#but the thing is with that is that it's not as simple as buying a hard drive and swapping it out...I gotta like. prep

[sceletaflores]

JACKRABBIT!

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 3.4k

｡𖦹°‧➵ ANON SAYS: Hi Nat! I love your work. I would like to request a Joel Miller fic where he finds a sex toy on a raid and teaches user how to use it. I hope this isn’t weird lol. It’s fine if you don’t want to write it!

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, set post outbreak, swearing, drinking, smoking, established relationship…but it’s not like a RELATIONSHIP, unspecified age gap, jackson!joel mmmhhh, sex toys, masturbation, joi but for the girls, pussy pronouns, dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, reader is inexperienced but not juvenile, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: anon…i need to just kiss you right on your brain. this is a revolutionary idea…it’s not weird at all! i just about died when i saw it in my inbox, like i had to sit down for a while. you really did something with this one. this is also so not related but this is one of the tiniest titles i’ve had on a fic in a while, it looks so wrong to me LMAO i need long titles to survive but this one was just too cute so i made an exception. hope y’all love it!

dividers by @saradika-graphics! joel icon by angel @iamasaddie!

joel has something he wants to show you...

You’re not sure what you were expecting when Joel told you he had something to show you.

You thought about it a little on the short walk to his house, breath puffing out like little clouds in the cold air as snow crunched under your boots.

Maybe a book he’d thought you’d like to add to the overflowing shelf in your room, all stuffed with the other books he’d quietly left on your kitchen table like they weren’t really gifts. Dog eared, dusty, the pages yellowed by time.

Maybe an old shirt that wasn’t too torn or eaten up by moths. Clothes aren’t hard to come by in Jackson, but you figure it’s the thought that counts.

Hell, maybe even another knife for your collection—Joel likes giving you those.

You definitely weren’t expecting this.

A heavy looking, curved wand with a fat head and a thick cord wrapped around the handle. He tossed it on his bed next to you like it’s nothing, like a can of peaches or some new ammo he wants to show off.

You blink down at the thing, confused. You look up, staring at Joel where he’s standing a little ways away with your brows pinched together. “What’s all this?”

Joel cocks his head, his lips tugged up in a smug grin. “Old folks would call that a vibrator.”

 “That’s not what I mean, dumbass.” You roll your eyes, scoffing. “I mean what is it doing here?”

“Well,” Joel starts, overly serious. “You see, some ladies, they’d usually buy one of these and shove them down–”

"I'm not a clueless fucking virgin, Joel." You cut him off with a sniff, crossing your arms in front of your chest defensively. "I know what a vibrator does. I just never got a chance to use one, what with the world ending when I was a teenager and all, you know?"

Joel knows for a fact that you're no virgin, he took care of that little issue a long while ago. 

There’s a lot of firsts that Joel’s helped you tick off over the last couple years, ever since he found you at that ghost town back in Pittsburgh. Your first real shot of something clear and mean. Your first cigarette. Your first fuck.

You wouldn’t call what you and Joel have now a real “relationship” by any definition of the word. Not to Ellie. Not to Jesse. Not to yourself. You’re sure Joel would have a flat out aneurysm if you ever called him your boyfriend.

It’s simple. You go to him when you want. He comes to you when he needs. You let him touch you like he means it, sometimes you even stay the night when he’s feeling charitable enough. 

“Found it in an old stash house out past the dam.” Joel shrugs, making his way over to the blue armchair in the corner of his room. He sits with a quiet grunt, sinking into the plaid cushions. “It was still in the box, brand new. Thought you might want it.”

Your eyes drop back down to the toy, the white contrasting with the deep green of Joel’s sheets. You pick it up to feel the weight of it in your hand, fingers trailing along the smooth silicone. It’s soft, softer than you thought it’d be—lighter too.

You think back to the group of girls that whispered during your Algebra 1 class, giggling about some grown up shop they found in a bigger city. The dirty haul they came back into town with sparking lots of colorful conversation that you definitely weren’t supposed to hear, despite how loud they were about it.

Joel clears his throat, tearing you from your thoughts. “Go on then,” he says, jerking his chin impatiently. “You wanna try it, don’t you?”

You swallow, mouth going a little dry as you thumb over the switch.

You do want to try it. You’ve always wanted something like this. Something constant and strong—something that doesn’t tire out, doesn’t get distracted, doesn’t stop until you’re shaking and sobbing and wrung out.

You’ve got one of those things now, sitting in a chair about five feet away from you.

The one in your hand might be just as fun, you wouldn’t know.

There’s only one way to find out.

You look up at him again. Joel’s watching you with that lazy hunger he always has. His jaw working like he’s already rolling the taste of you around in his mouth. His eyes are dark, you can tell even from where you’re at. 

Fuck it.

“Alright.” You shuffle backwards up the bed until you’re high enough to lean against his pillows. You drop the toy long enough to tug your thin sleep pants down your legs.

There’s a fleeting part of you that wants to drag this out, to tease. The other part of you, the one that thinks with the steady arousal pulsing to life between your legs, wants to get on with it.

So you bite your lip and plug it in, the ancient powerstrip he dragged in from the garage by his bed sparking faintly as the wand hums to life in your hand—deep and low and almost intimidating in how powerful it sounds.

“Jesus,” you whisper, trying it against your wrist. The vibration is intense, direct, not like anything else you’ve ever felt. It’s so much. You look over at him, suddenly timid. “What do I even do with it? There wasn’t a user guide in that box or something?”

“It’s straightforward enough.” Joel leans back deeper in his chair, like he’s settling in for a show. “Figure it out, baby. You’re smart.”

You arch your brow. “You just gonna sit there?”

Joel shrugs, smirking. “Sugar, this is the best seat in the house.”

It’s a terrible line, terrible. You want to roll your eyes, to make fun of him. That’s only stalling, and neither of you want that.

“Start slow,” Joel mutters, voice thickening just a little.

