “look, it’s us in 50 years!” he also started learning how to bake just so he could surprise you with your favorite treats—though most of his attempts ended in chaotic, flour-covered disasters.

if you ever seemed upset, sunoo would go into full panic mode, showering you with compliments and doing everything in his power to cheer you up. “you’re the most amazing person i’ve ever met,” he’d say earnestly, his eyes sparkling with sincerity. he even kept a list on his phone of all the things you’d mentioned liking, just so he could surprise you when you least expected it.

JUNGWON

jungwon was the class president who seemed to have it all together—but his close friends knew better. he was the guy who’d trip over his words during speeches, carry five planners because he kept losing them, and stress over things like forgetting to bring tape for a poster project. you liked him because, despite his loser-ish tendencies, he had a heart of gold and worked hard to make everyone feel included.

when you told him you had a crush on him, jungwon’s first reaction was to nervously laugh. “wait, me? are you sure? why would you do that to yourself!?” once he accepted that you really liked him, he became the sweetest boyfriend imaginable. he’d plan thoughtful dates (that inevitably went slightly wrong but ended up being more fun because of it), leave you encouraging notes in your locker, and get adorably flustered every time you kissed him.

jungwon also started creating “motivational speeches” for you, writing them out on notecards and practicing in the mirror before giving them. “i believe in you,” he’d say earnestly, fumbling to hand you a little note that said, “you’re amazing, and don’t you forget it.” if you teased him about it, he’d bury his face in his hands and mumble, “stop, you’re embarrassing me…”

his love didn’t stop there. he’d stay up late researching ways to make your life easier, like creating color-coded study guides or finding fun new spots to take you on dates. and if anyone dared to speak poorly of you, jungwon would step up, surprising everyone with his sudden fierceness. “they don’t know what they’re talking about,” he’d say, his tone protective and unwavering.

NI-KI

ni-ki was the quiet gamer boy who’d rather blend into the background than be noticed. he wore the same hoodie every other day and constantly had earbuds in, even when they weren’t playing anything. you liked him because of how unpretentious he was—and how his eyes lit up whenever he talked about something he loved, like a new game or a random meme he found hilarious.

when you told him you were into him, ni-ki almost dropped his controller. his eyes narrowed into a glare, “are you sure you’re not messing with me? did jake tell you about my crush?” after he realised what he had said, he immediately scampered away leaving you standing there confused. once he got over his initial shock, he became your biggest simp. he’d send you memes that reminded him of you, let you beat him at games (even though he’d deny it), and randomly text you “you’re so pretty” at the most unexpected times. around his friends, he’d brag about you non-stop, showing off pictures of you with a proud grin.

once he was down bad for you, he became hell bent on learning how to cook your favorite meals—even though he’d never cooked before in his life. “how hard can it be?” he’d say, only to panic five minutes in and call you for help. he also started staying up late to design matching gamer tags for the two of you, insisting that everyone online needed to know you were his.

in quiet moments, ni-ki would open up about how much you meant to him, his voice soft and a little shaky. “i don’t know what i did to deserve you, but i’m not letting go.” and if you ever showed up to surprise him during his gaming sessions, he’d immediately log off, saying, “sorry, guys, my priority is here,” as he turned his full attention to you.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

taglist: @soobnuuy @senascoooop @moafloribunda @lunalovesstories

@firstclassjaylee @levandright @fancypeacepersona @mirouie

@gaonashi @firstclassjaylee @kkamismom12 @evandsolo

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nanamiskentos · 8 months ago

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(JUST MEET ME AT THE) APT! — gojo satoru minors dni. art by chitrartum on twt.

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (a) and let the show begin !

prologue. → your ex, that sleazy and no-good scumbag won't stop posting tacky mirror selfies on instagram, arm around his fellow cheater-in-crime. so, christmas eve finds you morose in a dodgy dive bar. why not tumble back into bed with that random, gorgeous stranger you just met?

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. never drive, no matter how little alcohol is in you folks!!! never!!! making out, creampiè, hooking up with a stranger, ovèrstimulation, mildly rough sèx, gojo won't tell you what his job is

word count. 9.4k! song inspiration. apt — rosé & bruno mars

a/n. reader lowkey a hater, i love vanilla vodka eggnog </3 i said i was gonna post on 02/12 and i kept my word, literally rushed to finished this before my clinical exams in the cardiac ward 😭😭😭😭😭😭 hope y'all stay healthy. your future surgeons are writing gojo smut on tumblr.com

mp3. don't you want me like i want you, baby? don't you need me like i need you now? sleep tomorrow, but tonight, go crazy. all you gotta do is meet me at the apartment (아파트) !

you think your friends would kill you if they knew this was how you were spending christmas eve. not at some glittering holiday party, nor tucked away in a snow-dusted cabin. but here, holed up in a dimly lit bar with an atmosphere so questionable it should come with a warning label alongside a health and safety audit.

the place had charm, if your definition of charm included scuffed floors, a jukebox stuck on 'last christmas' and a string of blinking lights that looked like they'd been thrown at the walls rather than hung. still, you'd swiped a couple of minty candy canes from a jar near the door, which felt like a win.

your phone sat resolutely off in your bag. self-preservation. no instagram, and no tacky mirror selfies from your scumbag ex with the same smirk he'd worn a month ago when you caught him cheating. with someone who had always been 'just a friend, babe!' you weren't keen to let that ruin the rest of the night, though if you were being honest, you had already let it ruin a good chunk of the month.

"another christmas vodka...sour, please," you squint at the messy chalkboard above the bar, where the christmas specials were scrawled in what would barely pass for handwriting.

the bartender gave a single, surly nod. he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but here, preferably somewhere free of customers nursing post-breakup bitterness like a fine wine.

and so, you found yourself staring at the tall glass now sitting in front of you, studying the rosemary sprig that swayed lazily in the translucent red liquid. a few cranberries bobbed among the ice cubes like they were on some tiny festive raft.

"woah, that one's way too strong for me."

the voice interrupts your private session of wallowing. you turn your head, slowly, to take in the culprit. he-who-hath-disturbed-the-peace. a man sitting close enough to be annoying, but not close enough to invade your personal space.

it takes you a moment to process the stranger, mostly because of the brain freeze from your ill-timed gulp.

"i mean, it's not bad," you shrug, hoping to sound neutral enough that he leaves you be. but then because you just can't leave well enough alone, you gesture at the specials board, "better than...that, at least."

you jab a finger at the chalk-scrawled abomination: vanilla & peppermint vodka eggnog.

the man frowns, a sharp but somehow charming movement that's overshadowed by the dim lights, "hey, i ordered that one."

you blink like a startled bovine, before breaking into a laugh, "my bad. i'm sure it's really fuckin' delicious."

the stranger chuckles too, a soft and low sound that seems more genuine that it has any right to be, "i hope so. otherwise, this is gonna be a long night."

the man finally shifts, casting aside the dim shadows that lay over him, into the blinking string lights. broad shoulders framed by a dark, tailored jacket that hugs him like a second skin. his hair, startlingly white, was pushed back by — wait, was that a blindfold?

you stare longer than you should have, trying to piece the odd sight together. a cosplay? a k-pop idol wannabe, hoping to get recruited for the next bts tour? perhaps, he was blind, hard of sight? you start to open your mouth, wondering how to phrase the intrusive and awkward questions, but he beats you to it.

"i can see you just fine, y'know," he says, his tone laced with amusement.

your cheeks burn at the realisation that he's caught you gawking shamelessly. so you quickly turn back to your drink, suddenly very interested in the cranberries floating in the glass.

the bartender returns, sliding the stranger's drink onto the counter with an audible clink. it was the most obnoxious cocktail that you'd ever seen. a martini glass filled with frothy, pale liquid and crowned with a cinnamon stick that jutted out like the mast of some ridiculous holiday ship.

you watch, mildly horrified, as the man picks up the glass and downs half of it in one confident gulp. he sets it down a satisfied sigh, and a smack of his glossy lips, and you wrinkle your nose involuntarily at the sight.

"i swear it's good," he says with a laugh, catching your expression. his grin is wide, playful. and you find yourself smiling back despite your sour, gloomy mood.

he has a nice smile, you note. not forced nor smug, but genuine. framed by pale pink lips that curl up in an easy, natural way. it was strange though, to look at someone without seeing their eyes.

"i'm gojo, by the way," he offers, his voice smooth and lightly amused once more, as if he'd caught you studying him again.

your gaze drops to his hands, long and slender, tracing the rim of the martini glass. something about the way they move — elegant and deliberate, hold your attention a moment too long for propriety. you quickly snap your focus back to his face, "what brings you here, gojo?"

gojo shrugs, and you can almost imagine him rolling his eyes beneath the blindfold, though you doubt his ire is directed at you, "work, i guess. or maybe i just got bored of going to work."

"they're working you hard, yeah?" you ask, trying for sympathy. employers loved squeezing their workers dry during the holidays. your own boss was proof enough of that, running the office like a sweatshop for santa's unpaid elf labour.

"something like that," gojo says with a scoff, the corners of his mouth quirking up again, "what about you? what brings you here? it's christmas eve, isn't it?"

you sigh, the weight of gauche embarrassment suddenly pressing down as the words spill out before you can stop them, "my ex-boyfriend cheated on me."

gojo's lip curls, the kind of expression that balances perfectly between pity and disgust, "that sucks," he offers. profound and wise, you have to agree as he continues, "you jus' find out or something?"

the question makes you cheeks heat, and you fiddle with the edge of your drink, "no, i've known all month." you gesture vaguely towards your purse, where your phone sat like an unsealed pandora's box, "but he posted...on instagram. and stuff. i'm still, y'know, getting over it."

gojo makes a thoughtful clicking noise with his tongue, "ah, see, i don't do social media. but that sounds rough."

you let out a weak huff, "yeah, well...now i just feel like a loser. my friends told me to go out and have fun, and here i am..." you trail off, downing the rest of your cranberry vodka in a single, decisive gulp. the sting hits your throat, sharp and sour, and you grimace at the burn.

gojo frowns slightly, leaning in just enough that you can hear how his voice softens, "i don't think you're a loser." the sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, pulling your gaze back to him, "it's fair to wallow."

his words hang in the air, and you find yourself smiling, albeit thinly, "that's...really nice of you to say."

gojo hums thoughtfully, "i meant it, i promise. but i can't exactly say i've been there, never really dated anyone."

you blink, openly gaping at the man, "really? you're joking."

it was hard to wrap your head around that. even with the odd blindfold, everything about him screamed 'pounce-worthy'. the broad frame, the charming smile, the striking white hair that looked like it belonged in a kérastase commercial.

gojo laughs at your incredulous expression, "same old work and stuff," he explains with a casual shrug. then his grin fades, tone shifting just enough for you wonder why that feels as though the clouds have covered the light of the moon outside, "always got in the way."

"at least you never had to deal with a breakup," you offer, trying to find some weak, silver lining.

gojo frowns, his pale complexion now tinged with a faint red flush that even the dim bar lights couldn't disguise. was he really that much of a lightweight, or was the eggnog's amaretto content deceptively boozy?

he sighs dramatically, "a friend once left me outside a kfc in shinjuku. then he became a murderer and a cult leader. that felt like a breakup."

"huh," you murmur, staring at the man with a mixture of amusement and faint alarm, wondering if you'd seen any cult leaders on the evening news lately. no, nothing save for the occasional incorrect weather report, a friendly good-looking priest running some scam association, and news reports about an octopus that could predict the lottery, "that's - well, okay..."

you couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not, but gojo seems to shake himself free of the odd reverie. he's running his hand through his shock of white hair, and his grin has returned, slower and a touch softer, "still, your ex must've been crazy. letting go of a pretty girl like you?"

the words land with surprising weight, considering they come from a stranger in a sleazy bar, but it leaves you momentarily stunned. you can feel a blush rising to your cheeks, your heart doing an embarrassing little flip before you manage to get a grip on yourself.

"wow," you laugh, feigning composure as you sip the last remnants of your drink, "smooth."

gojo's smile is wider now, "hah, i call it like i see it," and his lips now curl upwards as he leans in, "and i'm serious. if i had someone like you..."

you laugh again, but this time it's far more unsteady. you wonder if the cranberry vodka is playing with your head, "big words for someone who's never dated. should i be impressed, gojo?"

gojo's chuckle is a deep sound that vibrates in his chest, "i know a good thing when i see it. you don' need to date to know what you want. and i think i want you."

your stomach does a little flip, and you feel all rationality being pounded out of you just from staring at his unfairly gorgeous hands rest on sturdy thighs, "you do flattery well, i'll give you that."

"oh, i don't know about that," gojo says, fiddling with the stem of his glass, "but what'dya say we get out of here? how about my place?"

you blink slowly, and you're aware that your heart (and...nether regions) have already composed an answer before your mind has, "what if you're a serial killer? you're not about to silent night, deadly night me, are you? you haven't killed someone have you?"

for a moment, the man stills but then gojo leans back, "smart girl. asking the right questions. but no, i can at least promise that i'm not a criminal."

you hesitate just for a beat, the words lingering on your tongue, before you let out a breath and shrug, "fine. where's your place?"

"azabu," gojo replies without missing a beat, his tone smooth, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

you gape once more, blinking as you try to process the information. azabu? as in tokyo's ritziest neighbourhood, where a one-bedroom apartment could cost you more than most people's yearly salary? the kind of place where the floors are made of marble, and everyone's shoes are more expensive than your entire wardrobe?

gojo, ridiculously handsome despite looking like a circus runaway, too charming for his own good, and not the type you'd expect to find in a cheap downtown dive bar. definitely not on a christmas eve, at least.

for a split second, you wonder how a man like him even ended up in a place like this. maybe it's some kind of self-imposed penance. or he likes to keep things low-key when he's pretending not to be rich? maybe he's looking to cosplay a succession character?

whatever it is, it's working. not only does gojo have a face carved from marble, now you've got a solid ticket into seeing what a neighbourhood for the top one percent really looks like beyond it's wealthy exterior. maybe, you'll bring back a souvenir.

you wonder whether there's a group of small emotions standing around inside your head, inside-out style. glaring at you as if you're incapable of making good and rational decisions.

well fuck that, you gather yourself and shrug off the small wave of nerves, and loop your purse strap around your finger, "alright," you say, "let's get out of here then."

you don't miss at how the adam apple of gojo's throat bobs for a second, before he downs the rest of his drink in one go, "let's get outta here then."

you follow him out into the cold, your breath fogging in front of you as you try to focus, but the man is tall, like ridiculously so. but when you reach the curb, he turns to face you again, a frown marring his face.

"so, i have a small confession."

i changed my mind and i find you repulsive.

i was paid by your ex to do this, and now i've done enough to get my money.

i'm a serial killer.

you don't know which possibility is worse, "huh, a confession? what is it now?"

gojo chuckles, lifting a hand to the back of his neck, as though he's about to spill a dark secret into the night air, "i don't have a car."

"you've got to me kidding me. how'd you even get down here?"

gojo shrugs, a casual and almost lazy movement. and you feel your gaze lingering on his shoulders. broad, impossibly wide, the dark jacket hugging him in all the right places, like it was tailor-made to showcase just how much he filled it out.

"someone dropped me off. ages ago," like it was the most normal and rational explanation in the world.

your own laugh is short, a little disbelieving, but you pull your silver keys from your purse, "well, i guess i'll have to drive then. but what would you have done if i hadn't been here to save the day?"

gojo steps to the side, opening your own car door for you with a small flourish and exaggerated bow that makes your heart jolt again, "probably teleport back home. maybe fly, since the skies look clear."

what a weird guy. hot, but weird. he seems like the type to dress up with a fake beard and show up as gandalf at the next lord of the rings fan convention.

in the driver's seat beside him, you catch yourself staring too long. your gaze slipping over a model's jawline, the white of his hair being held up by the blindfold. even his vaguely expensive scent is disorienting, pleasant like pine and blackcurrant. but it's also hard not to be amused when he's furrowing teeth into plush pink lips out of concentration, pressing an address into your cracked gps screen.

well, merry christmas to you.

gojo's place is well...how do you say this? gorgeous doesn't quite begin to cover it. he leads you into the building with the ease of someone who knows every inch of it, tossing a casual smile over his shoulder as he swipes a key card to unlock the private elevator, "i tend to move around a bit. or stay in different places. keeps life exciting, don't you think?"

you step into the elevator alongside him, the polished mirrors reflecting the soft glow of gold accents and sleek, modern lines. his hand hovers over the control panel before he presses the button for the top floor. of course, it's the penthouse.

"you move around a lot?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, "what, like a restless billionaire or something?"

gojo smiles, leaning casually against the steel as the elevator begins its smooth ascent, "now you're exaggerating."

the elevator finally dings, and gojo steps aside, offering an exaggerated bow as he gestures for you to exit, "after you, my fair maiden."

you almost scoff at the ridiculousness of it, but there's something so endearing and charming about how he pulls it off, especially when paired with the unfair symmetry of his face.

floor to ceiling windows dominate the far wall, revealing a jaw dropping panorama of tokyo's skyline. the city stretches out in a glittering sea of lights, with the tokyo tower glowing a golden exclamation point against the velvet night sky. the interior is just as impressive, with polished wood floors that gleam in the warm light and a glass dining table that sits beneath a sculptural chandelier. that same faint scent of blackberry and pine lingers in the air, heady almost.

behind you, gojo strolls with an easy and languid grace, tossing his jacket onto an artisan leather armchair. beneath it, his sky blue dress shirt clings just right and rolled up to reveal forearms faintly dusted with pale hair. you think you've momentarily forgotten how words work, and you avert your gaze quickly. though not before catching the faint smile on his lips.

"not bad, huh?" gojo says, heading to the open kitchen as though he's unaware of the effect he's having on a rational and sensible mind such as yourself, "it's no dive bar, but i'll do."

you shake your head, bewildered. trying to process how someone you met in a dingy bar could live somewhere that looks like it belongs in architectural digest. even down to the odd, ancient looking pieces that scatter the wide living room. weird looking artifacts of some sort. maybe he's also a collector? go figure.

"not bad?" you repeat, incredulous, "gojo, this place is incredible."

the man laughs, opening a sleek fridge to grab a bottle of water, "i have good taste," he says with mock modesty, his tone teasing as long fingers twist off the cap, "and a thing for gorgeous views. though, between you and me, i'm not great with heights. ironic, i suppose. paying a fortune for a view i'd rather not get too close to."

he waves a hand vaguely towards the windows, the blindfold still firmly in place.

"so, what's the deal? did you win the lottery, or inherit a fortune. or are you some kinda secret agent who moonlights as a barfly?"

gojo lifts the bottle in mock toast, "let's just say i'm very good at what i do."

you arch a brow, crossing your arms and ignoring the warm flush creeping up your neck, "and what exactly is that?"

"oh, you know. standard stuff. international intrigue, thwarting evil creatures. i even saved a kitten from a tree the other day."

"right, because nothing screams the next member of the avengers like eggnog in a seedy bar."

gojo leans casually against the counter, "even the avengers need a holiday drink now and then. don't knock it." but then he gestures towards the sleek couch, "wait, you can make yourself comfortable, y'know. i'd hate for my guest to think i'm a terrible host."

"terrible host? no, but a mystery man —"

before you can finish, your foot catches on something hard, and you stumble forward with an undignified yelp. gojo reacts instantly, how does he move that fast, and his arm is shooting out to steady you. but glorious gravity and magnificent momentum has other plans.

both of you crash onto the couch, and you find yourself sprawled unceremoniously across his lap. gojo's laugh rumbles low in his chest, and you can feel the warmth of it underneath your palms as you steady yourself, "well, that's one way to get comfortable," he murmurs, voice teasing as his large hand lingers lightly on the curve of your waist.

you prop yourself up slightly, cheeks burning, and glance back at the offending object. your brows knit together when you spot what looks suspiciously like a katana gleaming under the soft light.

"did i just trip on a — hey, what the hell is that?"

gojo interrupts, smoothly extending a long leg to nudge that suspicious object under the nearby coffee table before you can finish, "nothing important," he says breezily, the motion so quick you almost think you imagined it.

his focus shifts back to you, almost guilty, but his fingers are pressing divots into the fabric of your top, "now, where were we? hi."

you blink, caught off guard by how strange it is to feel the searing heat of someone's gaze underneath a blindfold, impossibly intent, "hi yourself," you manage.

for a moment, neither you nor the gorgeous man under you move, and the world feels strangely airless.

but your fingers twitch against the fine linen of his shirt. and before you can second-guess yourself, you reach your hand up to the edge of the silk fabric over his face and you ask, "can i take this off?"

gojo tilts his head, like it's a genuine consideration and you catch the faintest flicker of hesitation. it's fleeting, replaced by a crooked smile as he nods, "go ahead, sweetheart."

your hand rests lightly on the silk, hesitant for only a second before tracing its way to the back of his head. your fingers brush through impossibly soft strands of white hair, and his breath hitches when you find the knot tied neatly to the base of his skull.

you wonder what manner of man gojo is, letting himself be stitched undone by a stranger. but with care, you undo the knot, working deftly and clutching the fabric as you pull the blindfold away.

the blindfold slips free, and for a moment, you're certain you've forgotten how to breathe. bright, piercing blue eyes. framed by thick white lashes blink up at you. the intensity of such an unearthly gaze is softened by something more vulnerable, almost shy. nervous even.

"wow," you murmur without thinking, the word spilling out as gojo's expression shifts, an unguarded openness replacing the playful smirk that you've seen all evening.

your earlier assessment echoes in your mind: k-pop reject wannabe. the recent memory now feels like quite the injustice, a careless slight against a face that defies easy description. each detail of his face is striking, as if some divine hand had taken special care to sculpt him from the fabric of time and space itself.

gojo seems to sense your analysis, and you're sure that he's parted his lips to speak, but whatever he was about to say falters. that faint flush, pale-red like vermillion watercolour bleeding across a canvas, blooms across his cheeks. gojo's hazy gaze flickers for a second, and it sends a thrill through you. he's affected by this, by you.

it's hard to resist the slow smile that curves your lips, light and playful if only to mask the way your own heart is racing, "are you seriously shy now, gojo?"

gojo's expression shifts again almost immediately, as if that subtle invulnerability has been replaced by something sharper, almost indignant. he sits up a little straighter, the movement making you acutely aware of how the hard planes of his body feel beneath you.

"shy? no," gojo says, his voice steady but edged with some need to defend his honour, "i just...don't usually do this. that's all."

there's a sincerity in his words, an almost begrudging honesty that takes you by surprise. you tilt your head, as your murmur, "i don't either."

before you can second-guess yourself, you tilt your head down. pressing your lips to gojo's in a featherlight kiss. his taste is intoxicating, honey and sweet grapes mingling with a hint of that ridiculous vanilla drink from earlier. you pull back almost as quickly as you leaned in, testing the waters.

but your breath catches when you see that the blue of his eyes has deepened, darkened. and his lips, pink-blush and slightly parted, form a quiet and stunned oh!

"cool," gojo manages, his voice rougher than you expected, and you bite back a laugh as you watch him swallow hard.

"huh, cool?" you echo, your amusement bubbling over, "that's it? that's all you've got?"

gojo's grip on your waist tightens, and his hands are now splayed over your spine. anchoring you to him, as his mouth curves into something sly, though his flushed cheeks betray his composure, "compliments to the chef?"

you shift slightly, pressing more of your weight firmly into his lap. though not yet close enough to situate yourself over his groin, delighting in the way gojo's blush spreads down his neck, staining his skin a shade reminiscent of ripe berries swirling in cream.

you can feel gojo's attention as much as you can see it, how his own gaze lingers, deliberate and unhurried. taking you like a masterpiece that deserves more than a cursory glance. the hand that had been steady on your back shifts, his fingers threading through your hair. he watches as the strands slip and fall beneath his touch.

"thought you said you wanted me, gojo," you tease, though you're certain your voice is betraying the way your pulse is doing its best impression of the macarena in your jugular, "are y'gonna do something or not?"

gojo's gaze snaps back to you, a flicker of something far more intense passing through those impossibly blue eyes. full of hunger, need even. the hand in your hair slides away, only to settle at your jaw. it's warm and steady, his thumb brushing slightly over the plush of your bottom lip.

"i do want you," gojo says, his voice low and steady and maddeningly genuine, "want you to kiss me again. and again. as many times as you want until i forget my own name."

"gojo —"

"satoru," he interrupts, his voice cracking slightly, stripped of any previous swagger. it's unsteady and raw, affected in a way that excites you. sends a dark heat curling low between your thighs, "you can call me that."

"satoru," you repeat softly, letting the syllables fall from your lips, unfurling in the most hazy way.

something within the man shifts. his hand tightens on your waist, dragging you closer in a way that punches the air from your lungs. right over -

oh. the thick, curve of his erection straining against slacks that probably cost more than your monthly salary. it's deliberate, almost desparate at how the invisible thread snapped inside him. unravelled the careful composure he's been clinging to until now.

"go on," gojo murmurs, his voice dark with need, "kiss me again, please."

you lean closer, eyes flickering to his lips, and your pulse roaring in your ears, "who would i be to deny you any wish, satoru?" the words come out more reverent that you'd expected, as if your entire world has been tilted off its axis.

and then you kiss him, hard. desparate. as if his lips are your birthright, a homeland to claim. and gojo's kissing you back, carrying a sweetness that seems both foreign and familiar. in an instant, the weight of another man, a dreary haze in your past, vanishes. gojo is suddenly everything you didn't know you needed, vibrant and electrifying.

"let me know if it's too much," gojo breathes against your lips, his voice shaky as if he's trying to tether himself to the earth. but your kiss deepens, frantic and unrestrained. his mouth moves against yours with a hunger that sends sparks down your spine, and you suddenly realise you quite like the taste of vanilla when it's dripping from his open kisses.

you pull away, for every human needs air. but the sight before you has you clenching your thighs desperately around the bulge where you sit atop. gojo's gaze is heavy, full of that desparate longing that makes your chest ache. his lips are swollen, a soft cherry hue from your kisses. and strands of white hair fall over his blue eyes.

"look what you've done to me, fuck. miss you already," gojo murmurs, and before you can respond, he surges forward, hands pressing against your face with the intensity of a storm. one hand reaches to find the nape of your neck, letting you surrender to the heat of this touch.

you crave more, so much more from gojo, who's taking you in like you're his last breath, his final indulgance. it's as if he's found a new devotion in you, ready to worship you at the alter of your false godhood. but before you can part your mouth to tell him exactly what you and where, gojo's hands are already sneaking under your top, brushing against the trembling skin of your torso.

his teeth are biting down on your lip, leaving you dizzy. and gasping, and so damp in your panties as the fabric of your top is peeled away, and you're left shivering, fighting against the cold of the december air. you find yourself pressing harder into the warmth of his chest, letting the swell of your chest press flat against him.

"shoulda' turned the heat on before we came in," gojo murmurs, breathless as his lips hover a mere centimetre away from yours, "got nothin' to worry about, sweetheart. i'll keep you warm."

"didn't t-think i'd spend christmas eve like this," you gasp, your head lolling to the side as gojo presses open-mouthed kisses to the soft arc of your neck, sensitive even to the cool air.

"no?" gojo's reply is breathy, almost frantic as if he's fumbling in the heat of the moment and has little grasp over the words tumbling out of his mouth, "neither did i. but this? b-better than any fuckin' mission they could've sent me on."

you cock your head, feeling the heat of his clothed cock underneath your thighs, "m-mission, huh? what are you talking about - mmph!" but the rest of the question never escapes your lips for it's swallowed up by another one of gojo's candied kisses.

his rough hands work deftly, finding the clasp of your bra with ease. a pretty crimson thing, almost sheer as it caught the light. and in the centre, a tiny satin bow sat like the final touch on a perfectly wrapped gift. you had only worn it half-heartedly earlier in the morning, some forced christmas cheer for your dreary day ahead.

the look on gojo's face was anything but composed, staring at your cupped tits like you'd knocked the air out of him and his chest rose and fall as though he were remembering how to breathe. in a single fluid motion, your bra is unhooked. the faint metallic click barely audible over the pounding in your chest and he's tossing it aside with a casual flick, his focus entirely on you.

you find yourself mesmerised by his eyes, those swirling pools of blue that seem to have stolen fragments of the sky itself, clouds brushed into cerulean depths with strokes of syrupy smoothness. they're breathtaking, but the thought shatters as gojo's canines graze the flesh of your breasts, a sharp and teasing nip that pulls a gasp from your lips. leaves you rocking sharply against his erection, making him throw his head back, ragged.

the playful string blooms into a flush of heat, and gojo's at it again, his mouth working to leave faint red marks in its wake. you squeal, half in surprise and half in helpless laughter (and entirely in a lusty haze) but gojo only pulls back enough to murmur, "what? can't help myself."

but then he peers at you abruptly, his lips parted as he catches his breath, "wait. do you wanna —?" and gojo tilts his snowy hair towards the shadowy doorway that leads out of the living room, the implication clear even through his panting.

you nod, breathless, "yeah, jus' help me up."

without hesitation, a strong arm slides around your waist, and before you know it, you're being swept into a semi-bridal carry, and your head is resting against the fabric of his dress shirt. not a bad feeling, one you could get used to.

at the doorway, gojo lets out a low 'shit!', nudging the door open with his foot. the faint sound of clattering follows as he kicks something out of the way. you glance down from your entirely too comfortable vantage point, spotting a smattering of cheap tinsel, all glittering in metallic silver and gold, tangled with round baubles that glisten faintly under the dim light.

some have little smears of glue, and uneven glitter patches, as if crafted by unsteady hands, but with earnest effort.

"you big on christmas or something?" you tease, delighting in how the tips of his ears light up like nose of a famous reindeer.

gojo freezes for a moment, almost sheepish as he clears a path, clearly trying to look as macho as possible as he gingerly pushes aside a string of green lights, "made those for my students," he mutters, "thought they'd like them in the classroom tomorrow."

your laugh grows louder, and gojo's brows furrow, his tone growing defensive, "it's a nice surprise for the classroom!"

"i'm not making fun of you!" you insist, leaning up to press a gentle, soothing kiss to the hollow of his collarbone, "it's sweet. i think it's really nice, actually. wait, you're a teacher?"

gojo's mouth quirks up in a faint smile, "something like that," he says cryptically, finally clearing a decent and hazard-free path into a sleek, and clean bedroom. it's all modern space, all clean lines in shades of cream and white, and navy.

gojo sets you down gently, and the plush fabric cradles you as your back lands on fresh linen. and for a quiet, tender moment, you're both caught in the stillness. gojo kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly on each of your thighs as if he's anchoring himself there.

his gaze is steady, content, maybe even adoring in a way that feels too intimate for someone who you barely know. there's a warmth in his expression, like he's savouring the sight of you, searching for something — and he's found exactly what he's hoped for.

almost without thinking, you lift a hand, cupping the sides of his face. his skin is warm beneath your palm, soft with the faintest hint of pale stubble that seems to fade into his skin. the moment your hands makes contact, gojo leans into your touch instinctively, his white lashes fluttering closed.

"hey, 'toru," you murmur softly, "y'still with me?"

gojo's eyes snap open at the sound of that, sharp and bright, as if the nickname itself has sparked a challenge in him. a low and almost frustrated sound escapes from the back of his throat, and he presses a feather-light kiss to the inside of your knee.

you don't miss at how his teeth sink into his bottom lip again, worrying and working the plush flesh like he's trying to steady himself. spreading your weeping thighs aside, as his gaze is fixed on something. intense, unwavering. the sheer focus of it making heat creep up your neck.

at how he must be staring hungrily at damp, sheer red fabric that clings to the outline of your cunt. at how it must shimmer almost translucently now, the sticky slick of your arousal enhancing the gloss, making your panties glisten under the light.

you're feeling an unfamiliar kind of shy under the weight of his attention, at how he must see how the fabric clings closely to your puffy, swollen folds — the delicate weave exposing the shape of your taut pussy, practically weeping for his touch.

you needn't have asked, for gojo was already diving into deliver.

he's gliding his index finger over your dripping pussy, letting the tangy syrup sink onto his fingers, leaning in to press a sweet, almost innocent kiss to your clothed cunt, "she seems desperate for me, don'tcha think, heh?"

the sound of the fabric ripping is sharp and wet, a squelching and almost fleshy tone, a sound that's both soft and sharp to the blood rushing between your ears. a strained tear of your beautiful panties, leaving cool air to gently leave a kiss of its own upon your cunt.

you gape at him, a bit too stunned to find coherent words, "hey, what the f-fuck! those were like super expensive!"

gojo rolls his eyes, the kind of look that has a bit too much attitude for someone who's practically begging on his knees for a taste of you, "don't get all huffy on me, sweetheart. 'm gonna buy you more, is tha' alright?"

"i'll r-remember that, satoru," you murmur, giving a sharp tug at his white strands, "you gon' have to give me your number now."

gojo shudders, the muscles in his back rippling underneath his tight shirt, "was already gonna," and he's back to pressing soft, kitten licks to your now exposed folds, small circles over your throbbing clit.

you buck your canting hips closer to the heat of his mouth, to where the pink tip of his teasing tongue peeks out of a pretty mouth, "satoru, c'mon. can't you just, fuck—"

you sharply cry out as he presses his mouth forward, a sudden surge of heat jolting through you. burying himself deep, his nose brushing against the sweet, syrup that coats your pussy, and the rhythmic, wet movements of his tongue send shivers through your entire being.

"mhm, jus' as sweet as you look, baby," gojo gasps, swirling and flicking his tongue, teasing you with every deliberate patter of the muscle near your winking entrance. so messy, slick and you're not sure where he ends and you begin as it all glides together carnally.

gojo seems languidly tipsy, just from munching through the gloss of your cunt, far more intoxicated from your taste than any cheap christmas liquor. he alternates between pushing his tongue past the ring of your tight walls, and then wrapping his lips around the searing pulse of your clit, leaving your hips shaking and dragging over his mouth, smearing yourself over his chin.

you're fisting delicate white locks with fierce urgency, and he hisses and then chuckles into your pussy, "tch! ease up there for me, yeah? jus' move your hips like you were doin' before," and you comply, angling yourself better so he can flatten his tongue against your folds, jaw grinding deeper into you "hah, yeah, just like that."

"taking good care of you though, aren't i? wait, say it. say that 'm making you feel good," and he's bullying a long finger into your gummy walls, clingy and sopping, "say 'm making you feel better than a-anyone ever has," and you just mewl as your arousal must surely be dripping down his forearms, staining the cuffed sleeve of his shirt as he takes your sweet juices down his throat.

there's stars beginning to twinkle at the edge of your vision, and you know you must be close, for your heart is practically dancing a heavy beat against your ribcage, and you suddenly push his mouth away, watching as a clear strand of spit or your slick forms a taut bridge between his mouth and your folds.

"w-wait, satoru, s-stop."

gojo's head lifts, eyes blinking as if coming out of a faze. but then, like a switch, something sharp flickers behind his gaze and concern floods in. his thin brows furrow slightly, glossy lips parting as he reaches out, as if to steady your hips, "you okay, sweetheart? what's wrong?"

your heart stutters, pounding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. you try to steady your breathing, but the tremour in your fingertips betray you as they gently slide through your hair, the silky strands tangling around your hand.

"nothin' wrong, 'toru. but i was gonna cum," and gojo's face, still flushed and soft with arousal, splits into a shy, amused grin.

"hah, i know. that's what i wanted," he's close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath hitting your aching cunt, but you shake your head again.

"feels unfair, wanna see you too. wan' you to cum in me,"

you watch, almost in awe, as a low and guttural sound escapes gojo satoru, raw and unfiltered. gojo runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes dark with something dangerously close to hunger.

"you sure?" and his voice is hoarse, unsure despite his roaming gaze. you nod, your hands digging into his shoulder, tugging at the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, desparate to feel the warmth of his skin underneath.

his shaky laugh of disbelief only makes you more aroused, whining for him to hurry up, and before you know it, he's standing up, towering over your boneless form on the sheets.

"how could i deny you anything?" he murmurs, echoing your earlier words. gojo's hands reach for the hem, the fabric shifting as he pulls it over his head, revealing a milky expanse of toned skin, smooth and taut over a set of abs that should easily land him on a gq list.

his waist is slender, defined in all the right places, and the soft taper of muscles make your breath catch. but the soft white trail of hair that reaches under his waistband makes your cunt clench.

"y'seem happy with the view, don'tcha?" gojo's voice is teasing, the cocky smirk tugging at his lips, but you can hear the impatience threading his tone now too. he's not as in control as he lets on, his hands now making quick work of his belt, leaving your mouth dry when he finally pushes his black boxers down.

you should have known that his cock would be as pretty and unfairly gorgeous as the rest of him. he's circling the strawberry-red tip, glowering and throbbing, right over your gathered slick, coating it and smacking the mushroom head in a thwack! over your poor clit, leaving you jolting as he laughs and leans down to kiss you sweetly once more.

"jus' look at me, yeah?" his drawl is slow, lazy and so ruined. at the first inch of his throbbing cock that slips through your walls, he looks utterly undone. a mess of sharp edges softened by something far more primal and raw.

gojo's head tips back, exposing the elegant line of his neck as the moonlight cascades over you, "hey, sweetheart, 's not too much, yeah?"

hazy blue eyes bore into you, and for a brief moment, in the time it takes for the lightning to strike the earth, you swear that his eyes glow. almost radiant and jewel-like, with cerulean fractals shimmering as if they're emitting life of their own. perhaps its simply the electrifying stretch of inches that's rendering you to hallucinate, whining as your nails find purchase in milky skin and rippling shoulders.

"i-it's big, 'toru," you pant, feeling him almost shudder at the clipped name again, as he grips the base of his cock to bully the final inch in, sighing in contentment as he finally bottoms out, with a wet pop!

gojo looks feral like this, heaving a breath through his mouth as though the air is being taken from him from every second he spends stretching you out on his fat shaft, "hah, 'm glad, i'm so glad i met you tonight, sweetheart. fuck, fuck, y'feel i-incredible."

he's pushing your thighs further back, running his hands over the plush skin, leaving bruising red prints that won't disappear tomorrow as you moan, wanton into his open mouth, letting gojo run his lips down your jaw and into the curve of your neck.

you're practically now folded in half under the bulk of his weight, feeling stars collide in absolutely astrophysical ways, impaled further on the long and thick length of his cock, "in so deep, s-satoru."

seems that gojo is a man of little mercy, for he seems only all the more invigorated by your squeals, drawing his torso back to watch the hypnotic smack of skin on skin, of your slick and creamy froth creating fresh rings over his pistoning cock.

he's entirely out of control, as you feel your body go limp from the pleasure shooting through every nerve and pore.

depraved.

you don't realise you might have let that slip out loud, so dizzy in your cockdrunk haze because gojo's suddenly ramming himself roughly in you, as though he was desperate to have his cock kiss your cervix, to feel for every divot and nook of your cunt's walls.