You chew the inside of your cheek and press the toy to your thigh first, just to get a feel of the vibration. It’s intense, buzzing right down to the bone. You leave it there for a beat, sliding it up and down your skin until goosebumps pebble up in its wake. Your stomach clenches with need, with interest. 

You hook your index finger into the thin cotton of your panties, pulling them to the side enough to bare your pussy to the warm air of Joel’s bedroom. You can hear the quick inhale from the other side of the room, the creak of wooden armrests under a tight grip. You don’t fight the smug smile that pulls at your lips.

The smug feeling is short lived, laughably so. The second you press the toy to your clit—just a whisper of vibration, even on the lowest setting—your hips twitch, breath catching. “Shit.”

Joel’s mouth tugs into a crooked grin. “Too much?”

You shake your head, breathless all of a sudden. “No, I–I got it.”

“Try small circles,” Joel says, voice gone low and smoky. “Little higher than that.”

You do, dragging the head of the toy up to rock it over your clit slow and gentle like he told you to. It mostly just feels…fine. Not quite right. Not like Joel. Not like his mouth. Not like the calloused pads of his thumbs when he spreads you open.

You’re not shy by any means, not with him. Not anymore. He’s already had you in more ways than you can count—stuffed together in a sleeping bag as you got felt up by practied fingers, bent over the kitchen table, riding his thigh in the bath, panting against his neck while he fucked you into the floorboards.

This feels different somehow. Embarrassing, almost. Your own hands trembling as you try to keep the vibrator steady, the hum too much and not enough all at once.

You press it closer. Try to angle your hips, shift just right. It slips away too easily, or the angle’s all wrong, or maybe it’s just you—too tense, too eager to please.

Joel watches you flinch, watches your thighs clench and strain as you huff. The warmth swirling through your gut is there, but it's a different kind of heat. It’s all edge, no release. The tension inside of you winds and winds but doesn’t break.

You sigh in frustration, dropping your head back. “Fuck.”

“Don’t make a fuss now.” Joel scolds. “You need to ease off. You’re workin’ it all wrong, can’t just mash it on there like that.”

“Don’t say it like that.” You cut your eyes to him, glaring. “I’m not “mashing” anything, this stupid thing just doesn’t work.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re chasin’ it too hard,” he says, softer this time. “Relax, baby.”

“I am relaxed,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“I can see you, kid.” Joel snorts, amused. “Bullshit you’re relaxed. It ain’t even seen you this tense around goddamn gunfire”

You groan miserably and pull the toy away, your arm falling limp so it can buzz uselessly against Joel’s comforter. “This is stupid.”

Joel sucks his teeth, shaking his head like you’re a bratty child who can’t understand the simple thing he’s asking of you. He rises from the chair slowly, crosses the room in a few strides. “I have to do everything around here myself, huh.”

You scoff, but your pussy clenches weakly the closer he gets. “I can always leave if it’s such a big grievance.” 

He sits next to you with a huff, all that muscle and broadness scooting closer. The mattress dips under his weight enough that it has you sliding closer to him. “Shut the hell up and come here, smartass.” 

Big hands settle on either side of your hips before you can move, dragging you back until you're snug between his thick thighs. His chest is warm and alive under your back, the same as his hands when he slings your legs over his.

Joel takes the wand from your hand. You let him. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he murmurs, peering down between your legs. “So fuckin’ wet and you can’t even get her off. This what you wanted, baby? Me to do all the work for you?”

“You like doing all the work,” you snap, still a little touchy. 

Joel just smirks, dragging the toy down your thigh. You suck in a short breath, hands clutching the rough denim of his jeans. 

He slides the toy lower, dragging the head between your folds like he’s getting acquainted with the shape of you all over again. He starts slow. Teasing. Circling your clit but not pressing down, just letting the buzz brush softly. You jolt, hips twitching.

“No ma’am. Quit your wrigglin’,” he says, his other hand squeezes your thigh in a clear warning. “You asked for this. You’ll take it.”

Every inch of you wants to fight him, just to be a real asshole. You’ve had enough of that for one night, now you just want to come. You force yourself to relax, slowly letting the tension leave your muscles one by one.

Joel notices, humming encouragingly. You can feel the rumble of it against your spine. “Atta girl.” 

He tosses an arm around your waist, pulling you closer while his other hand brings the wand back to your clit, not gentle now—confident, giving you the pressure you wanted. The kind that makes your pussy jolt and your chest go tight. The sound you make is pathetic, breathy and broken.

“Oh,” you whisper. The heat you couldn’t quite coax to life earlier flares now, quick and electric and embarrassingly easy under Joel’s experienced touch.

“There she is,” Joel breathes, breath fanning over your temple. “Feels better already, doesn’t it?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand slides up your shirt, palm spreading warm over your belly, keeping you grounded while the toy works its way through your nerves like a live wire.

“Joel,” you gasp, rolling your hips up, chasing it anyway, fighting his grip.

“Thought you said it didn’t work,” he mutters with a grin, mouthing at your jaw. “Sure feels like it’s workin’ now, pumpkin.”

Your body shakes, your thighs trembling. You whimper something incoherent and he shushes you, not to be sweet, but because he wants to hear you fall apart properly.

“You keep it right there,” he orders, dragging the toy a fraction higher until it hits just right. You cry out, jerking forward, but he wraps his arm tighter around your belly and holds you there, strong and steady.

“Joel—fuck—it’s too—”

“It ain’t too much,” he growls. “It’s perfect. Just stay still, just like that.”

You feel it coming fast, harder than you expected—a coil of pleasure that sneaks up and grabs you by the throat, all breath and sound and stuttering pleasure. You buck against his hold and he laughs, low and pleased.

Joel leans in close, his nose brushing over the sweaty skin of your throat. “You gonna thank me for bringing you such a nice present, darlin’? That was mighty kind of me, wasn’t it?”

Your slick lips part on a soft moan, your hips twitching up off the mattress uncontrollably. Your nails dig into his thighs, your chest heaving. “Than–fuck! Jesus.”

He coos, a soft noise that’s more mocking than reassuring. He presses a kiss to your jaw. “Words are hard ain’t they baby? You’re so easy you let a little vibrator rubbin’ on this pussy get you dumb?”

You sob, your head falling back to rest on his shoulder. You turn your face, bury it in the crook of his neck to muffle a whine. “Joel—”

“Come on, baby.” Joel circles the wand over your clit faster, your slick making the glide of silicone that much better. “It ain’t that hard, just two little words.”

You can’t form them. Can’t think. Can’t breathe, barely—your hips twitch again, every nerve ending centered on the hum between your legs. You’re trying so hard to stay still like he told you to, but your body’s betraying you, chasing after the pressure like it’s oxygen.

“I c–can’t,” you gasp, half-sobbing into his neck. “Joel, I can’t, it’s too—too much, I need—”

“What you need is to thank me,” he growls, not relenting. “You come without it, you come on my cock, on my fingers, on my fuckin’ thigh—but you get one little toy, and suddenly you forget your big girl manners?”

Your whole body jerks when he tilts the wand just slightly. It presses right where you need it, a cruel, perfect angle. You’re soaked, squirming, and you can’t breathe right—your breath just punches out of you in useless little gasps.

“Thank you,” you finally whimper, and it’s so quiet, so desperate that it makes Joel groan.

“That’s my sweet girl,” he rasps, his lips dragging hot over your cheek. He sounds so proud, so adoring. It should be funny, out of place when he’s torturing you with a vibrator he trekked through snow with just to give it to you—but it only has the coil inside you snapping.

That’s all it takes.

You cry out when it hits you—sharp and overwhelming like a sucker punch. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs closing around his wrist, soaked pussy pulsing hard against the toy. Joel keeps it there, keeps it steady while you ride it out, groaning low as he watches you fall apart.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice all grit and gravel and satisfaction. “There she is. You just needed a little help.”

The toy keeps buzzing—he doesn’t let up, not yet. He holds it steady while you jerk and moan, overstimulated and dripping, every muscle trembling. You whimper, weakly trying to push his hand away.

“Shhh,” Joel soothes, lips brushing your temple. “Just ridin’ it out, baby. I got you.”

You breathe through it, clinging to him, and finally—finally—he lifts the toy away, flicking it off with a quiet click.

You’re wrecked.

Panting. Slick between the thighs. Legs still twitching where they’re splayed over his lap.

Joel drops the toy somewhere off to the side and smooths a hand over your stomach, holding you there like you might float away if he lets go. “Well,” he says, smug as ever. “Think it works just fine.”

You let out a hoarse little laugh, still catching your breath. “Fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice shot.

Joel leans in and presses a kiss over your temple. His hands smooth up and down the insides of your thighs, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing over your pussy. You flinch. Sensitive. His lips curl against your skin.

Two can play at this game. 

You tilt your head, eyes barely open as you mutter, “I think we’ll use it on you next.”

Joel stills. His brows lift, his mouth pulls into a slow, skeptical smirk. “The hell we will.”

You grin, even though your body still feels like it’s made of jelly. “What, too chicken?”

“No,” he huffs. “I just don’t trust you not to get your little petty revenge.”

“Oh, I’d be so gentle with you,” you say innocently, voice low and teasing. “Promise.”

Joel snorts. “You couldn’t even work the damn thing.”

“I learned a lot in the last ten minutes.”

Joel pinches your hip with a tsk. “Don’t start what you can’t finish, sweetheart.”

You look over your shoulder at him, catching the sharpness in his eyes.

You smile sweetly. “Who says I can’t?”

Joel just laughs, shaking his head. Your smile doesn’t fade as you tuck your face back into his throat, breathing him in. 

You’ll give him five minutes.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: the fics i've posted recently being some requests? i'm showing growth y'all. i'm being so tumblr.com it's crazy. see? i do the stuff you guys want, i care about you guys...talking to YOU rude ass anon that came in my inbox a few days ago. yes i DO answer these. also me posting this many fics in basically one month is crazy work i have no idea what’s gotten into me. i got bit by the writing bug, or maybe it really is easier to just not write over ten thousand words all the damn time for literally no reason…i guess we’ll never know.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[serikai]

the first time your husband got serious mad at you was him cathing you carrying heavy things

kento’s at the grocery store, picking up ingredients for dinner—he’s been insistent on cooking lately, fussing over your nutrition like it’s his mission, you’re supposed to be resting, per his strict orders, but the nursery’s half finished, and the clutter’s driving you nuts.

a box of baby clothes sits by the door heavy with donations from friends, and you figure you can handle it, just one box, up the stairs, no big deal, you’re pregnant, not helpless.

you’re halfway up arms straining, the box wobbling, when the front door opens. “i’m back.” nanami calls but it cuts off sharp when he sees you, the grocery bags hit the floor with a thud and he’s at the stairs in two strides, his face a mask of disbelief.

“what the hell are you doing?” he snaps, his voice low, edged with something you’ve never heard.

you freeze, the box slipping, and he’s there, taking it from you, his hands firm but careful, setting it down with a heavy thump. “kento—” you start but he cuts you off, his voice rising, still controlled but trembling with restraint. “are you trying to hurt yourself?” he says, his words sharp, each one a blade.

“or the baby? because that’s what you’re doing, carrying this—this—up the damn stairs when i told you to rest.” he gestures at the box, his jaw clenched, his hands flexing like he’s holding back from shaking you or the world.

“im fine.” you say, defensive, stepping back, your hand on the railing. “It’s just a box, kento, im not fragile.” your voice is steady, but your heart’s racing, startled by his intensity, the way he’s looking at you like you’ve betrayed him.