"d-depraved, hah. people call me, fuck, p-people call me a lotta things, sweetheart," and gojo's so good with it, letting your pussy have not even one moment to take reprieve, having you feel each vein and bulge of his cock, "but depraved is n-new."

the hand that was dancing over your thighs flies to your swollen, aching clit. practically glistening for his attention, and his attention you did receive, "right, t-there! 'toru, mmph!" you're trying to splay your legs wider, giving his quick hand more room to swirl tight circles where you needed him most.

your double-vision gaze lingers on the ripple of his muscles, the way his arms flex and shift as he seems intent on angling you just right for him to drill his cock over and over, at some freakish and feverish pace, "y'so good, gojo," you purr, and your nails curl against his arms, pressing just enough to leave tiny crescents in his skin, the faint dampness of his exertion clinging to him, "s-so strong!"

something shifts. the glow is back, electric blue flooding his eyes like crackling storm clouds. it's almost unnerving, this unearthly brightness, as if he's some ancient god wrapped up in human skin, and you've just stumbled into a divine revelation.

gojo stills for the briefest moment, the thick head of his cock snagging on your puffy folds as he draws himself almost entirely out. the absence of motion makes you whine, an airy and impatient sound escaping your throat. that hesitation feels like a tease, like a string that's been pulled so taut, before he finally dives forward, capturing your mouth in a messy, heated kiss. sloppy in its disregard.

"s-so strong, huh?" gojo's voice is rough, shaky, as though he's trying to centre himself but your tight pussy holds him in hypnotic sway, "y-you think so? think i'm the strongest?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, and there's something almost boyish and charming in the way that he seems to be fishing for a compliment, despite the low heat in his voice.

you pull back from his wet, spit-stringed lips. just enough to wrap your hands around his neck and push him closer, deeper into you as he gutturally groans, "if i s-say yes, are y'gonna keep showing off?"

gojo's laugh is short, breathless, "y-yeah, wanna see?"

he makes quick work of pushing himself back into you, pumping himself so far in that your slick must be painting and sopping the white hairs at the base of his cock almost translucent, "o-oh my god, 'toru, fuck, oh my god!" the stretch has your head spinning, as if the skies are parting above you, and you're melodramatically left to see the light of divinity as gojo bucks his hips harshly into you. as if he's too far gone, needs to prove himself to you with a good fuck.

"you h-have to say it," gojo stutters, his words tumbling out so quickly, like rough gravel, "say it, fuck, c'mon. say i'm — say i'm the s-strongest. you have to, hnghh, god. please, jus' agree, okay?" his voice is cracking, that cocky veneer entirely shattered under the weight of his rambling desperation as he practically rummages through your sopping insides, "y-you feel it right, i mean, you can feel me — i mean."

a high whine escapes your throat as his pace becomes almost olympian, and you wonder faintly how you haven't managed to sprain a muscle or break a bone yet, how he hasn't managed to shatter something with the sheer pace and force of how gojo satoru fucks, "hah, 'toru. i'm —"

"close? g-god, i hope so. 's what i want. nothing, like n-nothing feels better than this right?" his words are falling out of him in a messy, pussydrunk rush, his eyes flickering between your face and down to where your pussy lips are bulged around his shaft, "so good, right? the b-best thing you've ever —"

you truthfully don't even hear the rest of his words, blood absolutely roaring and rearing in your ears, your ribcage as you feel the tight coil snap, letting out short, slurred snaps of his name when you cum. as he doesn't quite let up on smacking his hips right against your ass, "s-satoru, 's getting s-sensitive, oh, fuck. fuck!"

he's suddenly whining, with pleading and erratic blue eyes chasing after you, sloppily pushing down so he can gasp and pant into your open mouth, before capturing you in a heart-stopping kiss as he finally gets milked dry by your pulsing and fluttering walls. in awe of how creamy white is practically leaking out of you, dripping a stringy trail over the flesh of your thighs.

you're agape at how utterly fucked he looks right now, though you're certain you do not look much better as fat tears prick at your eyes, streaming past your ears from the overstimulation, "s-still fillin' me up, 'toru. god, do ya always cum this much?"

at first, you don't even get a response from gojo who just sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck, almost as if he's trying not to cry out, but then he's back to circling your clit with a rough hand, "makin' me sound like some kinda whore, s-sweetheart. 'n and i told you. don't do this m-much."

and now he's slowing down, pleasurably painful bucks of his hips keeping glossy, white seed in you. ensuring that it coats your entire entrance, "an' it's not my fault that she," and here, he gives your clit a small smack! grinning like a madman, "n-not my fault that she's so, hah, addictive."

each tight circle of his hand on your clit sends you hurtling into yet another orgasm, one that has you begging gojo for mercy, repreive, for more. an orgasm that has him whispering the sweetest nothings into your ear, "d-don't worry, gotcha like this. gonna let you rest n-now, jus' gotta relax for me."

by the time he's slipping his still somehow hard cock out of your creamed cunt, you can feel exhaustions heavy and caring hands caress you, rendering your body limp and boneless. your eyes heavy and hazy, but you can feel a soft ghost of gojo's kiss over the shell of your ear, "h-hope y'still here in the morning, sweetheart. don't leave, yeah?"

the morning sunlight filters through the blinds, and despite the ache in your limbs that cricks your bones, you drag yourself out of bed. christmas day, after all. you've thrown on gojo's dress shirt from last night, snug enough to flutter around your hips, but oversized enough around the shoulders to let you drown in it.

it's cozy though, and even the chilly air feels refreshing against the warmth clinging to you. gojo is still sound asleep, and you had smiled at how he took little puffs of air as he was passed flat out in bed. but you always like to be up early on christmas, and there's something about the holiday that makes you feel like you need to earn the right to nap later.

you wander around the bedroom for a bit, stretching your legs as your muscle protest in earnest. eventually, you decide to make your way to that kitchen. breakfast, right.

it seems like a good idea, especially considering the last thing in your stomach was a questionably sour vodka. so you pull open the fridge, expecting something befitting of this apartment. perhaps a slab of wagyu beef, a tin of caviar, a thick block of pistachio-cream dubai chocolate. you'd even settle for sushi.

instead, you're left staring back at a stack of candy canes, some strawberry yoghurt, a carton of milk and some fast food wrappers. despite your protesting stomach, a deep amusement washes over you. it doesn't surprise you that gojo would have a fridge stocked with food you'd find at a child's birthday party and a greasy diner.

still, breakfast is in order and because you can't help it, you pull out a candy cane and start unwrapping it. you're just about take a bite when you hear the unmistakable pad of footsteps. you turn, face to face with someone who would clearly not be out of place on a vogue covershoot.

gojo hasn't tossed on a shirt, and the sunlight filters over his chiselled physique before your sight is stolen by the loose sheet wrapped around his waist. delicious. you try to snap your gaze back to his face, but it's hard to not track your gaze down his torso, like a cat eyeing a particularly irresistible sunbeam.

"good morning to you too," gojo says, a grin curling his lips, "what are you doing?" his voice is still thick with interrupted sleep, laced with a morning rasp that forces you to ground yourself and stop falling prey to the god, eros and his machinations.

"breakfast, 'm starving."

"don't bother," gojo says, shaking his head, "we can go somewhere nice for breakfast. like real, actual food. don't think you want half-eaten yoghurt."

you nod enthusiastically, mind turning back to the peeling seal of the strawberry yoghurt with a spoon sticking out of it. but then, something else catches your mind's attention. a little curiosity piques, one that you cannot help but ask him.

"wait," you begin, snapping your teeth around the saccharine mint of the candy cane, "y'know what's crazy. like, i swear your eyes glowed last night. not even in a silly compliment way, but like electricity. i thought i was like, losing it.'

you expect gojo to brush it off with a wink, or maybe laugh it off like you're just teasing him. but instead, the man's face shifts, that cocky smile faltering for the briefest moment. it's gone so fast that you think you almost imagined it. but why does he look...almost guilty?

before you can process that, you realised you've leaned yourself over the counter, and in your absent-mindedness, your elbow presses a button on the answering machine. a small beep, and suddenly, a voice blares through the room,

"hey, gojo-sensei!" comes a high-pitched, distinctly teenage voice, an excited boy who sounds a little crackly over the speaker, "so, we found this grade one curse yesterday...and uh, we totally got rid of it. we were gon' call you, but you didn't pick up. but i almost got my arm torn off. wait, no! that sounds dramatic, i got shoko to look at it anyway. so what we're all wondering right is that we don't have to hand in any homework now right? as like reparations?"

the voice crackles off, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. you stand there, absolutely dumbstruck, staring at the answering machine like it's about to burst into flames or start singing christmas carols.

gojo, meanwhile, has the most awkward look on his face, clearly caught between embarrassment...and what? panic, amusement?

"satoru, what the fuck?"

he looks at you for a moment, but instead of speaking, he lets out a long and exasperated sigh before pulling out one of the counter chairs, "you're gonna want to sit down for this one, sweetheart."

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whytheylosttheirminds · 21 days ago

Text

make this place your home - r.c.

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!reader

summary: Rafe has been begging you to move in with him, but when you finally show him the place your heart belongs to, he realizes he'd do anything to make you happy.

content: fluff, angst, a drizzle of spice, semi-canon obx if you were to eliminate some pretty important things lol

cw: mentions of blood and injury, suggestive comments, closed-door romance, mentions of abusive parents (Luke)

note: my contribution to @zyafics mrga campaign <3

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“Don’t open your eyes yet!”

“I’m gonna trip over something and fall on my ass. Or run into something. This is The Cut, who knows what junk is just lying around. I’m gonna get tetris or some shit.”

You laughed out loud. Rafe nearly opened his eyes to figure out why.

“See, now you’re laughing at me, you better not be doing some dumb shit to me for a Tiktok,” he warned.

“Oh my god, you’re such a baby, calm down,” you chuckled. “I’m laughing because you’re cute. It’s tetanus, not tetris.”

He should feel embarrassed, but the sound of your laugh and of you calling him cute calmed every muscle in his body. You were a balm that went straight to his agitated heart.

You were the only one who could disarm him when he got irritated like this. You told him once that you don’t take his bad moods personally because you can see them for what they are - he’s not angry, he’s anxious. He realized then that you’re the only person who’d ever really understood him, that you might understand him better than he understands himself.

It’s why his shoulders relax now, it’s why he can take a deep breath. There was no one else in the world who could convince him to let them drive his boat while he’s blindfolded or walk through the tall, marshy grass without knowing where he was going. Only you.

“Can I open my eyes now?” He asked.

“We’re not there yet,” you shook your head, hand still on his arm to lead him closer to your surprise. “You can go one more minute without seeing where you’re going.”

“Maybe, but I don’t know if I can go another minute without seeing you,” he flirted.

You smiled, tempted to rip the blindfold off him and forget all about the surprise. Too bad for him you already knew all his tricks.

“Nice try, Cameron.”

As you got closer, your stomach twisted. Maybe this was stupid. After all, wouldn’t it be underwhelming to Rafe after all he’s seen? This place meant so much to you, you didn’t know if you could handle any criticism from him. You considered turning around, but you’d already made such a big deal out of this, how would you explain it to him?

“Okay, this is a good spot, I guess,” you said, your voice shaking with trepidation.

“You good?” Rafe asked. Of course he could tell your mood shifted without even looking at you.

“Yeah, I think, just open your eyes.” At this point you just wanted to get his inevitable disappointment over with.

Slowly, Rafe opened his eyes. He blinked a few times to adjust to the blinding Carolina sunlight before finally sizing up your big reveal.

It was your house, the one he’d been to a hundred times before - sneaking into your window so your brother wouldn’t hear, showing up in the night to investigate when you “heard a noise,” defending you from Luke when he got violent. Except, this wasn’t the same house. It was bigger, for one. And slightly better, with new walls, a new roof, and a big, hand painted flag in your brother’s handwriting: “Poguelandia.”

It wasn’t much, but it was your dream come true. In your eyes, you may as well have been standing in front of a magic castle. As you watched Rafe’s expression stay completely unchanged you realized that to him, it probably still looked like some shitty shack on The Cut. You wished you never brought him here.

“This is what you guys have been working on this whole time?” He asked, still looking at the house and not at you.

“Yeah, I mean, and the store,” you gestured to the dock behind you where you and your friends had built yourselves a small business. Another thing that would surely seem pathetic compared to what Rafe was used to.

“It’s nice, I like it,” Rafe said.

“No it’s okay, you don’t have to lie,” you said, voice small. You started to turn to leave. “I shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it, let’s just go-”

“Hey, woah, woah,” Rafe interrupted you gently.

He approached you from behind, arms twisting around your waist, forcing you to turn back and look at your home. He had to duck down to slot his chin into your shoulder, swaying you both gently.

“If I had to come all this way, I think I at least deserve the grand tour, don’t I?” he mumbled into your ear.

Your smile returned, you nuzzled your cheek into his, heart swelling.

“I guess, if you insist,” you said with a cheeky grin.

“I do,” he nodded, tickling your neck with his buzzed hair. He tilted his head down to place a sloppy kiss into the crook of your shoulder. “I’m especially looking forward to seeing your bedroom.”

“You mean the one I share with your sister?”

He groaned, “why do you torture me like this?”

“Because it’s fun.” You twisted away from his hold and slid your hand down his arm to interlock your fingers with his.

Rafe followed you onto the porch. You paused at the front door for dramatic effect.

“Hello MTV, welcome to my crib!”

Rafe smiled as you cracked up at your own joke, but his momentary joy turned sour when you opened the door and revealed an unwelcome sight on the other side; the Pogues.

The lively discussion that had been filling your shared living room stopped dead in its tracks. The room turned cold. Six icy stares were aimed in your boyfriend’s direction.

You understood why they disliked him so much. He didn’t put much effort into changing their minds. But he’d changed yours. And though you’d tried for years not to, you loved him. Neither of you had said it yet, but you knew it was true, at least for you.

There had been countless arguments between you and your brother and the shared friends that were basically family about Rafe. Countless fights you’d stopped between JJ and Rafe, countless nights begging Rafe just to try a little harder, begging JJ just to give him a chance. They both cared for you enough not to kill each other, but it was a reluctant ceasefire. A fragile peace you were always vigilant to protect. A truce that could be broken at any moment. You prayed this wasn’t that moment.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you guys were home,” you explained. The six pogues shared concerned glances with each other, something unsaid that you felt had nothing to do with you walking in with their least favorite person. “What’s going on?”

Kie stood, shot a brief but blazing glare towards Rafe, and handed you a piece of paper. You read it carefully, your eyebrows creased in confusion that was slowly morphing into great concern. Rafe read over your shoulder.

It was an official warning from the Kildare City Council. The land you were standing on and the home you’d built would be rezoned. They were taking Poguelandia.

“What the hell?” You shouted. “Can they actually do this?”

“Looks like they already are,” John B confirmed.

“No, no. There has to be something we can -”

“There’s not!” JJ stood from his seat at the far end of the room.

You could see it all over his face, the anger that was always lying just beneath the surface starting to make its way to the top. Everyone thought of JJ as a happy-go-lucky, silly, mischievous kid. And he was all those things, but he was something else, something only you really saw; a hurt kid who never healed.

“There’s never something we can do,” JJ continued, stalking slowly toward you, but keeping his eyes locked on Rafe the whole time. “Not when Kooks are involved. They always win.”

“Back up, Maybank,” Rafe snarled, looking down at JJ, who’d gotten close enough to break the barrier of Rafe’s personal space.

You stepped between them instinctually, a move you’d made a hundred times before.

“Stop.” You put a gentle hand on JJ’s chest to back him up, but he didn’t budge. “This isn’t his fault, J.”

“How do we know that, huh?” JJ finally tore his eyes off Rafe to look at you. “How do we know he’s not behind it somehow? Trying to steal our land for another bougie ass development project. You can’t trust these people, sis. How many times do we have to get screwed by them before you realize it?”

You and your brother looked at each other for a long time. The rest of the room watched as the two of you seemed to have a conversation none of them could hear; the unspoken language of siblings who’d been to hell and back together.

After a long moment, you turned your gaze toward Rafe.

“Do- do you know anything about this?” You asked him hesitantly.

His face fell. A series of emotions flashed across his features so quickly, you were sure you were the only one in the room who caught them all; surprise, betrayal, hurt, anger, and finally, back to his go-to: detached stoicism.

“That’s really what you think of me? That I’d do something like this?” His tone was even, his voice far away even though you were inches apart.

You knew you’d hurt him by even entertaining the idea that he’d betray you like this. But this ground was shaky, and you had been screwed over by Kooks your entire life. The trust you put in him did not come easy, and sometimes it wavered, even though he’d never given it any reason to.

Rafe’s jaw clenched when you didn’t answer. He nodded once, his lips twisting into the kind of smile that had absolutely no joy behind it.

“Unbelievable.” He muttered.

He took one last searing look around the room, twelve hateful eyes met him, and he didn’t look at your watery ones before turning and storming out of the house, the newly installed screen door banging shut behind him.

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Your knees were tucked all the way to your chest, your chin resting on them as you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to manufacture any sort of comfort. It wasn’t working.

The zone change notice sat on the bed in front of you. You read it over and over, as though if you just wanted it badly enough, the words would change into something less devastating.

You were going to lose your home. You’d probably lost the love of your life, before you could even tell him he was the love of your life. Your brother was one step from completely falling over the edge, the rocky path toward destruction that you’d pulled him back from your whole lives getting steeper by the minute. A few hours ago you were excitedly cleaning this room so you could show Rafe. How could so much change in so little time?

A knock at the door pulled you from your spiraling thoughts.

“Come in,” you said quietly.

The door creaked slightly despite it being brand new. Sarah tiptoed into the room gently, searching you for any signs of distress.

“Sar, you don’t have to knock to come into your own room,” you told her.

“I know, I just thought maybe you needed some space.”

You shook your head and scooted over on the bed to make space for her. She took your invitation with a smile and settled in next to you.

“So…how’s your day going?” She asked in a singy-songy voice.

You both erupted in bittersweet laughter.

“Oh y’know, I’ve had better.”

She nudged your arm with her elbow.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, you know.” She assured you.

“Is it though? I mean really, Sar, is it?” No laughter hung in the air now. “I mean, what if I just lost my home and my boyfriend? Or worse, what if I just lost my home to my boyfriend.”

“You really think Rafe would’ve done something like this?” She asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to. You heard him though, when I asked him about it, he didn’t deny it.”

Sarah sighed, a deep exhale that usually signaled she was about to say something she didn’t want to.

“What?” You prodded.

“Look, I’m not my brother’s biggest fan, you know that,” she began.

“Um yes, you’ve made that very clear,” you chuckled, thinking of all the times Sarah had warned you not to get involved with Rafe.

“But, just this one time, I’m going to…” She paused dramatically, her eyes screwed shut with reluctance. “...defend him.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Be honest, how hard was that for you to say?” You teased.

“I’m holding back vomit right now,” she laughed.