“not fragile?” he repeats, his voice dropping. “you’re six months pregnant, and you’re hauling heavy shit like it’s nothing. do you have any idea what could happen? a fall? strain? you think im out here buying groceries for fun while you risk—” he stops, exhaling hard, running a hand through his hair, his composure cracking.

“you’re not fine. you’re reckless.” the word stings, and you bristle, your own anger flaring. “reckless?” you say, your voice rising. “im trying to help, kento. i can’t just sit around doing nothing while you treat me like im made of glass. im pregnant, not useless.”

his eyes narrow, and he steps closer, his presence towering, not threatening but overwhelming. “im not treating you like glass.” he says, his voice low, tight. “im trying to keep you safe, you and our kid. you think i want to come home and find you hurt? or worse?” his voice cracks on the last word, and you see it—the fear behind the anger, the way his hands tremble, the way he’s holding himself together.

you soften, your anger faltering, but you’re still stubborn, crossing your arms. “i didn’t think it was a big deal..” you say, quieter, looking away, your hand resting on your belly.

“i just… i wanted to do something.” nanami exhales, long and shaky, his shoulders sagging, and he steps closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “its a big deal to me.” he says, his hand hovering near your arm, hesitant, like he’s not sure you’ll let him touch you.

“don’t do that to me again. please.” his forehead presses to yours, his breath warm, unsteady, and you feel the weight of his fear, his love, in that simple touch.

[bluegummieshark]

Danny gets a Pass

Ok here goes another kinda silly dp x dc prompt since ya'll liked the first.

It's simple really, Danny Fenton gets a pass. Not because of phantom or his powers but just because of everyday normal Danny being Danny. Maybe it's a hero maybe it's a villain but whatever the case is when they see it's Danny he gets passed.

Sorry can't arrest the kid, like sure he was hired as a goon but its Danny I totally owe him one, or hey yes we are 100% planning to steal all this money and blow up the building so we need hostages but not him.

The first one to see it happen was Duke. He was still learning compared to the others in the batfam so he hadn't questioned why Harley would let this kid go. Of course he was also dealing with a concussion and glitter so when she skipped glitter bombing some kid with nothing more than a hair ruffle and a cute top comment he was just happy she didn't bedazzle another civilian. To be fair it was a cool top given it was one of those rare vintage Ember band t-shirts so maybe she was just a fan of good music who was to question the slightly unhinged women when really it just meant less clean up for him.

Then it was Dick who had seen more than one cop turn away a criminal or two. This time was different though. They were supposed to be doing a bust. Stopping a group of workers who were loading crates onto the docks all filled with stolen goods. So when Dick turned and saw another officer undoing the hand cuffs to one of the dock workers he was pissed but not surprised. What surprised him when he got closer was just who the other cop was releasing. It wasn't the normal richer guy who could bribe his way, or shady leader to one of the criminal underbelly but rather a kid. At least they looked like a kid somewhere between 13 to 15 if he had to guess. He looked just as scared and confused as most kids would probably be. Maybe that's why Dicked stopped. He watched his teammate take the cuffs off, slide the kids a 20 and point to an alley. Once the kid was out of sight he turned back stepping next to dick and sharing a simple, "he's a good kid." And well Dick couldn't say if that was true or not but he had to turn a blind eye before so he could do it again. After all he did look like a good kid.

It was the next time he got passed up though that really sealed the deal and put him on the Gotham's radar. When it came to strange things happening in Gotham it was just another Tuesday. Buff Zombies taking over most of downtown was barely in the top 10 of anything crazy but seeing those buff zombies actually let some kid pass by them without a glance that was confusing. Even more confusing was when Bane caused the muscle zombies outbreak stopped mid rant to let the kid pass by when he said excuse me.

After when Batman had stopped the zombies, and had Bane contained, he had to ask who the kid was. Of course as Bane was taken away the only real answer he could get was "O, that's Danny, he gets a pass."

Thing is when Batman did track down to ask Danny himself why he got a pass he couldn't really tell the furry why. After all Danny was just being Danny he couldn't think of anything special on his end that he did.

----------------------------

Harley wasn't going to attack her favorite/only pet sitter. Bud and Lou loved him after all.

Officer John couldn't arrest Danny when the kid volunteered at his Nana's nursing home. The kid was just short on cash and picked up a gig online he didn't know so the least he could do was buy the kid dinner and keep him out of trouble.

As for Bane well that's Danny his favorite food delivery boy. For Bane his only concern was that the kid was polite, always got there on time, and even started trying to learn some Spanish just to talk to Bane when he learned it was the man's first language. What sealed the deal though was when he stopped bane the first time they met to help him. Just stopped him in the middle of the street at night because he saw a crack. A small part of the venom container on his back was leaking from damage due to a fight and this kid didn't even think twice about running away from Bane. He stopped his bike and was fixing his tank and tubbing faster than Bane even noticed the problem. Then he drove off on his bike leaving to continue on his delivery. After that even Bane could see he was just a good kid and decided to give him a pass.

[sevsevteen]

hewoooo, i am so shy and unsure of this! But could we have like a friends to lovers trope of svt 14th member?... I can't really think of much details but like, fluff? Funny drama? Maybe all of them are kinda platonic with her but nothing like *the* someone, domestic, dunno, think you can add your touch that I absolutely love... Thanks! 😅🩷

I'M GUILTY. this is soo indulgent 🧎‍♂️🧎‍♂️ i got inspired by a photo i saw on pinterest and wrote this ! someone find me my own jeon wonwoo asap (or im going to crash out) 😔

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

Growing up surrounded by thirteen boys meant chaos was familiar. So were the sibling-like fights, the endless teasing, and the unspoken trust that came from surviving trainee years side by side.

You never thought twice about skinship, late-night hangouts, or movie marathons with heads on each other’s shoulders. To you, they were brothers - loud, dramatic, infuriating, and absolutely teasable.

But recently... something had shifted.

Not with everyone. Just one.

It was in the way your heart would stutter when Wonwoo handed you a drink without being asked. How he instinctively stood behind you to shield you with his shadow when the sun shone too bright. The quiet, subtle things he did - always patient, always watching, always there.