“Well then defend him quickly before you yack on my bed.”

“Okay, I just,” she paused to consider her words carefully. “I know you know Rafe really well. I mean you’re the only one he’s ever really let in, so you probably know him better than anyone. But I’ve known him longer than anyone. I’ve seen every version of him. I knew Rafe before he met you, and now I know him after he met you, and believe me when I tell you, those two are not the same guy. As cliche as it sounds, you changed him.”

You sat in silence, letting the words settle over you, surprised by how emotional they were making you. You willed the tears forming in your eyes not to fall.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a dick,” Sarah added. You were grateful for a reason to laugh before you started crying. “But he’s not the same. There was a time where I’d say ‘absolutely, Rafe definitely did this just to screw us over,’ but not anymore. Not since he fell in love with you.”

You looked up in surprise, the tears at your lash line threatening to finally spill over.

“You think he loves me?”

“Girl, be so for real. That man has never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. Believe me, he’s yours.”

Your heart skipped, and the tears finally fell. You rose from the bed so suddenly, Sarah almost fell back onto the mattress. You didn’t know what had taken over you, just that you needed to go, now. Everything in you was being pulled toward him, like sand being dragged back out to sea by the tide. If you spent one more minute of your life without him knowing what you were so certain of now, you might not make it.

Sarah smiled at you, she read it all over your face.

“Go!” She urged.

“Love you!” You shouted over your shoulder as you raced out of your bedroom.

“Love you too, you freak,” she smiled to herself, knowing you were already long gone.

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Where could he have gone? Your mind flipped through all the possibilities as you ran across the lawn toward the dock. JJ would probably be pissed that you took The Snapper without asking first, but didn’t even care about that right now. You just needed to find Rafe.

You didn’t have to search for long.

As soon as your feet hit the wooden dock, they stopped in their tracks.

At the end of the pier sat Rafe’s boat bobbing in the water. The long figure of your boyfriend leaned over the bow. You watched with a big, bright smile as he untied the line, then retied it, then untied it, and retied it once more. He was clearly having a silent disagreement with himself. All that mattered to you was that he hadn’t left.

You approached slowly, avoiding the planks in the dock you knew would creak and give away your presence. The closer you got to him, the faster your heart beat. The words you were dying to say sat perched at the end of your tongue, you knew they wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer.

Half way through untying the boat again, Rafe stopped and sighed.

“Need a push?” You said.

His eyes shot up to yours, startled. Tension filled his shoulders as he took you in, his shock quickly fading to something softer, yet still unsure.

“That depends,” he squinted in the sun to see you better.

God, he was gorgeous. You could not let him get away.

“Depends on what?” You played along.

“If my girlfriend will forgive me for being a dismissive prick,” he said.

You forced your lips not to twist into a smile, pretending to consider his words.

“I think she might. If you forgive her first,” you said.

His eyes softened, lips twitching. You were both failing not to smile at each other now.

Rafe finally tied up the boat for good, hopping up onto the dock. You admired every movement of his body as it drew closer to yours. When he reached you, he placed his hands on your waist, your arms drawing up to wrap around his neck, stretching up on your tiptoes to get as close to him as possible.

“She has nothing to apologize for. The only home she’s ever known is being threatened. She’s just scared. I get that.”

Every word fanned over you like a soft summer breeze. Your heart warmed, impossibly full despite all the anxieties today had brought. He just got you, he understood without you having to say it. This must be the closest two people can get to making magic, you thought.

“Thank you,” you let your head fall forward to rest on his chest. He kissed the top of your head.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he whispered into your hair.

You looked back up at him, shaking your head.

“How is everything gonna be okay, Rafe? What if there really is nothing we can do? I mean, who’s even behind this?”

Rafe didn’t answer, but one name popped into his mind. Even with his suspicions, he didn’t know if he could help you. Helplessness was the feeling he despised more than any other, especially when it came to you.

“I don’t know,” he said, his heart breaking at the despairing look on your face. “But you’ve still got me. You could always move into the condo with me, like I’ve been begging you for months.”

“Can I bring my friends with me?” You scrunched up your nose, hoping he’d find you cute enough to say yes.

“I love you, but there’s no way in hell…”

A bolt of lightning shot through you, goosebumps erupting over your entire body. Did he really just say…?

He instantly read the shock on your face, but there was no look of regret on his.

“What? Haven’t I said I love you before?”

“Umm, no, I think I would’ve remembered that!” You couldn’t help the big, goofy grin taking over your whole face.

“Oh, well that’s weird,” he shrugged, his hands sliding from your waist to your lower back, wrapping his strong arms around you and lifting you off your feet. “Because I do love you, so fucking much.”

You yelped as he lifted you into the air, head falling back in laughter as he almost tumbled you both off the dock in his effort to sweep you off your feet.

You looked down at him and he lowered you slowly, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, arms still wrapped around each other like you’d never let go. You stood there embracing for a long time, so long that the sun was starting to set, casting a golden shimmer across the water.

Finally you said, “I never gave you the grand tour.”

“And I was really looking forward to seeing your crib,” he teased, his lips brushing against the skin of your neck when he talked.

“Well, c’mon then.” You grabbed his hand, leading him back toward the house, both of you buzzing with the excitement that there was something much better than a tour waiting for you inside.

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“...And this is John B and JJ’s room,” you opened the door only a crack, afraid to unleash the stench that permanently filled the space. “They insisted on getting bunk beds even though they’re, like, forty. And Pope insisted on having his own room because, as he said, ‘JJ is a walking biohazard.’ Which is…fair.”

Rafe was just watching you with adoration as you showed him around the house. He was barely looking at the rooms you were showing him because he was so focused on the way you glowed with joy. It was true that he wanted you to move to Bayline with him, it was his life’s goal to get you there, actually, but he had to admit that you seemed like you really belonged here. He’d never seen you look more at home.

“And this is our gallery wall.” You gestured to the display of framed photographs hanging in the upstairs hallway.

Rafe surveyed them dutifully with his hands tucked politely behind his back, like an old man in an art museum. Most of the photographs were of you and the pogues at various times in your life. Out fishing in the marsh, riding dirt bikes, post-surf at the beach. You admired the way Rafe was looking so intently and resisting the urge to grimace at so many photos of you with his once sworn enemies.

He explored the wall, eyes lingering on any photo of you a little longer than the rest. The hall continued to lead down toward your bedroom. At the very end, in a high corner, just above a series of photo booth pictures you’d taken with Sarah and Kie last summer, hung a delicate circular frame featuring a worn-out picture almost too small to see. Rafe leaned in for a better look.

In the photo, which was a tad faded and clearly taken several years ago, was a young guy, probably about 30, holding two young kids on his lap. The slightly bigger one, a boy, held up a trout he’d just caught, flashing a toothless grin. The little girl beamed at the man holding her.

It took Rafe a moment, but when he felt your weight shift next to him uncomfortably, he put it all together. The photo was you, JJ, and Luke. Probably the only one you had. And despite everything Luke had put you through, you’d hung it on the wall to see everyday.

Rafe turned to you, you were looking down at your feet, toes digging anxiously into the rug. His heart ached. If anyone knew what it was like to have a complicated relationship with their father, it was him. The fact that you’d still given Luke some dignity in this house he almost destroyed so many times said so much about you, and reminded him why he loved you so much.

“You wanna show me your room now?” He asked gently.

You looked up at him with glassy eyes and a small smile, “yeah.”

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The door clicked closed softly. Rafe took in the room, immediately identifying which bed was yours and which bed (the messy, half-made one) was his sister’s.

“Sarah doesn’t spend much time in here,” you admitted.

“No?” He asked, keeping his eyes off of you, the closed door suddenly adding a nervous energy to the room he wasn’t expecting.

“She mainly sleeps with John B.” Rafe grimaced, you hurried to reassure him. “Like, in his bed I mean, or his bunk I guess. Not, like sleep with him sleep with him, although I’m sure there’s plenty of that -”

“I’m literally begging you to stop talking,” he said, his eyes finding the ceiling, no doubt trying to erase the mental picture you just created for him.

“Sorry,” you chuckled.

Rafe wandered around the room some more, taking in all your decorations. He never understood why someone could collect so many knick-knacks that seemed to be worth nothing, but there was something endearing about it that drew him to you even more. Just another in a long line of things that would annoy him with someone else, but enchanted him with you.

As your time alone in the room dragged on, the air became tenser. You felt yourself watching him, but unable to move, back pressed up against the door, frozen in anticipation.

You and Rafe had been alone together before - and you had been together before - but something had shifted out on that dock. Something that you knew you couldn’t take back, and didn’t want to. In fact, you only wanted to solidify it more.

“Rafe,” you said softly, finally pulling his attention away from your decor.

He looked up at you expectantly, like he had been waiting for you to give him permission to. He didn’t respond, just walked slowly toward you, his eyes on yours the whole way. Your heart was beating out of your chest.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” you said, trying to laugh to break the tension, though the sound came out more like a hiccup.

“Has something changed?” He wondered aloud.

“Yeah, I guess it has.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “Because today I realized two important things.”

“What two things?” He asked, surprised, and a little alarmed, by your answer.

“The first is that this is my home, and that in a way, it will always be my home. And yet at the same time, I also realized that you’re my future, and I love you.”

Rafe’s smile spread slowly, like he was taking in each word one at a time. His blue eyes sparkled - like actually sparkled - with joy. Maybe you were imagining it, but it didn’t matter, you just wanted him to keep looking at you like that.

“Oh you love me, huh?” His voice was low and dangerous, he stepped closer until he was towering over you.

“Yeah, haven’t I said that before?” You echoed his words from earlier back to him.

He just shook his head at you, tucking his tongue in the corner of his cheek to try and tame his smile. His hands found your waist like they were made to fit there. His voice carried down to your very core as he leaned in.

“You know you can’t take it back now, right?”

“Why would I take it back? I mean it, Rafe, with everything I have. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And he showed you. His body enveloping yours as he backed you up against the door and kissed you deeply. A whole new energy between you now, your need and your affection for each other stronger than ever.

Before you could get carried away, footsteps on the stairs reminded you of a very crucial step of bringing your boyfriend home.

“Wait, hold on.” You pulled away from Rafe and he frowned. His disappointment was so cute you were tempted to kiss the pout right off of him, but first you rummaged through a drawer in you and Sarah’s shared dresser.

“What is that?” Rafe asked when you pulled out a conch shell glued to a piece of twine.

“Just a little system Sarah and I have.” You winked at him, opening the door just a crack to hang the shell from the doorknob.

“Do I want to know?” Rafe asked.

“I don’t know, do you want to talk more about your sister’s love life, or work on ours?” You bit back your smile when he cringed at your words, suddenly realizing Sarah’s use for the shell with a shudder.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he said, before scooping you up and carrying you over his shoulder, just to drop you on the bed with a bounce.

“Yes, I am,” you smiled up at him.

And he showed you, over and over, just how lucky you were.

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It was different this time, more passionate, more intense, more everything. And when he held you after, whispering more I love you’s into your hair, and neck, and the side of your face, you knew it must’ve felt the same for him, too.

You laid tucked into his side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders so he could intertwine his fingers with yours as you both stared up at the ceiling in pure bliss.

You sighed a happy, airy sigh and nuzzled closer to him.

“You know I just mean for now, right?” You said.

He twisted his neck at what must’ve been an uncomfortable angle to try and see your face.

“You just love me for now?” He asked, incredulous.

“No, no!” You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say, this is just my home for now.”

“Oh, okay,” he rested his head back onto the pillow. “That’s better, I guess.”

You sat up, shuffling through the sheets so you could see him. You brought your legs up and sat criss cross on the bed next to him. Rafe lazily reached out a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear as he waited for the words he knew you were trying to formulate. He loved that you thought so hard before speaking, always determined to say what you mean. You loved that he waited to hear what you had to say, a patience he reserved almost exclusively for you.

“I know it must seem weird,” you began, “that I’m so attached to a place with so many bad memories. And I know you want me to live with you, and I want that too, eventually. But you have to understand, for so much of my life, it was just me and JJ. It was just us in this house. Even though a lot of it was us hiding from Luke or fending for ourselves when he didn’t come home for days at a time, there are good memories hidden in all the bad ones. Like, at the bottom of the stairs, there’s a spot where JJ and I accidentally ran our sled into the wall when we were stair-surfing. We covered it with chewed bubblegum and colored it in with marker, and Luke never noticed. Or in the kitchen, there’s tally marks under the countertop where we used to keep track of how many beers Luke had so we knew when it was time to go to John B’s for the night. And on the old dock, where our store is now, we made each other a pinky promise that someday we’d grow up and make something of ourselves and buy this house right out from under him. And we did it! And now, they’re just going to, what, take it away? Punish us for rising above the low expectations that they set for us? We were hurt here, yeah. But we also survived here. We did it together. I can’t leave that, or him, not now, not yet.”

Rafe drank in your words, and when tears came, he didn’t wipe them away or tell you to stop crying, he just let them fall. Let you feel what you needed to feel. His hand stayed firmly rested on your leg, there to hold only if you wanted it.

Through sobs you finally said, “this is our home, Rafe. We’re gonna lose our home.”

He’d heard enough. He stood from the bed quickly, pulling on his khakis and polo wordlessly.

“Where are you going?”

Rafe turned to look at you, saw the worry in your eyes and leaned over your bed so his face was level with yours. You would have been frightened by the steel in his eyes if you weren’t so excited by it.

“You asked me how it was going to be okay, right?” He said, voice low and tinged with danger.

You just nodded, unsure what to make of this sudden change in demeanor.

“It’s going to be okay because I’m going to make it okay.”

With that he stood and stalked toward the door, stopping to look at you one more time.

“Get some sleep, yeah? I’ll be back in a bit.”

You didn’t bother to ask where he was going, you knew he wasn’t going to tell you. When he had a plan like this, there was no slowing him down. Usually, his plans were self-serving. He was a strategist, like his father. Only now, it seemed, you were the beneficiary of his plot, and you weren’t sure what to expect.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂

It sure as hell wasn’t the doorbell ringing at two in the morning.

It had started to storm and the thunder was rumbling through the house. It took a few rings before you could even hear the doorbell over the sound of the rain. Sarah lay on one side of you, Kie on the other, Cleo at the foot of the bed. They’d come to comfort you after Rafe left and you all cried yourself to sleep talking about the future of Poguelandia.

You accidentally kicked Cleo when you got up, who then kicked Sarah, who reached over and hit Kie in the arm as if it was her fault. Everyone was awake now.

“Noise. Bad. Make it stop,” Sarah grumbled into her pillow.

“Hit me again and I’ll make you stop breathing,” Kie said, her threat a little deflated considering she made it with her eyes still closed.

The doorbell rang out again, in rapid succession this time, causing everyone to groan and cover their ears.

“Who the hell rings the doorbell at 2 a.m.?” Sarah whined.

“If it’s those goddamn Jehovah’s Witnesses again, I’m gonna shove their little pamphlet down their throats,” Cleo said.

“I’ll get it,” you said through a yawn.

“Wait, you’re gonna go alone?” Kie grabbed your hand to pull you back.

“What if you get murdered?” Sarah said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

Kie and Sarah both climbed out of bed with you, but Cleo didn’t budge.

“If you get murdered let me know,” she said, pulling the blankets tighter around her. “I will avenge you.”

Kie rolled her eyes and pulled the blankets off Cleo, Sarah grabbed her hand to drag her from the bed.

“You’re coming with us, babe,” Sarah said over Cleo’s protests. “And bring your knife.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂

Lightning struck somewhere across the marsh at the exact second the door flew open. You and all three girls, wrapped in your blankets and holding various kitchen utensils, screamed at the sight on the other side. A dark figure of a man stood on the front porch, too far from the light for anyone to make out his identity. Cleo stepped in front of you all with her knife wielded.

“Hey! You better show yourself or get lost,” she shouted at the figure.

As the man slowly made his way into the flickering porch light, you realized you recognized the broad curve of those shoulders, the slope of that neck.

“Rafe,” you whispered.

Just as you identified him, the porch light swept across his face, and all four of you gasped.

The same places on his face you’d laid gentle kisses just a few hours ago were now black and blue, except in the places they were bloody. And he wasn’t walking slowly toward the light, he was limping, barely able to stand. He leaned against the door frame, holding his right hand in his left, his knuckles were raw and wounded.

“Rafe!” You repeated, pushing past your friends to get to him. You tried to support his weight but you couldn’t manage it alone. Sarah came to his other side to help catch him as he stumbled forward.

Kie, however, took a defensive step backward, her arms crossed over her chest. Cleo kept her knife raised.

“Think you can put down the knife now, babe,” Sarah told her.

“You never know,” Cleo said, narrowing her eyes at Rafe.

“Cleo, look at him,” you scolded.

She gave Rafe a once over, finally determining he wasn’t a threat in this state.

“Let’s get him on the couch,” you told Sarah. “Quickly, before he falls.”

Cleo stepped away to allow you to walk Rafe further into the living room. Kie created more distance between herself and your bloodied house guest. You searched her face quickly, it was a mixture of alarm and defensiveness. You could see the decision as it was being made, you tried to stop her but you were too late.

“Kie, wait!”

But she was already running up the stairs, surely to wake the boys. There was no version of these circumstances that would be made better by your half-awake, hotheaded brother.

You and Sarah finally got Rafe on the couch. He leaned forward, grimacing in pain as he propped his head in his hands. You knelt in front of him, trying to find his eyes with yours.

“Rafe, baby, what happened? Are you okay? Please talk to me.”

You placed your hands on his legs, rubbing soothing circles, begging him to fill the silence with an explanation. You looked at Sarah with pure panic in your eyes, she looked back with concern. Whether it was for you or for her brother, you weren’t sure.

“Rafe, it’s okay, whatever it is, you can tell us,” she encouraged him.

You’d never been more thankful for your best friend. You knew how much it took for her to offer him comfort like that.

You reached up to cup Rafe’s cheek in your hand, touching gently so as to not worsen his pain.

“Please, baby, what happened?”

He finally looked at you, and your heart skipped a beat. You thought maybe he was going to confess something terrible, or else cry out in agony. But instead, he just smiled that soft, sleepy half-smile of his and placed his hand over top of yours, caressing your skin with his thumb.

“I made it okay,” he whispered to you.

Before you could react, footsteps thundered down the stairs behind you, the fury of their descent louder than the storm outside.

“What the hell is going on?” JJ bellowed.

“What are you doing here, Cameron?” Pope followed up.

John B rushed to Sarah’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Everything okay?” He asked the both of you.

“I don’t know,” you shook your head, rising to sit next to Rafe on the couch, slipping your hand into his. The sight only enraged JJ further.

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself and stop bleeding on our fucking couch, Rafe.” JJ barked.

“Jay, can’t you see he’s obviously hurt?” You snapped at your brother.

“Looks more like he did the hurting,” JJ replied.

“You don’t know that! You always assume the worst!” You yelled.

“Because he is the worst!” JJ yelled right back.

You stood in anger, ready to fight your own brother in defense of the man at your side. But Rafe grabbed your hand and pulled you back towards him, not lifting his head as he held you in place. His other hand reached into his back pocket, pulling out a piece of paper that had been folded to protect it from the rain.

Rafe looked up finally, but not at you, at JJ. He extended his arm to offer JJ the piece of paper.

JJ tiptoed over as if Rafe had somehow booby trapped the floorboards between them. You rolled your eyes at his dramatics.