There was something about Wonwoo that felt... different now.

And you hated it.

Because nothing had changed - except the way you noticed.

The way his hoodie felt warmer. The way his voice sounded gentler when he said your name.

And now, with your birthday approaching, you hadn’t expect anything major. A teasing cheer song? Probably. Another prank from Seokmin and Mingyu? Absolutely.

But then Wonwoo handed you a box after dinner that day, his voice casual.

“Wear it tomorrow, yeah?” he said, brushing his fringe away from his eyes. “It’s comfortable. Figured you’d like it.”

When you opened the box later that night, your breath caught.

Shoes. Sleek, clean - your size. And in your favorite shade, too. It was simple. Practical. But there was something so thoughtful about it that your heart thudded once.

The next day, you wore them as promised.

You stepped into the practice room like any other morning - hoodie on, hair tied up, backpack slung low.

But the moment Seungkwan caught sight of your feet, his eyes widened. “Wait, no way–”

“Why, why?” You blinked, shocked by his sudden reaction.

“Those shoes look familiar,” he pointed, then spun around. “Aren't they...” he then pointed to Wonwoo.

And Wonwoo, who was calmly tying his shoelaces in the corner, looked up.

Only then did you notice.

Same model. Same cut.

Different color.

“You guys are matching,” Soonyoung gawked, leaning in. “Is this some hidden couple concept?”

“No!” You spluttered, ears heating. “He just– he gave me these yesterday!”

“For your birthday?” Mingyu grinned.

“She wore them because I asked her to,” Wonwoo said simply, standing up.

The room fell silent for a beat too long.

Your eyes snapped to him, but he wasn’t even fazed. His tone was calm, face emotionless, like he hadn’t just dropped a boulder into your chest.

It wasn’t a joke, nor was it a dare.

It was just...something he meant.

Wonwoo adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie, giving you a look so brief, so gentle, it felt like a secret.

You looked away, flustered beyond belief. Your fingers curled into your hoodie pocket, hiding the way they trembled slightly when you ran to place your bag down beside Seungkwan's.

He nudged you once, eyebrows wriggling in amusement.

The teasing resumed. Jeonghan snickered. Vernon snapped a photo. Jihoon muttered something about “buying matching shoes with the rest of us too, then.”

But Wonwoo didn’t say anything more than a “next time”.

He just held the small of your back lightly before stepping past you to start stretching - leaving you with your heart in your throat, and his gift laced snugly around your feet.

And in that moment, the platonic safety net you once clung to frayed just a little more.

Because a peek of his tiny smile didn’t even begin to cover it anymore.

--

[ronearoundblindly]

Just thinking about how we as Alpine could dote on sweet Steve...

(part of Companion Animal, a steve x shapeshifter!reader series)

He's just so easy to read, like an emotional open book, and when Steve's worried about anything at all, you just have to sit with him and stare. He always cracks. He'll tell you everything, and as you continue to gaze with that caring he always recognizes in your eyes, he keeps going, every bit of honesty just flowing out of him.

Sometimes, however, Steve begs for you to change back. He wants to listen to you talk about your day. He wants to hear what you think, what you would do in his place, what you've been up to. Steve likes companionship in all its forms--you in all your forms--but loves the equanimity of human-to-human interaction.

There are so many reasons you shift to a cat, but the biggest is that life is simpler this way. It was the motivation for your first change: you wanted things to be simple. If you feel small, you can be small. If you don't feel like talking, you don't have to.

Steve envies your powers honestly. He knows what it was like to be small and overlooked. Steve actually misses that from time to time. He never thought he would.

Tonight, though he has no idea why you've felt the need to be small and quiet, Steve holds you in his lap, balancing your fluffy body in a soft curl at his hip. He talks, and once he's covered all the important bits of his day, he keeps talking about nothing at all. He mentions a new houseplant or two that he wants, but he's not sure whether to find some clippings to propagate or to go buy them.

Steve never noticed how much he talks about food until he started filling the empty air with you. He would apologize for that, but he has a lot of opinions about chicken (all the proteins, really) and serving sizes (you stop him with a chirp when he mentions 'pricing' though). There are also certain meals that go very well with certain types of weather, which he thinks should be obvious but still lays out a case for having soup and stew always at the ready for rainy days and--

"Are you asleep, babygirl?" he asks in astonishment. "Why didn't you stop me? You could have asked to go to bed if you were tired."

Steve tries very hard not to turn his frown upside down as you yawn, a big gesture for such a little thing. You're so cute. You know he can't resist the fierceness of your fangs coupled with your half-closed eyes.

You roll onto your back in his lap, a dopey, quirky look on your squished face, staring at him again.

"What?" Steve pokes gently at your belly. "You'd rather watch TV? Do--what's that stupid phrase--Netflix and chill?"

You pop upright, tail swatting between his knees, and slow-blink at him.

"You're very predictable, darling," he chides, grabbing the remote but kissing your head as he leans over. "Why'd you let me go on an' on?" Steve whispers an apology while you shove your skull into his cheek. "I don't mean to bore you. You could have--" he feels you shake your head "--no? Not boring you?" He leans back. "How is listening to me jabber not boring?"

You stand to put one paw on his chest, the other tucked to your own, holding his brilliant blue gaze.

You've told him you love his voice. You've told him you love to know what he's thinking, that everything he says is important to you, but...Steve hasn't considered how you being in Alpine-form forces him to use his voice.

Because you want to know what he's thinking.

Because you want to hear all of the things that take up important space in his thoughts.

Because you know that he won't if there's anyone else there, any other person, any other human.

Steve Rogers always puts other humans above himself. If anyone else is in the room, Steve's not the priority, so...

The second his face drops in understanding, you look smug as hell and cheekily bat your fuzzy paw at his lips.

"Ha ha, very funny," he drawls. "You think you're so smart, don't you!"

Steve scoops you up in his arms and peppers you with kisses, tightening his grip a smidge.

"What if I don't turn on your show, huh? What are you gonna do about it?" There's a familiar pressure against him, and your body becomes much heavier. He lets the shift happen as usual then looks down.

You, human-you, snuggle into his lap, the rest stretched across the couch, turned away from the television to focus only on him.

"Nothing."

Steve plays with your hair quietly because of course he stops filling the air already.

"Tell me about all these soups we're going to make."

You poke his side as Steve laughs. You know his tricks. He's so easy to read, but no matter what, he's your favorite open book.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

Tags: @hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence @navs-bhat @creat0r-cat @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare @deandreamernp @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bitchy-bi-trash @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

[never-forget-viva-la-pluto]

You do what you can.

That's it.

If you can't afford the biodegradable shit then you can't

If you have to use a syringe with stiff everlasting plastic to take your meds then you must

If you can buy a glass tupperware instead of a plastic one then you should

But if you can't then there is no point in going insane about it.

Do what you can, it's as simple as that.

Being mindful is important, but your actions are even more so. When you shop, take a picture of the things you want for when you can afford it if you can't right now, even if you think you may never be able to afford it. If you are going insane about it then you will burn out and damage your health.

In 2021 I had a job that payed enough for be to buy more environmentally safe razors, by 2022 I no longer had that job nor the money to afford it so I switched back. Now I have since stopped shaving all together but my point still stands.

I get it, it is frustrating and it makes me want to go all Claims Adjuster on megacorp execs and oil barons too, but unfortunately I have to settle for reusing the plastic water bottle i bought as many times as I can before it starts to become unsafe to do so. I love perler beads, but the only biodegradable ones are only available in Sweden, so I do the next best thing and I buy them used.

As someone who occasionally panics about the environmental situation and how economic distress causes that exact exhaustion and frustration, I can tell you that the only way to stay sane about any of the nightmarish shit being pulled by the 1% is to do what you can, change what you can, and do no more than that.

genuinely fucking horrifying to try and be more mindful about your plastic consumption

[bloodlineslut]

chapter f i v e

A/N: oh Lord this is where the sweet toxicity starts...

In the early hours before India awoke from her slumber, Jey had managed to quietly leave to go get Waffle House to bring back to the hotel room. There was one just right up the street, so he made it back in time before she woke up.

As he was taking the contents out of the bags, India stirred awake out of the bed, grabbing a big T-shirt from her suitcase to clothe her naked body. On her way out of the bedroom, she made a quick stop in the bathroom and was slightly shocked at her appearance.

Hair was messy and sticking up in spots, makeup from the previous night was still on and a bit smeared, and three hickies in different spots on her neck and chest.

She thought back to last night—the way Jey took his time with each and every inch of her body, the way he talked to her, the way he held her, the way he cleaned her up after.

It was almost too good to be true.

At this thought, India found herself smiling before hearing his voice call out.

“India! Got us some breakfast, come on in here and eat.” She glanced at the wall in disbelief. She really wasn’t expecting him to still be here if she was being completely honest with herself. She quickly combed her hair, being careful since it was a sew-in, brushed her teeth, and rinsed out her mouth with some Listerine mouthwash.

After turning off the bathroom light, she walked to the direction of where his voice called out from earlier. He had put their plates in front of the two stools that were at the bar area of the little kitchen area.

Jey was pouring some lemonade into one cup as he saw her walk closer to him. “Good morning. I got you Waffle House, I hope you like this.” He sort of said it like a question.

“Aw thanks Jey. And yea I do love Waffle House. My sister and I used to eat it almost every day in high school.” India sat down in the seat next to his now-sitting figure and saw the million different plates of food that he had sat in front of him.

Her eyes widened. “You gon’ eat all of that? No way.”

“Aye, we get it from our dad forreal.” He said and patted his stomach, making India laugh as she dug into the food.

In between bites, they made simple conversation. It was almost as if they didn’t have the most amazing, mindblowing sex.

Then again, maybe India spoke too soon.

“India.” He just simply said her name, looking at her with his head turned.

“Hm?”

“Aye. Last night…You was really good. Like, I enjoyed it.” He admitted in all seriousness. Jey was typically closed off when it came to admitting his feelings if they were anything other than family or friends. He wanted to keep her around, but he wasn’t ready to actually commit to anything.

India smiled, now a bit shy at the mention and his confession. “…I did too. I liked it a lot, too.”

“Why don’t you let me take care of you?” The question both confused India and caught her off guard a bit. She furrowed her brows as she looked up at him from her plate.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like…” he shrugged. “We can kick it and spend more time together. I keep you fly and shit. Anything you need, I’ll get it for you.” He casually said before taking another bite of his hashbrowns and waffles that he gently stabbed onto the same fork, continuing to eat.

India knew they weren’t going to suddenly be in love or anything after they had sex, so it’s not the situation that surprised her, it was more so the question.

“You wanna be my sugar daddy? J-” Her eyebrow was raised at him.

“Wait nah nah, don’t call it that.” He waved his hand a bit dismissively.

“Well that’s what it sounds like!” India laughed. “I mean…you are a little older than me, you got money, now you wanna buy me stuff. It’s giving sugar daddy behavior.”

Jey looked at her. “Man, stop.” He shook his head. “And we don’t gotta always have sex. I just like being around you forreal.”

India didn’t say anything right away, because she liked being around him too, and was afraid to say the wrong thing in fear of running him off. Jey didn’t seem to really care about her silence as he kept talking.

“You like sneakers?” Jey pressed. “You look like you be wearin’ them.” He glanced her over, imagining her in a fly ass outfit and some Jordan’s.

“I do love a good pair of Air Forces.” She forked some eggs and grits before bringing it to her opening mouth.

Jey looked at her in shock and amusement. That had always been his number one shoe, ever since he and his brother were teenagers.