With all eyes on him, and no sound but the storm outside, JJ unfolded the piece of paper. He read it for a long time. Like, a really long time. The little sister in you had to bite back a joke about his intellect, and you met eyes with Pope to see he was holding back the same comment. Even in this incredibly adult moment, you were kids together.

Finally, JJ looked up from the paper. Staring incredulously at Rafe.

“Is this for real?” JJ asked him, eyebrows raised.

Rafe just nodded, the movement causing the cut on his lip to open, making him wince in pain. You sat down beside him again, watching him anxiously for signs that he was hurt elsewhere.

JJ just stared at the two of you for a moment before turning and leaving the room, dropping the piece of paper on the coffee table as he left. Pope and John B went to it immediately to read what had caused JJ to storm out, but you didn’t even care at this point, all that mattered was Rafe being okay, you needed him to be okay.

Except, JJ hadn’t stormed out. He had only gone to the kitchen, from which he was now returning, a bottle of whiskey and a bag of frozen peas in hand. He offered both to Rafe, Rafe opted for the whiskey. He twisted open the cap and took a sip, wincing as it went down.

You grabbed the peas from your brother, holding them up to Rafe’s black eye. He flinched at the contact but settled after a minute. JJ watched as Rafe placed his hand on your leg gratefully and handed back the bottle of whiskey.

“What’s the bourbon for? Drowning our sorrows?” Cleo asked.

“No,” John B said, he and Pope looking up from the paper with disbelieving grins. “Celebrating.”

“What does it say?” Kie asked, stepping further into the room, though she continued to eye Rafe like he was a wild animal that could go feral at any minute.

“We got the land back. They’re not rezoning,” Pope explained. “We’re keeping Poguelandia.”

The room froze for a minute, then erupted in a burst of hoots and hollers. Finally, the storm had some noise to compete with. The others hugged and cheered. Sarah rose from the couch and threw herself into John B’s arms.

“How’d you do it, man?” John B asked Rafe.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rafe said, squeezing your leg three times. “I just took care of it, okay?”

He sounded aggressive, like he always did when addressing these six people, but you saw this for what it really was - a peace offering. A grand gesture. A declaration of his love for you. He gave you your home back, he gave you everything.

As the others continued to celebrate, the volume in the house reaching new heights as they passed around the bottle of whiskey and toasted Poguelandia, you leaned into Rafe, your chin tucked into his shoulder so you could whisper something in his ear.

He smiled at your words, raising his arm to wrap around your shoulders and curling you toward him so he could bring his lips to your temple.

“I love you, too.”

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a/n: had to come out of retirement for this one, missed my boy too much. and holy shit did I have fun writing for rafey again. also this is as canon as I'll write Rafe lol

oh, and what did rafe have to do to get Poguelandia back? That stays between me and him xoxo

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darkbluekies · 21 days ago

Text

Countryside getaway

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: Silas has decided that the two of you should spend some time together, far away from his world, and you get to experience each other's real sides. No fear, no worries.

Warnings: mentions of crimes, mentions of murder, Silas dirty minded humor, but overall a softer oneshot

Word count: 2.3k

No one knows where you're going. Not even you. He has one hand on the steeringwheel, the other one holds your thigh.

He's wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tattoos on his arms.

“Keep your eyes on the road, map reader, or we'll never get there”, Silas says, giving you a teasing look.

“You have a GPS”, you mutter and turn your head more comfortably against the pillow.

“My GPS does not have your voice.”

“I don't even know where we're going.”

“You don't have to. Just read the directions.”

“How much further do we have to go? We've been sitting here for hours …”

“I did not know I had brought a child with me. I've planned something romantic and you're just complaining.” He caresses your thigh with his thumb, chuckling. “One more hour, little thing. That good enough for you?”

You groan and hide your face in the pillow and he laughs. He's different like this, when he's not surrounded by his men. When he's not in that space. Here, in his sports car with just the two of you, he's different. Softer. Human. It loosens your walls too.

“So whiny”, he chuckles. “Slept bad?”

“Don't kid”, you mutter and make yourself comfortable against the pillow again.

“Maybe we both need this. I need a break and you need to be able to sleep. Can't do that at home, can you?”

No, you can't. Not when he comes home in the middle of the night, bloody and roughed up. At home, you wake to every little sound with your heart beating in your chest.

“You know”, Silas starts, “its important to do this. To get away. Especially in my industry. Otherwise you get consumed.”

“Will SIC be able to handle things?”

“He has no choice.”

“Are you really okay to go by yourself? You’re recognizable.”

“Darling, they can't do anything. Thankfully, the law is strict and as long as there is no evidence connecting me to something they can't actually take me. They can suspect me, but never catch me. I'm fine.” He smirks, glancing at you. “Why? You're worried?”

You give him a glare and turn your head out the window.

“I'll break that facade down, Y/N”, he smiles and leans back in his seat. “We have four days all to ourselves. And I'll make the most of it.” His smirk deepens. “With no one around … I can take you just however I want to, whenever. And if I'm not wrong, SIC said that the house is remote. You can be as loud as you want.”

You slap his shoulder.

“Ouch, I'm driving here”, he chuckles. “Mind your hands?”

“Focus on your driving then.”

“How can I when you're sitting right here?”

His free hand on your thigh squeezes ever so slightly. You stare at him, contemplating opening the door and throwing yourself out on the highway.

The car has since long ago pulled in on a gravel road with no cars. Red flowers cover the fields around you, and for a second you're sure he has orchestrated it.

The house is smaller than Silas's house back in the city, less modern.

“Jump out, little thing”, he says as he unbuckles himself. “We're here.”

You stretch, legs wobbly from hours of sitting down. Silas unlocks the trunk and carries your bags inside. You stand in the middle of the gravel driveway, looking around and listening to the absolute lack of noise.

“Are you coming or what?” Silas asks from the front door. “Don't be slow or I'll carry you too. No gentler than these bags.”

You hurry after him. He smirks.

It's not hard finding the bedroom. A note lay in the bedding. Silas picks it up and scoffs at the familiar handwriting.

“Be nice to the bed, it's old, you break if you pay for it — SIC.”

“That son of a bitch”, Silas chuckles and turns to you, showing the note. “Seems like he read my mind.”

“You are kind of predictable”, you say.

Silas starts to walk towards you, backing you up against the nearest wall, wearing a soft smirk. “Me? Predictable? If I was predictable I wouldn't be a crime organization leader, my dumb little Y/N.”

You shrug. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, you’re good at saying things.” His hand sneaks up to your jaw. “How about you put your poor mouth to other uses for once? I know a pair of lips that would die to meet them.”

His cheesiness makes you scoff out a small smile, enough for him to close the distance. Ever since you’ve forced him to start using lip balm, his mouth is soft when it moves against yours. You sigh out and he swallows the sound in a greedy inhale. He holds you close, one hand on your back, the other on your jaw.

“Silas, you’ll bruise my lips”, you chuckle and try to turn your head away.

“Let me”, he breathes and directs you right back to his mouth.

And he does. He doesn’t half-ass things. He pulls back with proudness in his eyes.

“Let’s go shopping now.”

“Shopping?”

“We need food. Can’t just live off each other, unfortunately.”

He grabs your hand and leads you back out to the black sports car and you’re once again put on map reader duty to find the nearest grocery store. You can’t remember the last time you’ve actually grocery shopped with him. Normally, he sends out someone to buy things, and if he can’t trust anyone, he sends SIC. Just because Silas can’t be arrested, doesn’t mean he’s a hundred percent safe.

“Alright”, he mutters and grabs a cart. “Let’s pretend to be a normal couple.”

You can’t help but chuckle and he gives you a quick look.

“Let’s get this shitshow on the road, let’s go”, he mutters and nods at you to follow. “Don’t start running around or I’ll place you in the cart like a three year old. Okay, what do we need?”

“You need steak”, you joke.

“Damn right I do, but I get my steak from high quality butchers, I’ll get sick if I get it from a grocery store.”

“Aw, is your little tummy sensitive?” you ask, making sure it sounds more like “wittle”.

“Y/N, I’m warning you.”

His warning isn’t serious. Not now. Not like this. It only maks you smile.

“Are you going to be a brat all vacation just because you think I won’t do anything?” Silas asks behind you, pushing the cart into your back. “I did tell you we are remote, didn’t I?”

“Don't touch me or I'll scream.”

“Oh, you'll scream alright.”

“Silas!”

He chuckles, eyes softening. “I couldn't help it. You played that into my hands a bit too good to pass up on.”

“You’re so childish. Maybe you should tone it down on the threatening part if you don’t want more people staring at you. You don’t need to give them a reason to recognise you.”

Silas scoffs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. He enjoys this side of you way too much. He can only enjoy it in situations like this, far away from his world. When you're not scared of him.

“What's the budget?” you ask him.

“What?”

“The budget? You said to pretend to be a normal couple. Normal couples don't have your credit card.”

Silas groans audibly.

“I'm not compromising my money”, he says. “Stop messing around, grab what you want.”

You handle the actual shopping part while he pushes the cart behind you. People glance at him, if not for recognising him, then for his tattoos, but he pretends to be unaware.

“Little thing.”

“Hm?”

“Grab those.”

You follow where he nods. Chips. They fall into the cart. So do a lot of other things Silas usually doesn't buy.

“Might as well go for it now that SIC can't bully me”, he shrugs.

The cashier seems to recognise Silas, but she doesn't say anything. Silas is polite and wishes her a good day, as if he wasn't who she thought he was, before turning to you and grabbing the plastic bags.

Back at the house, he puts everything into the fridge and starts to cook right away.

“You’re not allowed to help”, he says and taps your forehead. “I want to actually eat tonight.”

“I can cook”, you insist.

“Yeah. Sure. How about you go and set the table while I handle the knives and the stove?”

“Fine.”

You do as you’re told, searching the drawers for cutlery and plates. He glances at you from time to time and can’t help but smile. Maybe this was what he wanted all along? To play family.

“It’s not often we get to do this”, he says as he plates the food. “Domestic things, I mean. Should enjoy it while we can. Oh, I saw a pool out in the backyard, by the way. I think we should try it out after dinner. I brought alcohol from back home.”

“Drinking and swimming doesn’t sound very safe.”

“Then you’ll just have to rescue me. They didn’t teach you life guard duty in swimming class?”

“Yes, but they didn’t prepare me to drag a man that weighs enough to crush a car.”

“So my workouts are working?” His grin widens as he takes a sip of his water. “Thank you, Y/N.”

Conversation die out for a moment, but Silas won’t let the night pass.

“So?” he says. “Don’t you have something to say?”

“What?” you ask.

“We don’t often get to just talk. Spew something out. Anything.”

You think for a moment. You usually have a lot of thoughts, but when put on the spot all seem to vanish.

“I like the food.”

Silas laughs. Actually laughs. You haven’t hard a genuine, carefree laugh from him in a long time. His back eyes curl into half moons.

“What?” you ask. “What is it?”

“You can say a million things and that’s what you choose to say?” he says. “That the food is good? I didn’t think I cooked that good food, enough for that to be the only thing you think of.”

“You put me on the spot, I just said the first thing that came to mind!”

“Try again, then.”

“Well … I … could really go for some alcohol right now.”

Silas smiles and rises from his chair. He disappears out of the room and returns with two bottles. One brandy, one red wine.

“Okay, your majesty”, he says. “Which fancies your taste buds?”

“Wine, probably. Fits better with dinner. You'll get brandy, I suspect?”

“You know me well.” He opens both bottles and pours. “I'm responsible for you, so it's my duty to make sure you don't get absolutely decked.”

“I thought I was the one that had to make sure you didn't fall face down in the pool?”

“Yeah, but let's be realistic for a second. I can hold my alcohol … you? Please.”

“Rude.”

“It is not rude if I'm stating facts, you just want to deny your incapable alcohol consumption.”

You take a sip of your wine and glare at him.

Silas jokingly suggests you both skinny dip. You shoot down the idea. He's a predator, taking your whole arm if you foolishly give him a finger. You'd like your body working for your getaway.

You're not sure what prompts him, the alcohol or his childishness, to jump into the pool like a bomb. Water splashes everywhere, both on your dry form and your towels, and he breaks the surface with a wide grin. He pushes his black hair back and swims over to the edge. His tattoos warp under the water.

“I’m wet now”, you say in a ‘matter of fact’ tone.

He looks up at you, squinting one eye full of water shut. “Yeah? Jump in then.”

You decide to get in slowly, but he has other plans. His hand grips your wrist and pulls you into the pool. You yelp, but never have a second to worry about inhaling water, because he holds you.

“So much drama for nothing”, Silas chuckles and wipes water out of your eyes. "I've got you.”

His tattooed arms half hug you, half cradle you as he sways back and forth in the water.

“Today”, you start, hesitant, “when we were at the grocery store, and people looked at you, and what you said before that … I started to think about something just now.”

“What?” he asks softly.

“What do I do if you're taken? Or killed?”

“That will never happen.”

“But what if it does?”

Silas sighs, arms around you tightening slightly.

“If I ever were to never come back home for whatever reasons”, he started slowly, “then SIC would follow the instructions I’ve told him.”

“What are those?”

“To get you far away from everything and everyone and keep you safe. You'd get a cute little house on the coast where you could live peacefully. You'd have my dog, and how many bodyguards it takes to replace me. SIC would be there too. He’d check up on you.”

“That sounds pretty lonely.”

“What? Are you planning to become the Great Gatsby after I disappear?”

He caresses your face with a wet hand.

“I have money put away for you in case anything happens”, he promises and rolls his eyes. “And I might have made a deal with the devil to get you new papers in case something happens.”

“Who?”

“The parasite I'm unfortunately to call brother.”

“Ares?”

“Don't say his name. Let's drop this now. I don't want to think about it. Especially since it won't happen.”

The entire wine bottle is empty once the two of you get out of the pool and head to bed. Silas wears a dark Grey hoodie and sweatpants, insisting you wear comfy clothes too. He thinks it is better for cuddles. You're wrapped in his hoodie covered arms, face pressed to his chest. You'll be damned if you try to get out of his arms any time before morning hours.

Somehow, you wish this little getaway could last forever. Life would be easier that way. Silas sighs out, unbeknownst thinking the exact same thing.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc x you #yandere mafia #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere oneshot #soft yandere

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seumyo · 4 months ago

Text

how easy it would be to forge itoshi rin’s signature.

“What’re you doing?”

Rin sat on your bed, his back pressed against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. Your dorm was decent, neat in some areas, and cluttered in others—nothing too bad to the point where it was concerning. The desk was stacked with books and loose papers, a mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the little kitchen counter, and the walls were decorated with a mix of posters that he remembered you saying that you liked, candid polaroids, and lots of memorabilia.

You sat cross-legged beside him, practically bouncing as you shoved your scrapbook into his lap, your excitement bubbling over like always. Rin had long since learned that when you got like this, there was no stopping you—only surviving.

Surviving meant just going with whatever it is that you wanted.

“You have to sign this page,” you said, pointing eagerly at a newly decorated spread.

“It’s for today, so I don’t forget it.”

Rin glanced down.

The page was filled with doodles—some of him, some of a soccer ball, and what seemed to be a very lopsided drawing of a goalpost. You’d also glued a small Polaroid of you two together from earlier, where you had ambushed him for a selfie after his practice.

Without a word, he picked up the pen (a glittery navy blue one, if he may add) you handed him and flipped to the empty space at the bottom of the page. He’d done this enough times that he didn’t need to think about it. With fluid, precise strokes, he wrote his full name: Itoshi Rin.

No embellishments, no fancy loops, just his name.

As soon as he finished, you leaned over to inspect it.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“That’s it?” you asked, tilting your head.

Rin frowned. “What?”

“I mean…” You pursed your lips, squinting at his handwriting like you were analyzing a piece of evidence. “Your signature is so simple. I could probably forge it.”

Rin immediately shot you a warning look, as if already giving you an internal monologue. “Don’t.”

“But it’s so easy,” you said, dragging out the last word as you grinned. “Like, I could totally get away with it.”

He sighed, running a hand down his face.

“Why would you want to?”

“Well,” you hummed, tapping your chin in exaggerated thought. “What if I need to sign something important on your behalf? Like, let’s say you’re too busy being a famous soccer player, and I need to approve some official documents for you.”

“You don’t.”

“But what if?” You smiled, leaning closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What if a brand deal needs your signature, and you’re not around, and the deadline is right now? I could save the day.”

“You’d get arrested for fraud.”

“Would I, though?” You poked his arm, and Rin shrugged with a quick, quiet sigh. “Because I’m pretty sure your manager would just be like, ‘Wow, what a responsible lover! Always taking care of Rin!’”

Rin’s face fell flat.

“No, they’d be like, ‘Wow, what a criminal. Get them arrested immediately.’”

You laughed, completely unbothered. “Okay, fine, I won’t forge your signature for business deals. But, hypothetically speaking, what if I had to? Like, say I get kidnapped—”

Rin groaned, already regretting engaging in this conversation.

“Why are you kidnapped now?”

“Because!” You gestured dramatically.

“Some rival team wants to use me as leverage against you. They tell me, ‘If Rin doesn’t throw his next match, we’ll make you disappear!’”

He let out a slow breath. “Then I’d just find you.”

“Oh?” You awed, tilting your head. “You’d come rescue me?”

Rin didn’t even hesitate.

Why would he?

“Obviously.”

For a brief moment, you paused, your playful demeanor faltering as you stared at him. Then, just as quickly, you shook off the thought and cheekily smiled.

“Okay, okay, new scenario,” you continued. “What if you get kidnapped—”

“Why am I getting kidnapped now?”

“Because you’re Rin Itoshi! Maybe some crazy fan takes you hostage, or a rival team wants to sabotage you, or, I don’t know, some billionaire wants to add you to their private collection of elite soccer players.”

“That’s not how people work.”

“Well, whatever the reason,” you said, waving a hand, “you’re held captive, and they demand that you sign a fake retirement letter so you can never play soccer again. But! You refuse because you’re stubborn, so they bring me in and tell me, ‘Forge his signature, or else!’”

Rin leaned his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes. He could feel you draping your legs over his, and he made no move to try to move them away. “I hate that you put this much thought into these things.”

“Come on, it’s fun.”

“No, it’s exhausting.”

“Well, since you refuse to make your signature harder to copy, you better hope no one actually tries to forge it.”

He cracked an eye open to give you a skeptical look. “Are you planning to?”

You gasped, placing a hand over your heart like he had just accused you of the worst crime imaginable. “Me? Your beloved? I would never commit fraud against you.”

Rin didn’t look convinced.

“Okay, okay,” you relented, leaning back against the pillows. “I won’t forge your signature. But you should really think about making it cooler. Maybe add a little flourish?”

“No.”

“An underline?”

“No.”

“A small soccer ball doodle at the end?”

“No.”

You pouted. “You have no fun.”

“And you have too much.”

You laughed again before turning your attention back to the scrapbook. Running a finger over his signature, you muttered, “Still, I bet I could copy it.”

Rin reached over and flicked your forehead.

“Ow!” You swatted at him, though there was no real force behind it.

He clicked his tongue, though softly. “Try it, and I’ll make sure you never get to hold my autograph again.”

You gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

You huffed before flopping onto your stomach, burying your face into the bed. “You’re so mean.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

Rin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for your scrapbook, flipping through the pages filled with their memories. His name was already scrawled across several of them, marking the proof of your time together.

“Next time,” you said, peeking at him, “I’m making you sign in cursive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No.”

“Just wait and see, Rin. I’ll wear you down eventually.”

Rin exhaled slowly. If it were anyone else, he would have dismissed the idea entirely. But this was you. If there was one thing he had learned about you, it was that you were relentless.

And, somehow, he didn’t really mind.

1K notes · View notes

cameronsbabydoll · 22 days ago

Text

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS — invasion of privacy, diary-reading without consent, possessive male POV, inner obsession, implied virginity, age gap dynamics, inappropriate fantasies, minor delusion/grooming-adjacent thoughts, manipulation (anything italicized is what’s written in the diary!)

You didn’t even realize you’d dropped it.

That’s the funniest part. Funniest to him, at least.

You were walking too fast across the courtyard. Flustered again. Maybe it was because Rafe had called you sweetheart with that slow drawl, lingering on the “s,” right in front of three privates. You stammered through a hello, eyes darting everywhere but him, clutching your bag like a shield.

He watched you walk off.

And then he saw it — a slim pink notebook, barely thicker than a pamphlet, slipped from your tote and dropped behind you like a breadcrumb.

You didn’t hear it. Didn’t turn around.

Just kept walking.

So now it’s his.

He finds it ten seconds later, thumb brushing the soft cover like it might burn. You’d doodled a little sun in the corner. One of the loops is dotted with a heart. The name you wrote inside?

First name only. Bubbly handwriting. Like a schoolgirl.

He flips to the first page and grins.

“Summer Goals ☀️💕”

— swim more

— read 5 books

— learn how to french braid my hair

— kiss someone (REAL kiss!)

— fall in love

— try wine or beer!

— say no without feeling bad

— be brave

Rafe lets out a low breath. One part humor. One part something else.

God, you’re even softer than he thought.

You want to fall in love. Kiss someone. Try wine or beer.

He wonders if you think all those things will happen in one night. If you still believe in movie endings and fireworks and a guy showing up with flowers.

You’re doomed.

He flips further.

You’ve used it like a diary. You don’t date the pages. Just talk to yourself. Or maybe talk to someone. The kind of someone you wish existed. The kind of man who listens. The kind of man who stays.

“Saw him again today.

He called me sweetheart. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

He looks at me like he knows things I don’t. It makes me feel dumb. But also kind of… not dumb? Like I want to know what he knows?”

Rafe shifts on the bench.

His grip tightens.

You’re writing about him.

Not a crush. Not a passing observation. You feel something. He’s getting in your head already and you don’t even know it.

You’re still so fucking clueless.

He turns the page.

“My dad would kill me. If he knew what I was thinking…

It’s not even bad! I just. I don’t know.

I want someone to touch me.

Not like that!! I mean. Okay maybe like that. But not gross. Like… soft. Gentle.

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted.”

He leans back against the wall. The notebook drops into his lap.

It takes a full sixty seconds before he even breathes.

You’ve never even been touched. Not really.

You’re writing about your own fantasies like they’re foreign concepts. You don’t even know how it works. You’re scared of it. Confused. Hoping someone will take the guesswork out of it.

And Rafe? He’d do it without a fucking second thought.

But not soft. Not gentle.

He wants you ruined.

Wants you to forget every boy you ever dreamed about because he made you come harder than any of them ever could.

He wants to be your first. And only.

The next page pushes it further.

“I think he’s older. He must be. He looks like he’s seen a lot.

But I like that. I think I want that. Someone who can take care of me. Who already knows what he’s doing.

Someone who knows how to tell me what to do.”

He closes the notebook, fast. Like it’ll melt his palms if he doesn’t.

This isn’t about teasing anymore.

This isn’t even about baiting you.

This is about possession.

You already want the thing he planned to take.

He slides the book into his pocket. He’ll return it. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe after he reads it again.

Maybe after he’s jacked off to the words “tell me what to do” while moaning your name into his fist.

You knock on his office door the next morning.

He’s not surprised. You’re flustered. Lip bitten. Crimson on your cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, opening the door wider. “You look like you lost a puppy.”

You blink up at him, embarrassed. “I—I think I dropped my notebook yesterday. I was just wondering if…”

“Notebook, huh?”

He moves slowly to the desk. Opens a drawer.

Pulls it out with a casual shrug.

“This one?”

Your eyes light up. You nod, stepping forward to take it—but he doesn’t let go.

He watches you.

Tilts his head. Then slowly, very deliberately, presses it into your hands. His fingers brush your wrists.

“You should be more careful with your private thoughts, sweetheart,” he says low. “Never know who might be reading.”

You freeze.

He smiles.

And then he walks away.

You flip through it later. Nothing’s changed. Nothing missing.

But somehow… something feels different.

You can’t explain it.

The pages feel heavier. The air between your fingers charged. You catch yourself wondering—just for a second—if he meant something else. If he read—

No. No, he wouldn’t.

Would he?

That night, Rafe sits outside on the barrack steps.

His boots are dusty. His knuckles bruised. He smells like gasoline and aftershave and heat.

And he’s smiling.

Because you’re so, so clueless.

And he’s so, so patient.

But not for much longer.

798 notes · View notes

barnesonly · 1 month ago

Text

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 11,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, fingering, oral (f receiving).

Part 1 | Next Part

You never really cared about grades. Not in the way people expected you to, at least.

What you cared about—truly, deeply—was the work. The texture of language. The way a well-written sentence could hold you still like a breath trapped in your chest. You loved writing, even when it didn’t love you back. Even when you stared at the cursor blinking on a blank page for hours, waiting for some elusive thread of brilliance to pull from your brain.

So naturally, when you got to college, you threw yourself into literature like it was a religion. You took every reading-heavy course you could find, submitted essays like confessions. And at the center of it all—without meaning to, without quite realizing—was him.

Professor Barnes.

James Buchanan Barnes to be exact. Your English professor.

He was the kind of man people noticed. Not just because he was handsome—though he was, undeniably, in a way that made your stomach twist. There was something else. A quiet intensity. The way he spoke, like he wanted every word to matter. Like he loved the stories he taught with a kind of reverence that made you feel something.

You didn’t mean to stare at him in lectures. But you did. Sometimes you’d forget to take notes, just listening to the way his voice dipped low while quoting a line from The Waste Land, or the way he’d tap his fingers—ringless—against the edge of the lectern when he was thinking.

And at first, it was nothing.

Just a crush. Harmless. Everybody had one. He was hot and he liked books. So what?

But it didn’t stay harmless.

It wasn’t just that you thought about him too often. It was the way your heart tugged when he read your essays aloud to the class—not by name, but you always knew it was yours. It was the way he looked at you sometimes, like he saw you, beyond the student mask. It was the slow, creeping realization that it wasn’t just a fantasy. It was him.

The moment you realized it was bad?

It was a Tuesday.

You’d just handed in your midterm essay the week before—something about grief and memory in Mrs. Dalloway, which you’d poured a piece of your soul into without meaning to. You weren’t expecting anything back yet. Not really. He usually took his time marking.

But that day, at the end of the lecture, Professor Barnes stood behind the desk with a stack of papers in hand. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow—again—and the ink smudge on his thumb made your chest ache in a stupid, ridiculous way.

“Some of you handed in… surprisingly good work,” he said, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get used to me saying that.”

A few people laughed. You didn’t. You were too busy watching the way his eyes scanned the room—until they landed on you.

And then he said your name.

Like it meant something.

He held your paper out across the desk as you stepped forward. There were at least three people behind you, waiting to get theirs, but time moved weirdly slow. You reached out to take it—and his fingers brushed against yours.

Barely a second. A blink. But you felt it everywhere. Like heat crawling under your skin.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You mumbled something like “Thanks” and bolted back to your seat, heart pounding like you’d done something wrong.

You sat down, throat dry, fingers trembling slightly as you unfolded the paper. The front had his neat, tight handwriting in the corner: an A.

But it was the margins that ruined you.

Underlined passages, a few careful notes in blue ink.

“This line in particular—gorgeous imagery.”

“You really understand Clarissa. That’s rare.”

And, scribbled sideways along your final paragraph:

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

You stared at the words. You read them again. And again. Something bloomed in your chest—hot, sharp, a little terrifying because this wasn’t a silly little crush anymore. This wasn’t harmless.

This was the kind of thing that could burn you alive.

Now you were in class again. Third row, slightly to the left. The seat you always took, close enough to hear him clearly, far enough not to make it obvious.

Not that it helped.

Because the moment Professor Barnes started talking, everything else fell away.

He was walking back and forth now, quoting Heart of Darkness from memory like it was tattooed on his tongue. His voice—low, thoughtful, a little rough around the edges—seeped into you like warm honey. Every sentence he spoke felt deliberate, like he wasn’t just reciting, but feeling the words. Like he wanted you to feel them, too.

You stared at him. You shouldn’t, you knew that. You should’ve been taking notes, or at least pretending to. But it was hard to look away when he looked like that. Dark hair pushed back, strands falling loose over his brow. That perpetually rolled-up sleeves look like he just needed freedom for his hands—hands that moved while he talked, expressive and precise, like every thought had weight.

You wondered what those hands would feel like on your skin.

You blinked. Jesus.

Focus.

You looked down at your notebook, at the two words you’d scrawled nearly ten minutes ago: Existential dread.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

Because this wasn’t just a harmless crush anymore. This wasn’t butterflies. This was something else—deeper. Like longing. Like obsession. Like every inch of you was tuned to his voice, his movements, the way he smiled to himself when students actually engaged with him.

He laughed once—just once—and your heart actually fluttered. Like a goddamn cliché.

You weren’t even listening to what he was saying anymore. You were watching his mouth. His hands. The way he leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, shirt pulling tight across his shoulders.

It was insane. You were insane.

You bit your pen and tried to pretend your thighs weren’t pressed together.

He turned then, just briefly, his eyes scanning the room. And for the smallest second, you swore they landed on you. Held.

And then he smiled. It wasn’t directed at anyone. Not really.

But you felt it like a secret. Like a sin.

And you were so far gone, it almost felt holy.

You were still somewhere else—half in the lecture, half in your daydream—when the sound of his voice snapped you back to the present.

“So,” Professor Barnes said, closing his copy of the book with a quiet thud, “for those of you looking to earn a little extra credit, I’m assigning a supplementary essay. Optional. A close analysis of the text we just discussed. Two to three pages.”

A soft groan rolled through the room. A few students muttered under their breath. He smiled—just barely—and leaned his palms on the desk.

“It’s not mandatory,” he said. “But if you’re aiming for a higher final grade, this might help.”

He scanned the room again. A few hands went up. Maybe four. You didn’t think. You just lifted yours.

You felt your heart hammer as you did it, but you didn’t hesitate. If he gave you any reason to spend more time reading, writing, impressing him—you’d take it. You’d take it and run.

His eyes landed on you again. Just for a second.

He nodded, slow and deliberate.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll post the prompt later this evening.”

And then, like that, class was dismissed. A flurry of rustling paper and shuffling bags as students started rising from their seats.

But you stayed frozen for a moment, your hand already falling back into your lap, cheeks warm, notebook still open in front of you. You glanced down—your last note was a doodle of a heart you hadn’t even realized you were drawing.

Pathetic.

You began packing your things slowly, like you were in some kind of trance. You could hear his voice in your head. Good. Just that one word. Directed at the whole class, probably. But it felt aimed at you. Like it always did.

You glanced up again—he was talking to a student near the front, nodding, pointing at something in their book. He looked so natural in this space, like he belonged behind the desk, tucked into dim lecture hall lighting and surrounded by paper and ink and story.

You pretended to pack your bag longer than necessary. One strap, then the other. Notebook, water bottle, pen you never even used. You glanced up just in time to see the last few students trickle out of the room, footsteps echoing down the hall. He was still behind the desk, organizing his own materials—slow, methodical.

This was your chance.

To talk. To hear just a bit more from him.

Your heart was hammering again.

Now or never.

You walked down the steps toward him, every step feeling louder than it should. When you reached the front, he looked up—and God, why did his eyes do that?

That little flicker of recognition, the way his expression softened just a touch. It made your breath catch.

“Something you need?” he asked, calm as ever.

You nodded, gripping your notebook tight. “Yeah. Um—about the extra assignment. I just… wanted to ask if you had any specific direction in mind. Like, themes you’re hoping to see? Or…”

You trailed off, feeling ridiculous. You didn’t need clarification. You just wanted to hear him talk to you. Look at you like that again.

But he didn’t seem annoyed. If anything, his lips curved into something like amusement.

“I haven’t written the prompt yet,” he said. “But it’s not meant to trap you. I want to see how you interpret the material. That’s the whole point.”

You nodded again, trying not to look at his mouth when he spoke.

Then—he tilted his head, just slightly.

“I don’t think you need to worry,” he said. “You’re the best student I have.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m sure you’ll write something good. You always do.”

There was a pause. You looked up at him—really looked—and he held your gaze for a second longer than he should’ve. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But it was enough to make your stomach flip.

“I believe in you,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you just nodded. Tried to smile. It probably came out wrong.

“Thanks, Professor,” you said, voice a little too quiet.

His gaze dropped to your hands, still clutching your notebook. Then he looked away, back down at his papers, like he hadn’t just lit a match and handed it to you.

“Any time.”

You turned before you could say something stupid. Practically floated out of the room.

And for the rest of the day, all you could hear in your head was his voice, low and steady, saying:

“You’re the best student I have.”

“I believe in you.”

And God help you, it meant everything.

———

You were halfway through folding laundry—something you only did when absolutely everything else had been avoided—when the notification pinged on your phone.

New Post: Professor J. Barnes | ENGL304

Your heart jumped.

You dropped the shirt in your hands without a second thought, practically diving across the bed to grab your phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen for half a second before you tapped it open.

Supplementary Essay Prompt: Choose a moment in the text where the internal and external worlds of the character collide. Explore how the author uses language to blur the boundary between thought and reality.

Your breath caught. Your fingers were already tingling.

It wasn’t just the prompt—it was him. You could see him saying it, hear his voice in your head. That same calm confidence, that steady rhythm of words that always made your chest feel too tight.

You should’ve taken a second. Thought about it. Planned.

But no. You opened your laptop and pulled up a blank document like your life depended on it. Because in that moment, it kind of felt like it did.

You wrote like you were possessed.

The ideas poured out of you, fingers flying over the keyboard. You didn’t even stop to fix typos—you’d come back later. Right now, it was about chasing the feeling, the adrenaline high of getting it just right. You were quoting lines from memory, twisting them around your own analysis, embedding yourself into the essay like he’d told you to.

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

God. You wanted him to read this and feel something.

Time blurred. Your tea went cold. Your laundry sat untouched. The sky outside your dorm turned dark, but you barely noticed.

By the time you finally paused, the document was nearly three pages long, and your hands were cramping.

You stared at the screen, pulse still racing.

You hadn’t written something like that in a long time. Maybe ever. And the worst part—the most dangerous part—was that the first person you wanted to show it to was him.

Not for the grade. Not even for the praise.

Just to make him see you.

———

You barely slept.

By the time the sun started bleeding through the blinds of your dorm, the essay had been proofread four times, margins adjusted, formatting obsessively checked. Every sentence felt like it carried weight—your weight. You’d polished it until it shined.

When you printed it out that morning, the warm paper in your hands felt fragile. Like a secret. Like something that mattered more than it should.

All through class, it sat in your folder, untouched. You could barely focus, barely breathe. He was talking about poetry now—some devastating line about longing and missed moments—and you were sitting there with a whole damn confession tucked between your notebook pages.

When class ended, you didn’t leave with everyone else.

You waited until the last of the students filed out. Waited until it was quiet again, just the low hum of lights and the soft sound of him gathering his things.

You walked down the steps slowly.

He looked up as you approached, brows raising in faint surprise. His expression softened like it always did when he saw you—like you were something familiar. Something good.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth. “Need something?”

You swallowed. Carefully slid the stapled essay from your folder and held it out to him.

He reached for it—and your fingers brushed again, skin against skin, just for a second.

He blinked down at the paper, then back at you. “Already?”

You nodded, trying not to look too proud. Or too desperate.

“I, um… finished it last night,” you said. “I know it’s not due until the end of the week, but…”

His eyes scanned the front page. Your name. The title. His lips parted just slightly.

“You wrote this last night?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “After you posted the prompt.”

He looked at you for a long second. Really looked at you and then he let out a soft, almost stunned breath.

“I’m impressed,” he said. His voice had dropped lower. “Most students would’ve just added it to their to-do list.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your cheeks were hot. Your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

“I wanted to do it while the idea was fresh,” you mumbled.

He smiled. Not the polite kind. The real one—the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little.

“I’ll read it tonight and send the feedback on the class portal,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded, mouth suddenly dry. You were pretty sure you were about to black out.

“Thanks, Professor.”

He gave a small nod. “Have a good rest of your day.”

You turned, heart pounding, the edges of your vision almost fuzzy with adrenaline. The moment you got out you exhaled a breath you had no idea you’ve been holding.

———

You didn’t mean to start checking the portal that night.

You told yourself you weren’t that desperate. That you weren’t waiting on the edge of your seat like a lovesick idiot for a man who probably didn’t think twice after you left the room.

But still. Just after dinner—you peeked.

Nothing.

A couple hours later, again. Nothing.

Then again before bed.

And again in bed.

By the time the clock struck midnight, you’d refreshed the page more times than you could count, screen dimmed to its lowest setting, lying flat on your stomach with your chin pressed to the mattress and your heart pounding way too fast for someone checking a grade.

It wasn’t even about the points. Not really.

You just wanted to know what he thought. You wanted to see the words he would write in the margins, the tone he would use. You wanted to feel him reading it. Like somehow, through the feedback, you’d get a glimpse of his mind—of what you made him feel, even just for a moment.

You told yourself you were being dramatic.

But still, when you checked again the next morning, stomach in knots—

It was there.

You almost dropped your phone.

You opened it with shaky hands, eyes scanning too fast, breath catching before you even saw the score. Then you saw the comments.

“This is exceptional work.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Your insight is sharp, and your interpretation of the character’s interiority is more emotionally nuanced than what I usually see at this level.”

You blinked.

“You have a rare voice. Keep writing like this. Don’t hold back.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. And then, at the very end, written beneath your grade:

“You think deeply. It shows. I hope you know that’s rare.”

You stared at the screen for a long, long time. The words swam a little. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to cry or scream or curl up under your covers forever.

Because he hadn’t just read it.

He’d seen you. And now? You weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

———

You barely heard a word during the next class.

He was lecturing about the structure of unreliable narration—something you usually loved—but today? Your brain was mush. All you could think about was his voice in those damn margin notes. The way he’d written you have a rare voice. The way it sounded like a compliment and a confession all at once.

You didn’t look at him more than usual. At least, you told yourself that. You definitely weren’t staring at his hands while he gestured, or at the way his jaw flexed when he read a passage out loud, or how the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms.

Nope. Totally fine. Totally functioning.

By the time class ended, your pen had been frozen in your grip for at least fifteen minutes.

The students around you packed up their things, loud and casual. You moved slower. Not stalling. Just… composed. Careful.

You didn’t expect it when his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“Could I take a minute of your time?”

Your head snapped up. He was looking right at you. And it wasn’t the usual casual-professor look, either. It was steadier. Sharper.