India noticed that he was quiet and felt his eyes on the side of her face, so she turned to ask him what was the matter.

“Nah, nothing. You just…you’re so cool, you know that?” Jey complimented her in such a simple and boyish way but it warmed her heart to hear that.

“Aww, thank you Jey. You know, you’re not so bad yourself.”

This made him smack his teeth. “Yea, yea.”

They had finally finished eating breakfast, with Jey proving India wrong that he couldn’t eat all of that food. She only ate half of her food, full from eating all of the waffles first before anything else.

“You don’t have a boyfriend though, right?” He inquired, stacking his empty plastic plates to throw them all away in the trashcan that was nearby.

India shook her head no.

“Damn.” Jey sighed. “I don’t see how. You’re so pretty though.”

His comment made a ghost of a smile threaten to appear on her face. “It’s hard out here.” India simply said and shrugged her shoulders.

Jey pulled his phone out of his pants pocket to check the time, remembering that he told Jimmy they would workout at one of the nearby gyms before their content they had to film later in the day.

He shot Jimmy a quick text saying that he’d see him in about 20 minutes before turning back around to India.

“India. As much as I hate to leave you, I gotta hit the gym with my brother today.” He grabbed and caressed her hand.

She nodded in understanding. “Of course. Is there another show tonight or…?”

Jey shook his head. “Nah, but we do have to do some media stuff later like content for the company.”

“Ohh, that sounds fun!” She chirped.

“It ain’t.” He deadpanned at her cheery expression, causing her head to cock to the side in disbelief, letting out a laugh.

“Aight, yea I’m playin’. It’s fun like when you’re not tired, though. But we get through it somehow.” He rubbed his eyes, that lingering tiredness always seeming to be present as of late.

They stand there, hands still in the other’s embrace before she broke away first. “Well you better get to the gym for your brother!” She playfully pushed him towards the door, making him laugh.

“Aight aight, damn. Kickin’ me out already huh?”

“Just a little.” She teased him again, loving this goofy but calm side to him.

Does he ever get mad?

“Imma call you later.” He turns around in the doorway. “You gon’ answer?”

India rolled her eyes, but smiled at his ridiculous question. “What you think?”

Jey nodded quickly to himself. “Yea, she’ll answer. Okay, bye mama. Have a good day.” He pulled her in for a hug and she was growing to actually crave his arms around her, even though they only spent not even a full day together.

In the minutes after he was gone and out of the room, she still sat around in a bit of a daze. Her mind was so occupied by Jey that she didn’t even check her phone to see if anyone had called or texted her, which she always did first thing in the mornings.

Going back to the bedroom, she feels around the sheets until finally locating it and unlocks it to see dozens of missed calls, mainly from her sister. She immediately calls her back and Ivy answers on the second ring.

“Ho I oughta come up there and slap you!” Her sister’s voice came through the phone.

“I’m sorry Ivy, I haven’t been on my phone all morning, but I’m okay sissy.”

“Mmhm…He must’ve had your mind gone huh?” Ivy spoke teasingly.

“Girl, it was so good.” India simply said, implying that she had her world rocked just a few short hours before, making Ivy scream through the phone. India moved the speaker away from her ear so her eardrum wouldn’t burst.

“She got dicked downnn, she got dicked downnn!” Ivy sang as India just shook her head at her sister’s ridiculous antics. “Wait, does mom know that you have a new boyfriend?”

“Oh my God he’s not my boyfriend…and no I didn’t tell her I was going to meet some fine ass wrestler to have sex with. She would freak out and tell me he might kidnap me or something.” It was true, their mom was very caring but she could be a bit overprotective about the smallest things.

“Girl, she would be up there in a New York minute.” Her sister honestly admitted, making India nod her head and giggle.

“Anyway, how did you and Mikey enjoy the show?” She just knew her nephew was screaming and jumping up and down the whole time.

“Girl, he loved it. His little voice is gone today from all that screaming he did.” India smiled, just imagining his cute little face lit up with excitement.

“Did ya’ll get T-shirts and stuff?”

“You know that. He talked me into getting some too. I needed some sleep shirts anyway, chile.” India laughed at her sister’s nonchalant honesty. “Oouu. If Mikey knew that you and J—the astronauts in space would hear that scream.”

“Shhh. Don’t tell him anything though ‘cause we’re not together like that, you know?”

“Well…what are ya’ll? Friends with benefits?” Ivy inquired.

“No…I don’t think so.” Ivy smacked her teeth at this uncertainty.

“Ho, how you don’t know? He had to have said something about that.”

India sighed deeply before explaining. “Basically he said he liked being around me and that he wanted us to keep seeing each other and that he would buy me stuff, if I wanted.”

“…That dude is your sugar daddy, India.”

“No no no. It’s not exactly like that—”

Ivy interrupted her words. “All that man gotta do is spoil you and sweet talk you. The second you get to actin’ up, boom. Pull out a new purse and then here you go, ‘Okay I guess we can make up…’” Ivy mocked her sister’s voice.

“You’re grilling me right now—” Ivy interrupted, again.

“I know you finna be like that, not even intentionally. Because that last man? Didn’t spend one dime, nickel, or penny on you. So if Jey start buying you shit, you’re not gonna know how to say ‘no’. Watch.”

“That is so not true! I can say no.” She defended herself against her big sister.

“Alright, alright. Imma see, and then I will gladly say that I was wrong.”

Ivy nodded her head with confidence that she would sooner or later find out will falter.

“He made you laugh?” Ivy asked.

“Yea, why?”

“Oh yeah, you gone.” Ivy scoffed at her sister’s so-called knowledge of everything about her, knowing damn well she practically helped their mom raise her.

“So, he’s a funny guy.” She put her hands up in mock surrender.

“Hm. Laughed ya ass straight out of them panties…”

“Ivy!!”

“Oops, my bad. Is he still there?” Now she wanted to ask.