Your stomach did a full flip.

“Sure,” you said, heart pounding.

He waited until the others were gone. The room emptied around you like it was routine now—just the two of you, a silence so heavy it hummed.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the edge of the desk, papers still in his hands, your printed essay resting neatly on top.

“I wanted to say this in person,” he began, voice low and even. “I meant every word of the feedback.”

You nodded, throat dry. “Thank you. That… meant a lot.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You have a voice most writers spend years trying to find. And you use it like you know something. Like you feel it before you write it.”

You swallowed hard. “I try to.”

He tapped his fingers lightly against the paper. “This isn’t just good for a student. It’s good, period.”

A pause.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

The way he said it—low, sincere—made your skin prickle.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you. Focused. Intense. Like he needed you to believe him.

“I… I think I am,” you said softly.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’d hate to see talent like this go to waste.”

Another pause. The silence was a little too long.

Then he blinked, like he was shaking something off. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

But it didn’t feel like just that.

You nodded. Gripped your bag too tightly.

“Thanks,” you murmured again.

As you turned to leave, you could feel him still watching you. And this time? You didn’t try to tell yourself it was just your imagination.

You stepped out of the building and the sun hit your face, but it didn’t register. Your hands were clammy. Your breath felt shallow.

You walked on autopilot.

One foot in front of the other. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. Wind pulling at your sleeves.

You couldn’t hear anything but him.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

That voice. That look. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even once.

It was just a compliment. Just praise. Just encouragement from a professor who cares about his students, right?

Right?

But your body didn’t believe that. Your chest was too tight. Your pulse kept rising in waves—like you were remembering something intimate, not academic. Like he’d touched you, even though he hadn’t. Not really. Not unless that one moment from a few days ago counted—the way your fingers brushed, the way his voice dipped when he said your name—

You blinked hard, trying to stop the flood of thoughts, but it was useless.

You’d gone overboard.

You knew that. It was a crush. That was all. A deep respect for someone brilliant and kind and… devastatingly handsome. Fine. So what if you’d fantasized a little. Everyone had a fantasy about a professor at some point, didn’t they?

But this wasn’t just a passing blush or an imaginary scenario you’d laugh off later.

This was… real.

And it felt dangerous.

You reached your dorm before you realized you’d walked the whole way without looking up. Your keys jingled like a warning as you fumbled them into the lock.

Inside, you dropped your bag. Collapsed onto your bed. Stared at the ceiling.

And when you finally closed your eyes, you didn’t see words on a page.

You saw him.

You saw the way he leaned on his desk. The way he looked at you like he meant every word he said. Like he saw something in you. Like maybe you weren’t imagining it at all.

Fuck.

———

The weekend nearly killed you.

It stretched on forever. Long, empty hours bloated with overthinking, every minute dragging its heels. You tried to distract yourself, tried to not reread his comments for the hundredth time, tried to not remember the way his voice wrapped around you like velvet, low and deliberate.

You failed, of course.

Every book you picked up made you think of him. Every sentence you tried to write dissolved into him.

You even caught yourself checking the class portal again—not for a grade, just to see if he’d posted anything. A new reading, a casual update, a breadcrumb.

Nothing.

By Sunday night, you were lying on your bed, wide awake, sick with anticipation. And when Monday morning finally came, it felt like surfacing after being underwater too long.

You barely registered the walk to class. Or the bodies shuffling into seats around you.

You just waited for him.

And when he walked in—tweed jacket, sleeves rolled, hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it too many times—you had to stop yourself from sighing out loud.

He greeted the class, the usual warm-but-firm tone, and started the lecture without ceremony. A discussion on characterization this time. You tried to listen. You really did.

But then—halfway through—his voice shifted.

“There was a line in one of the extra credit essays,” he said, “that struck me.”

Your heart stopped. Your head snapped up. You didn’t breathe.

He didn’t look at you. Not once. He just pulled a folded paper from his notes, cleared his throat, and read aloud:

“‘To want and to be wanted back—quietly, without performance or permission—is the loneliest kind of hope.’”

The words echoed in the room like a bell. Soft, sad, devastating. A few people hummed, clearly impressed.

You nearly sank through your chair.

“That,” he said, setting the paper down, “is an example of emotional precision. That kind of writing doesn’t come from talent alone. It comes from knowing what you’re talking about.”

He moved on after that. Smoothly. Professionally.

But you couldn’t hear a single word he said for the next fifteen minutes.

Because that line was yours.

He chose your words. Quoted them. In front of everyone.

And never once said your name.

But he didn’t have to.

Because when he read it aloud, he slowed down—just slightly. Let it hang in the air. Like it meant something more.

Like it meant everything.

———

After the lectures you made it back to your dorm in a daze.

Your legs moved automatically, your body going through the motions—door unlocked, shoes off, bag dropped—while your mind ran laps in circles.

His voice was still in your head.

That line. Your line. In his mouth.

And the way he read it aloud… like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t imagining all of it after all.

You sat down at your desk, heart still galloping. Opened your laptop. The blank document blinked back at you, waiting patiently.

You tried to focus. Tried to start something—anything. A short story. A paragraph. A line.

But nothing came out clean. Everything you wrote bled with him.

The way he looked at you when he said “I hope you know that’s rare.” The quiet authority in his voice. The pause before he moved on.

You blinked down at your screen and realized you’d written his name.

James.

You hit backspace like it had burned you. You buried your face in your hands and let out a groan of defeat.

That was when your roommate’s voice cut through the haze.

“Okay,” she said slowly, from the other side of the room. “I’ve let you spiral in peace for like… three days. But I’m asking now.”

You looked up.

She was sprawled on her bed with a book in hand, but she wasn’t reading anymore. She was watching you like a detective piecing something together.

“You good?” she asked. “Because you’ve been—sorry—weird as hell lately. And I’m trying to be chill but you’re kinda giving haunted Victorian woman who’s in love with a ghost and journaling about it nightly.”

You blinked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen? Like in class? Or is it a boy?”

Your breath hitched.

She squinted. “Oh my god.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

You groaned and fell back dramatically onto your mattress. “Please don’t look at me,” you said into your pillow. “I’m not okay.”

She snorted. “Clearly. Do you want to talk about it, or should I just keep making passive observations until you break?”

“…Just keep talking. I’m almost there.”

“Got it,” she said. “So. Whoever he is… you look like he read your diary out loud and then kissed your brain.”

You let out a muffled scream into the pillow.

She threw a pillow at your back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You stayed facedown on the bed for a full minute, motionless, trying to pretend you could melt into the mattress and disappear entirely.

Your roommate waited. Patient. Quiet, but unrelenting.

Eventually, you flipped over with a sigh, eyes to the ceiling. “Okay,” you muttered. “I’ll talk. Kind of.”

She sat up like she’d just won a prize. “Knew it.”

You stared at the ceiling a second longer. “It’s not… anything. Nothing happened. Nothing could happen.”

That got you a raised brow. “That’s how all great breakdowns start.”

You let out a small laugh. Hollow. “It’s just—I think I like someone. More than I should. And it’s… complicated.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “Complicated how?”

You paused.

How do you explain to your roommate from the same college that you have a crush on a Professor?

How do you explain that the person you’re obsessed with stands three feet away from you every week and looks at you like you’re made of lightning? That he said your words out loud like they were precious? That you see him in every sentence you try to write?

You blinked up at the ceiling, lips parted.

“…He’s older,” you said finally. “Smart. Confident. The kind of person who makes you want to be better without even trying.”

“Hot,” your roommate said knowingly.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

“I take it this isn’t someone you can just—ask out,” she added.

You gave a miserable laugh. “Not even close.”

“Right,” she said, sitting back. “So. A forbidden crush.”

“It’s more than that,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “It’s not just that he’s… beautiful. Or that I’m, like, physically gone for him.”

You paused, chest tight.

“I think he sees me,�� you whispered.

That silenced her. You could feel it—her shifting slightly, blinking slow, suddenly understanding the depth of this.

“Shit,” she said softly.

You smiled. Sad. Tired. “Yeah.”

———

It was later that night when you saw it.

You were curled up at your desk again, doing anything but concentrating. Notes open, highlighter in hand, but your brain was still stuck on him. On your roommate’s words echoing back at you. A forbidden crush.

You hadn’t checked your email in hours. You clicked into it on instinct—more to feel productive than anything else—and there it was.

Subject: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

Your pulse stuttered.

You stared at it for a long moment before you even opened it. Just the sight of his name—his full name—was enough to make your lungs tighten.

You clicked.

Hi, I just finished rereading your extra credit piece. I keep coming back to the line about “the loneliest kind of hope.” I’m curious—do you normally write personal pieces like that? Or was this a one-off? Either way, you have a voice worth nurturing. Don’t stop. —J. Barnes

You reread it five times.

I keep coming back to that line.

You had to press your thighs together beneath the desk. You were going to lose your mind.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling like it might give you answers, trying to breathe through the way that one question knocked the air from your chest.

Do you normally write personal pieces like that?

He was asking. Inviting. Gently. Carefully. Like he wanted more from you��your words, your mind, your insides.

You stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box for a full minute before typing:

Sometimes. That one came out all at once. I didn’t mean for it to be personal. But it was.

You stared at it, then added:

Thank you. That means more than I can say.

You didn’t sign it. You didn’t need to.

You hit send with a trembling hand and then you just sat there, waiting. Heart pounding.

Your inbox chimed.

You opened it so fast it was almost embarrassing.

Got it. Looking forward to seeing you in lecture tomorrow. —J.B.

That was it.

No comment on how personal it was. No follow-up question. Just that.

And yet somehow it made your skin feel too tight, like he was right behind you, saying it low into your neck.

The heat of it stayed with you all night.

You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t.

You just kept rereading those twelve words like they meant something more—like maybe, tomorrow, he’d look at you the way he wrote to you.

And if he did—

God help you.

———

The lecture hall was already half full when you slipped into your usual seat, nerves jangling in your chest like wind chimes in a storm. You told yourself to be normal. Be chill. Pretend this was just another class.

It wasn’t.

You felt it the moment he walked in. He didn’t look for you. Not at first. He dropped his leather bag by the desk, rolled up his sleeves, and started sorting through his notes. Casual. Unbothered. Like he hadn’t sent that email. Like he hadn’t singled you out with a line that still echoed in your ribcage.

And then he looked up.

His eyes found you instantly. It was only a second. Maybe two.

But it hit you.

The look. Low. Deliberate. Like he was checking if you’d seen the email. Like he wanted to see how it landed. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

You didn’t breathe until he looked away.

And then he spoke—cool, composed, voice smooth like water over stones.

You didn’t retain a word. You tried to. Really.

But every time he paced near your row, every time his hand brushed through his hair, every time he turned toward the whiteboard with that low, thoughtful hum—your mind lit up like a match.

By the time class ended, your pulse was a slow, burning ache in your throat You started packing up, hands shaking slightly, when his voice cut through the air.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?”

You.

Not someone.

Not a few of you.

Just you.

You froze. Looked up. He was watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that looked polite to anyone else—but to you? It felt like gravity.

You nodded slowly.

Your classmates filtered out one by one. Chatter, laughter, sneakers on tile. Then the door clicked shut behind the last of them.

He waited until the room was empty.

“You know… As I said the last time… You’ve got a gift,” he said quietly, leaning a little against the desk. “The kind that doesn’t come around often.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he added. “You’ve got instincts I can’t teach.”

You swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “But if you ever want to take on a few extra assignments—off the record, nothing for credit—I’d be happy to give you material. Just something to help you grow. Expand your style.”

You blinked. “I—really?” you said. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “I believe in you.”

That did it. That ruined you.

You nodded, barely holding it together. “Okay. Yeah. I’d… like that.”

His mouth twitched—just the ghost of a smile.

“I have office hours on Thursdays. Drop by anytime.”

He said it simply. Lightly, but his eyes held yours just a little too long.

You swallowed, pulse thudding in your neck.

“…Thank you,” you said softly. “I’ll be there.”

———

Thursday

You finished your last lectures early, but your heart had been racing since breakfast.

All day, you’d told yourself it was just office hours. Just a writing meeting. Just a professor offering support.

But your outfit said otherwise.

The black skirt had felt like an indulgence when you pulled it on. Not too short—just enough to ride up when you sat. The knee-high socks. Soft. Your favorite pair. And the sweater you chose had a neckline that technically counted as academic, but dipped just low enough to make you wonder if he’d notice.

Your coat went over it all, of course. You told yourself it was just because of the weather.

You kept checking the time. Fixing your hair. Touching your lips.

At one point, you even considered not going.

But then you thought of his voice.

“I believe in you.”

And that was that.

You walked across campus with your coat cinched tight, thighs already tingling from nerves. His building was quiet this time of day—long halls, soft echoes, your boots the only sound on the floor.

You reached his door and paused.

Office hours: Thursdays 3:30–5:00

Prof. J. Barnes

You checked your phone.

3:27.

Close enough.

You knocked.

His voice came from the other side. “Come in.”

You opened the door slowly.

He was at his desk, reading—his reading glasses on, sleeves rolled, jaw resting on his knuckles like some kind of literary daydream.

And when he looked up—

God.

That look.

A flicker of surprise. And then something else. Something slower. Deeper.

“Hi,” you said softly, stepping in and closing the door behind you.

“Hey,” he murmured, setting his papers down and taking the glasses off. “Didn’t think I’d see you this early.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Had a break between classes. Figured I’d stop by.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

Then his eyes dropped. Just for a second.

Skirt. The knee-high socks. Sweater.

And then back to your face, like nothing had happened.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk. “Let’s talk writing.”

You sat down, trying to look casual—crossed one leg over the other, smoothed your skirt out just enough to look natural, not like you were stalling for time. Your hands were cold. You pressed your thighs together to ground yourself.

He stood up, slow and unhurried, and reached into the stack of papers on his desk.

“I printed a few prompts for you,” he said, flipping through them. “Just exercises. Things to stretch your style a bit. Narrative voice, intimacy, sensory detail…”

You hummed some kind of agreement, but your heart was pounding too loud to think.

He found the one he wanted.

Then he moved.

He walked around the desk—behind you.

And then he leaned in.

He bent slightly, one hand bracing the desk beside your chair, the other holding the printout in front of you—and fuck, he was close.

You felt it before you even looked.

The heat of his body just barely grazing your back. His breath ghosting across your cheek. The way his sweater brushed your shoulder like he didn’t notice—or maybe he did.

“This one’s interesting,” he said, voice low by your ear. “Write a short piece in second person. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe a moment. Make the reader feel it.”

You could barely hear him.

Because all you could feel was him.

The warmth of his voice. The quiet scratch of his stubble. The scent of coffee and old paper and something darker, something sharp and male that made your stomach twist in heat.

He didn’t move away.

You stared at the paper, not taking in a single word.

He was still talking, still explaining—but your brain had gone soft. Liquid.

Your eyes tracked the paragraph at the top of the page, but all you could think about was how easy it would be to lean back just slightly. To tilt your head, to feel him against you—

“Think you can work with that?” he murmured.

Your lips parted. Your breath stuttered.

“Y-Yeah,” you said. “I… yeah.”

His hand lingered for one more second. And then he stepped back. Just like that. Like he hadn’t just undone you with his proximity alone.

“Take your time with it,” he said, settling back at his desk. “No deadline.”

You nodded, gripping the paper like it might float away otherwise.

But he was still watching you. And that look in his eyes said he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You made it out of his office.

Barely.

You didn’t even remember saying goodbye. Just some stammered “thank you” and a smile you couldn’t control—tight, awkward, desperate to seem unbothered.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

You walked fast. Your boots hit the tile harder than you meant them to. You didn’t breathe until you were out of the building and even then—it was shallow.

Your heart was hammering. Your face was flushed. And between your thighs, a slow, aching pulse had taken up residence, insistent and low, like your body was mocking you for pretending this was just academic.

You leaned against the nearest wall and closed your eyes.

His voice was still in your ear.

“Make the reader feel it.”

You could still feel him.

The brush of his sweater. The warmth of his chest behind you. His breath, low and smooth, brushing the shell of your ear like he’d said something filthy.

You pressed your thighs together.

It didn’t help.

You needed to do something. Walk. Call a friend. Throw yourself into traffic.

Instead, you pulled out the prompt he’d given you.

Second person.

A moment.

Make the reader feel it.

And all you could think was:

You can feel him behind you. You don’t move. You’re afraid if you move, you’ll do something you can’t undo.

You stared at the paper, your pulse thudding behind your eyes.

You were going to write this.

———

You made it back to your dorm.

Dropped your bag by the door, kicked your shoes off, ignored your roommate’s “hey, you okay?” from the other side of the room. You muttered something vague, shut your door, sat at your desk like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the Earth.

The prompt was still in your hand. You smoothed it out on the desk. Read it again.

Second person. A moment. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe. Make the reader feel it.

You opened your laptop. Opened a fresh document.

You weren’t going to make it about him.

You weren’t.

You were going to be neutral. Abstract. Maybe something about being in a crowd. Something literary. Polished.

Your fingers hovered over the keys.

Nothing.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

And then—like heat slipping down your spine—his voice came back. Low. Calm. Right next to your ear.

“Think you can work with that?”

Your hands moved before your brain caught up.

You feel his presence before he speaks. You don’t see him, not yet. But the air changes. The space behind you goes warm. Heavy. You pretend to read what’s in front of you, but you’ve forgotten the words. You’ve forgotten everything. Then his voice comes—low, deliberate, meant only for you. And suddenly you’re aware of every part of yourself. Your mouth. Your throat. Your thighs. The way your breath stutters and your hands twitch and you hope to god he doesn’t notice, even though some small part of you wants him to.

You froze. Your mouth was dry.

You hadn’t meant to write that.

You tried to steer it back—tried to fix it, smooth it out, make it sound less hungry—but it was no use.

The words kept coming.

And it was him. All of it. The desk, the breath, the sweater, the feeling of being looked at like he saw something in you.

You weren’t writing an exercise anymore.

You were writing a confession.

———

The next class passed in a blur.

You barely heard a word.

You tried, really—but his voice was like a siren’s call, and every time he turned to write on the board, every time he paused to take off his glasses, every time he looked at the class and let his eyes linger just long enough…

You lost your mind.

You held the printed pages in your folder like they were made of glass—carefully tucked between notes and old handouts, like hiding them there could somehow protect you from how exposed they made you feel.

When the lecture ended, students packed up. Loud chatter, chairs scraping, the usual rhythm.

You lingered. You always lingered now.

He was tidying his desk. Straightening papers. Tucking chalk into his pocket like it was something soft, something thoughtful.

You walked up slowly, your heart in your throat.

“Hey,” you said, almost too quiet.

His eyes lifted to yours.

And there it was again. That flicker.

Like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to—but didn’t mind.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

You slid the pages from your folder. Held them out to him.

“Just… the second person piece. The prompt you gave me.”

He reached for it—fingers brushing yours in that now-familiar way that made your pulse spike.

“You didn’t have to bring it today,” he said, glancing at the clock. “Still plenty of time.”

You shrugged, trying to seem light.

“I wanted to.”

He smiled—small, quiet. Like he liked that answer.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded.

But he didn’t look away. His fingers lingered on the edge of the paper. And then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“Second person’s tricky. It only works if it feels real.”

Your mouth went dry.

“It’s… pretty real,” you said. “I think.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. Then he tucked the pages into his folder. Neatly. Carefully. Like they were something worth saving.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, voice lower now. “What I think.”

You nodded again, then turned and walked out of the room—fast.

You didn’t breathe until you were halfway down the hall. You didn’t even realize you were smiling.

———

You didn’t sleep. God, you tried. You tried so fucking much but literally couldn’t.

Your brain was too loud—buzzing under your skin, humming with thoughts you couldn’t shake.

He said he’d read it. He said he was looking forward to it. And still…

Nothing.

You kept your phone next to your pillow. Woke up every hour to check it. Opened your laptop in the dark at 3am just in case he’d replied by email instead. You refreshed the page so many times the school’s server locked you out temporarily.

Nothing.

By morning, your chest hurt.

Last time, he’d responded so fast.

A message just before sunrise, margins full of praise. Little notes like: “this is exceptional work” and “your insight is sharp,” and “you have a rare voice.”

But now—silence.

You tried to be rational.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe he didn’t get a chance. Maybe he wanted to take his time.

But that part of your brain—the quiet, clawing part that knew exactly what you’d written between the lines—whispered something else.

You went too far.

He knows it was about him.

He read it and felt uncomfortable.

Disappointed.

Maybe he won’t speak to you again.

Maybe you ruined it.

You stared at your inbox.

The cursor blinked back at you.

Still nothing.

You sat there, wrapped in your blanket, the morning light slowly spilling through the blinds—and it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

Just waiting.

———

You thought about skipping.

Just once. Just this class. Just until the ache in your chest faded and the memory of what you’d written stopped clawing at the inside of your skull.

But your body moved on its own.

Because it was his class.

And no matter how sick or nervous you felt, you couldn’t stay away.

You walked in a few minutes early. Sat near the back. Not in your usual spot—not where he’d see you first.

He didn’t look at you when he entered.

Not once.

He started the lecture like nothing was different. Same tone. Same rhythm. A few light jokes, a few questions thrown out to the class. He even brought up second person again, said something about how intimacy could be built through subtlety.

And you could’ve sworn, for one blistering second, that his eyes flicked toward you.

But then they moved on. He never called on you. Never addressed you directly.

And by the time class ended, your chest felt hollow. You stayed frozen in your seat as students packed up, dragging bags and papers and noise around you, like you weren’t there at all.

Until you heard him speak.

“Could you stay a moment?”

You looked up.

His eyes were already on you.

Everything in your body screamed to run but your feet carried you forward, slowly, until you were at his desk again—like always.

He waited until the last student left. Then he sat on the edge of his desk. Crossed his arms. Looked at you.

Not angry. Not cold. Just… Careful.

“I read your piece.”

Your stomach flipped so hard it hurt. You nodded, eyes on the floor. “Okay.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You know I asked for a moment. Not a confession.”

You flinched.

It wasn’t cruel, not even sharp. Just honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence hang, heavy between you.

And then, his tone was softer. “It was good,” he said. “Really good.”

You looked up. His eyes were darker now. Not unreadable—but serious.

“That kind of writing takes… nerve,” he said. “A lot of people hide behind the exercise. You didn’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, voice too thin, too small.

“I know,” he said. “But I also know what it was.”

Your mouth was dry.

He stood up.

Walked around the desk, slowly, until he was standing beside you—close, but not too close.

“You’re my student,” he said, low. “This stays between us. Do you understand?”

You nodded, pulse loud in your ears. “Yes.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer.

Then—like a knife slipped under your ribs, deliberate and impossibly gentle:

“You should keep writing like that.”

He turned back to his desk. Pulled out a folder. Began sorting papers.

And you stood there, stunned, body humming like a live wire.

You didn’t know what any of it meant.

But you knew one thing for sure:

He didn’t want you to stop.

———

You were shaking the whole way home.

You didn’t even realize it until you dropped your bag on the floor of your dorm and your fingers missed the zipper. You had to sit down. Catch your breath.

The echo of his voice kept replaying in your head.

“I know what it was.”

“You should keep writing like that.”

Like what?

Honest?

Obsessed?

So turned on you couldn’t breathe?

You opened your laptop without thinking. Fingers moving before your brain could catch up. A new doc. A blank page.

And then—nothing.

You stared at it, your thighs pressing together, your pulse still high. You remembered the way he looked at you. The heat behind his eyes. The calm restraint in his voice.

You typed:

You shouldn’t want this.

Backspaced.

Typed again.

You feel his eyes before you see them. The way they linger. The way they burn.

Pause.

You swallowed hard and kept going.

He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown. You imagine what it would be like if he gave in. If he broke. You imagine it—how easily he could ruin you. How his hands would feel pressed between your thighs instead of paper and pages. How his mouth would sound gasping against your skin instead of quoting dead poets. If that voice of his sank low—not for the sake of analysis, but to whisper your name like a sin. And when you close your eyes at night, you let yourself beg for it. Let yourself ache. Because the thought of his discipline breaking is the sweetest torment you’ve ever known.

You stopped.

Chest rising too fast. Your thighs clenched so tight it almost hurt. Heat spreading beneath your skin like ink in water—bleeding, blooming, unavoidable.

You deleted the last paragraph. Tried again.

But everything that came out was worse. Dirtier. More desperate. Raw in a way that scared you.

And still— You couldn’t stop.

You rewrote it.

Because now every word felt like something he might read.

And maybe—maybe—he’d understand.

———

The classroom felt different now.

It wasn’t that anything had changed—he still walked in with the same ease, still set his notes on the desk like the weight of them mattered, still spoke with that velvet voice that made every line of literature sound like scripture.

But he kept looking at you. Not obvious. Never for too long. But enough.

Enough to make your chest tighten. Enough to make your fingers itch to write more.

You tried to focus. Really, you did. But it was impossible with the way his eyes flicked to you mid-sentence. The way he slowed just a little when reading a line about forbidden want, about restraint, about something unsaid.

You swore you stopped breathing when he said:

“Sometimes what’s not written on the page is more powerful than what is.”

And he looked straight at you.

Your thighs pressed together automatically.

When the class ended, you were already moving. You didn’t even think about it.

He didn’t ask you to stay this time—but you did. You walked straight up to him, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

He looked up when you approached, closing his folder slowly.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just pulled the paper from your bag—folded once, printed, still warm from your hand—and offered it to him.

“I wrote something,” you said quietly. “Again.”

His eyes dropped to the page. Then back to you. His jaw ticked. Slowly, he reached for it—his fingers brushing yours, warm and deliberate—and the way your pulse jumped didn’t go unnoticed.

His voice stayed low. “You wrote this last night?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“It wouldn’t let me sleep.” You added, softly.

Something flickered behind his eyes at that. A shadow of something deeper. Something not professional.

He took the page. Folded it once more. Slipped it into the folder with the rest of his notes.

Then he looked at you. Steady. Measured.

“I’ll read it,” he said.

You nodded, trying to swallow the way your pulse had picked up again.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His gaze lingered for a half second longer. Then he gave a small, polite nod.

“Have a good afternoon.”

And just like that—it was back to normal.

———

Your evening was supposed to be normal.

Laundry. Ramen. Pretending to study with music too loud in your headphones. Maybe reading through your notes and trying not to think about him. Trying to pretend last night’s words weren’t still burning beneath your skin.

You were halfway through a playlist when your phone buzzed.

You didn’t expect to see his name.

Not in your inbox.

But there it was.

Subject: RE: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

I’ve read your work. Come to my office hours tomorrow. We’ll discuss it.

That was it.

No greeting. No feedback.

Just an invitation.

You stared at it for a full minute.

Your stomach flipped. Your mouth went dry.

Your legs curled tighter beneath your blanket, and still—it felt like there was no safe position. No angle where the heat didn’t spread between your thighs like fire licking the edge of paper.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, itching to respond. To ask what did you think or what do you want from me or what the fuck are you doing to me.

But you didn’t.

You just read it again.

And again.

And all night long, it echoed in your head.

“We’ll discuss it.”

———

You were early.

Standing outside his office door with your pulse in your throat and your thighs already pressed together beneath your skirt. It was black. Tight. You’d worn it on purpose—just like the sheer black tights, just like the blouse with one button undone too many. Casual, but careful. Calculated. You didn’t need to tease him.

But you wanted to.

You knocked at 3:30 sharp.

The door opened.

He was alone. As always. He didn’t smile.

“Come in.”

You stepped inside. The room smelled like leather and old books and something faintly sharp—his cologne, probably. It clung to the air like static.

He closed the door behind you.

Locked it. You pretended not to notice.

He moved behind his desk, reached for the folder already laid open—your paper sitting neatly at the top, marked in pencil. His sleeves were rolled up. His fingers steady. His eyes unreadable.

“Have a seat.”

You did.

But your knees wouldn’t stop bouncing, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes dragged down your legs and back up.

He picked up your page. Cleared his throat.

And then—he read aloud.

“He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown.”

Your breath stuttered.

His voice was low. Deliberate.

And when he looked at you again, it was different.

Not careful. Not kind.

Hungry.

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly. “To drown?”

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

He stepped around the desk.

You watched him move like you were in a dream. His shoes slow against the floor, the air tightening with every step.

“I told myself I wouldn’t cross a line,” he said. “But you keep writing it. Begging for it.”

He stopped in front of you. Held out a hand.

“Come here.”

You stood slowly. Heart pounding.

He didn’t touch you right away.

Just looked.

Then, finally—finally—his hand came to your thigh.

And it was so soft at first. Just a graze through the sheer fabric. His fingers dragged up slowly, until his palm cupped the side of your leg and his thumb pressed in, feeling the tremble there.

“So… Is this what you want?” he murmured.

You nodded but he shook his head.

“No. Use your words.”

Your voice came out barely more than a whisper. “Yes. I want it.”

He exhaled—low, rough, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

“Good girl.”

His palm pressed more firmly into your thigh now. He was still watching your face as he dragged his hand up—under your skirt, over your tights, to the seam at the top where your heat radiated like fire.

He let his thumb brush over your center—barely—but it was enough to make you jolt.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re already this wet?” He chuckled, voice dark.

Your thighs clenched, and he smiled—cruel and soft.

“All that pretty writing,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “But you still couldn’t describe this right, could you? How it really feels.”

You whimpered, and his eyes darkened.

He leaned in—lips grazing your jaw as he hooked a finger into the band of your tights. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled them down just enough, letting the waistband settle below your ass before his hand slipped back up and under.

Hot skin. Calloused fingers. Finally touching where you needed him most.

He hissed through his teeth the moment he felt you. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

Two fingers slid between your folds, and your whole body shuddered.

He didn’t push in yet. Not right away.

He toyed with you first—rubbing slow circles, slick and lazy, watching your mouth fall open and your grip on the desk tighten.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let me see it.”

And you did.

You tipped your hips forward instinctively, searching for more friction. More pressure. More of him.

He pressed the pads of his fingers right against your clit and moved in slow, torturous circles.

Your breath caught.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

A moan escaped—soft and broken.

His fingers teased lower now, circling your entrance.

“Still want to drown?” he asked, voice ragged.

You nodded, eyes heavy.

“Say it.”

“I want to drown,” you whispered. “Please—Professor—”

That name did something to him. His composure frayed. Just slightly.

Then he pushed in—one finger, slow and firm, filling you so good it made your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck. So tight for me.”

You whined—hips shifting, trying to take more.

He gave it to you. A second finger joined the first, and he curled them just right, stroking that spot deep inside that made your thighs shake.

You clutched the edge of the desk like it was the only thing holding you up.

And then—his thumb returned to your clit.

Slow circles. Firm strokes. Just enough.

Your whole body arched into his hand.

“You’re gonna come for me like this,” he murmured. “Messy and shaking and quiet, just like I knew you would.”

You were panting now, close—so close your legs were trembling, your head falling forward onto his shoulder as heat coiled tight in your belly.

And he knew.

He caught your chin with his free hand, made you look at him.

“Don’t forget it,” he murmured. “Next time you write… I want you to describe this.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“Come on. Let go.”

You fell apart. Silently. Violently.

Your body clenched around his fingers and your breath caught in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you—deep and dizzying, the kind that left you floating.

He kept his fingers moving, working you through it, murmuring praises against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Knew you’d be this perfect.”

When you finally came down, chest heaving, he slid his fingers out gently.

You could feel how wet your thighs were, how your tights clung where they shouldn’t.

And then—fuck—he brought his fingers to his mouth. Sucked one clean. Watched you while he did it.

“I’ll be thinking about this,” he murmured. “Next time you write me something.”

The air was thick—soaked in sex and tension and the sound of your breath still stuttering in your chest.

He watched you recover, watched your knees threaten to buckle beneath you.

And he didn’t let you go. Not yet.

He stepped even closer, crowding you between his body and the desk. His hands settled on your hips. His voice, low and rough, curled over your spine like smoke.

“Sit up there for me.”

You blinked—still dazed.

He lifted you before you could obey. Hands strong beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of his desk. The wood was cool under your skin, but he was warm, grounding, overwhelming.

He parted your knees. Looked down.

Your tights were still half-on, messy and clinging to the tops of your thighs. Your skirt was bunched up. And your cunt? Glowing. Glazed. Absolutely dripping.

He groaned when he saw you.

“God, look at you.”

You squirmed under his gaze. Tried to close your legs.

But he stopped you with a look. And then—he sank to his knees.

Your breath died.

Professor Barnes—on the floor—between your legs?

That should have been illegal. (…it probably was.)

But you couldn’t care. Not when he gripped your thighs and leaned in with that heat in his eyes. Not when he pushed your legs wider and stared like you were a feast he’d been denied too long.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “If you want me to.”

You shook your head, frantic. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His tongue touched you—and everything ended.

The first stroke was slow. Deep. A long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh—fuck—”

He groaned into you.

You could feel it. The vibration of his mouth, the grip of his hands keeping you spread for him as he dove back in.

He ate you like a man possessed.

No teasing now. No pretending to be composed.

Just messy, desperate hunger—his mouth hot and wet, his tongue flicking your clit before he sucked it between his lips, just enough pressure to send you spinning.

Your hands flew to his hair.

You shouldn’t have done it but you did. You tangled your fingers in the dark strands and pulled, and he moaned.

Moaned into you.

Ground his face harder against your cunt like he wanted to bury himself inside it.

“Oh my god—“

You choked on a moan.

“Professor—please—fuck—”

He smiled into your pussy.

That was when he started to devour you.

Tongue lapping. Lips sealing. Chin soaked. One hand released your thigh and slipped back between your legs, fingers thrusting in deep while his mouth never stopped, never relented, never fucking slowed.

You were going to lose your mind.

Your vision blurred. Your hips stuttered and your heels dug into the edge of the desk, your cries broken and high and helpless as he coaxed your orgasm out of you with no mercy.

You came like a wave crashing.

Loud. Shaking. Gasping his title like a prayer you couldn’t stop whispering.

“Professor—Professor—fuck, please—”

He held you down, kept his mouth on you while you rode it out, licked you through it like he lived for the taste of you falling apart.

And then—only then—he pulled back.

You were soaked. Ruined. Boneless.

He kissed your thigh and rose slowly from his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were wet. His cheeks flushed. His eyes dark.

When he leaned in again, he pressed a soft kiss to your neck—gentle, almost affectionate.

And then he whispered, low and hoarse:

“You taste even better than you write.”

His hands were steady as they slid under your thighs, lifting you down from the desk like you weighed nothing at all. Your knees buckled slightly, and he caught you—pulled you close, flush to his chest.

And he held you.

Not like he’d just fucked the soul out of you with his mouth.

Like he was afraid to let go.

His palm cradled the back of your head, and you breathed him in—cologne, paper, heat—and then you felt his lips brush the crown of your head, a kiss so soft it nearly undid you again.

“My good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with praise and something too raw to name.

Your breath caught.

“You did so well for me,” he continued, whispering it just for you. “So sweet, so responsive. You listen so well. Always such a quick learner.”

His hand traced slowly down your back, fingers splayed wide like he wanted to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re my favorite student,” he said—low, like a confession. “My brightest. My best.”

You felt heat bloom behind your eyes.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was a dangerous, stupid thing to say. But right then? You needed it. You drank it in like oxygen.

He pulled back enough to tilt your chin up, eyes locking with yours—blue and burning.

“God, you are so sweet,” he breathed. “My sweet girl.”

Your lips parted—but nothing came. No words, no sound. Just the soft thudding of your heart against his chest and the brush of his thumb stroking over your cheek like he worshipped you.

Then—

A kiss. Slow. Deep. A little shaky.

Not hunger—hunger came first.

This was something else.

Possession. Affection. Reverence.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he knew it was a line too far—but he’d already crossed it, and he was never going back.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were kiss-swollen and your breath unsteady.

He smiled. Just faintly.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “You want to write something beautiful—come to me. I’ll make sure you find the words.”

Your legs felt weak. Your pulse was a flutter in your throat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free—and still, his hands were gentle. Grounding. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

You lifted your eyes to his.

“Professor…” You whispered.

His title on your lips made him still.

He watched you. Quiet. Waiting.

And that was when it rose. That slow, hot swirl of everything you’d been trying to ignore—craving, confusion, want. Not just for this—not just for his hands, his mouth.

You wanted him.

All of him.

So you asked it, soft and broken. “…What is this?”

His brows pulled together. Not harsh. Just quiet confusion, maybe even guilt. His fingers shifted on your waist, and you almost thought he’d pull away.

You didn’t let him.

“I need to know,” you said, a little stronger. “Because I can’t pretend this is just about… writing. Or just about today.”

You breathed in.

“I want it,” you confessed, voice low and fierce. “I want you. I don’t even know what that means yet, or what we’re doing, or if I’m crazy—but I want all of it. And if this is just a mistake to you, then—”

“No.” His voice cut in—firm and certain. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked up at him.

His jaw was tight. His eyes a storm. One of his hands rose to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing under your eye like he was trying to soothe something raw.

“This isn’t a mistake,” he said, quiet but intense. “It’s the farthest thing from it.”

“But it’s—wrong,” you whispered. “Isn’t it?”

“Too late for that,” he murmured.

And then, softer:

“I think about you all the time.”

The admission landed heavy in the space between you.

He stepped even closer, like he couldn’t help it.

“When you speak in class, when you smile… when you hand in work that’s so beautiful it fucking hurts to read—I think about what it would be like to touch you. To hold you. And now that I have…”

He swallowed hard.

“Now I don’t know how I’m supposed to stop.”

Your breath hitched. He leaned in again—his lips just a breath from yours and asked:

“Do you still want it?”

Your answer was instant.

“Yes.”

You said yes, and it was like something inside him broke loose.

Not with urgency. Not with hunger.

But with relief.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb sweeping along your cheek as he leaned in—eyes locked on yours like you were something holy.

And then, he kissed you. Slow.

Like a promise.

His mouth moved with reverence, not desperation—like he was savoring every second of it. Like kissing you was something he’d imagined too many times, and now that it was real, he was terrified to ruin it.

His other hand pressed to the small of your back, drawing you close again. Closer than before. His body warm and steady against yours.

He broke the kiss only barely—his lips still brushing yours, breath hot, voice low.

“Good girl…”

The words settled into your skin like silk.

You shivered, but it wasn’t from cold.

It was from being seen.

Wanted. Praised. His.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the feeling.

Warm in his arms. His voice still echoing in your ears. And your heart beating a little too fast for something that had only just begun.

Part Two

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