“No, he left like 15 minutes ago to go workout with his brother at the gym.” Ivy was now standing in the bathroom in front of the mirror, getting ready to do her skincare for the day.

“Is he coming back later?”

“I honestly have no idea.” She answered with no lies.

“He’ll definitely be back later.” She could just hear her sister’s smirk on her face through the phone. “Hey, I’m just glad one of us is getting it in.”

Ivy just slowly shook her head and playfully rolled her eyes. Her sister always made her laugh in every situation.

Not soon after, she heard the sound of faint crying in the background on the phone. “Oh Lord that’s Mikey. He probably stepped on another toy and hurt his foot again. If Jey come back later, you owe me a coffee.”

“Okay I guess. Tell my nephew that I love him, and I love you too.”

“I will, love you girly. Bye bye.” That was the end of their catch-up call, leaving India to shower and wash her face, doing some extra steps in taking care of her skin since last night she was a bit busy…

The rest of her day went by surprisingly fast, with no social media tasks to do today as her manager, Karli, handled all of them today. India sent her a quick ‘thank you’ text, promising to meet up with her for lunch soon, to which she responded happily that she would love that.

Now it was nearing 11 PM and India had ate dinner, a place with really good stir fry that she found on UberEats that she paired with ice cold water, and for dessert she just drank some boba milk tea.

She was in bed, underneath her covers with all of the lights off except the light from her mounted TV on the wall as she scrolled through Insta. As she was tapping through people’s stories, she unintentionally came across Jey’s story.

A wave of emotions came over her.

It was him, what looked like his brother and his girl, and a random girl at the club. But the random was dancing all on him, twerking and throwing it in a circle for Jey to catch. And the next picture just pissed her off even more.

India’s jaw clenched. “Wowww. Niggas ain’t shit huh?” Obviously Jey wasn’t her boyfriend or husband, but she wasn’t expecting him to be all up under a girl the day after they had sex.

She just tossed her phone near her pillow and put on her comfort show, trying not to let that ruin her night, but it was a bit hard.

It was even harder after Jey noticed that he posted that video on his main IG story instead of his close friends. Then he started texting and calling her.

Jey: India baby, answer the phone.

Jey: I ain’t mean for you to see that. It’s not like that fr. She just some random.

Jey: Princess cmon, don’t do me like that

India saw all his missed calls and texts and made no moves to answer any of them.

The incessant calling got so annoying to her that she answered it just to tell him to leave her alone.

“Please stop calling me Jey.”

“India. Baby just listen to—”

“I know you’re not my man and I’m not your woman, but damn Jey! Like what the fuck?”

“Listen though. She came all up on me dancin’ and shit.”

“Okay Joshua.” She called him out by his real name that he said she could call him by.

“Really, the government name? It’s like that?” As mad as she was at him, that damn sexy ass voice slipped through the cracks of her anger, but she quickly locked back in.

“Yea it’s like that. Goodnight.” She hung up the phone. She didn’t even know why her feelings were so strong towards him, she just knew that they were.

Maybe it was just the thought that someone would actually spend time with her and take care of her in the ways that she begged her ex boyfriend to do, but all that was down the drain right now.

India continued to watch her show on the TV, hoping that the rest of her night was as peaceful as it could get, until she heard knocks on the room door.

She slowly sat up in bed and squinted her eyes in disbelief. “I know damn well…” She threw the covers off of her and marched to the door to look through the peephole and low and behold, it was him.

She rolled her eyes so hard they damn near got stuck back there. She sighed, trying to keep her annoyance and anger at bay.

Her hands betrayed her by unlocking and opening the door, but only enough for him to see her face. “What do you want Jey?”

He quickly took off his black sunglasses. “Aight, hold on. Can I come in and talk?” He licked his lips and India’s eyes caught the action, getting a little distracted for a second.

“No, we can talk right here.”

‘Ummm, you really not supposed to be talking to him at all.’

“C’mon mama…You really want all these people in these rooms to hear what we got goin’ on?” He motioned to the opposite sides of the hallway.

India really just could not stand on business with Jey at all…

…shown by the fact that they were now kissing on the couch in the living area, with Jey licking and sucking on her neck and whispering apologies and promises that he would make it up to her with roses and gifts.

She definitely owes her sister that coffee…

taglist!: @chrissyxcxox @christinabae @trippinsorrows @nayys-world @4milly @punksyeet @uceyliyahh @levissslutt @m00nlitnight @luuvprincess @sheaabuttaababyy @prettypink-princesss @fearlesschimera @romanreignsbae @amandairene88 @pittieprincess22 @moxley99 @princess-saki1 @sharmelasworld @marababyyyy @shanthefemalerapper @theusotwinzcom @bettybelle @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @kelbrave

[sugurusgurl]

Love, Eventually (Part 5)

☾𖤓 Summary. She marries Satoru Gojo for the money—enough to keep her brother alive. He marries her to shut his clan up—no love, no strings, just a deal. But living together makes it harder to remember what’s fake… and what’s starting to feel real.

☾𖤓 Pairing. Reader x Gojo Satoru ☾𖤓 Warnings. Hurt/Comfort, Fake marriage, emotional suppression, slow burn, unrequited feelings, mentions of critical illness (sick sibling), power imbalance, violence.

a/n: Thank you so much for all your kind words and support! This series is my first attempt at publishing anything here so it's such a big confidence boost that the community is very appreciative of what I've been uploading so far. I hope you'll still get to feel the same rollercoaster ride of emotions in this chapter as you've experienced in the prev 4. Also, if you have any idea as to how you want things to go please let me know in the comments! Thank you again!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

The next morning is quiet, slow.

It’s Saturday. The sun filters lazily through the kitchen windows as you pour tea into two mugs—yours plain, his sweetened just a bit, the way he never asked for but never corrected.

Satoru walks in minutes later, hair still damp from the shower, hoodie thrown on without much thought. He moves like he's still shaking off sleep—or maybe the weight from last night.

You slide his mug across the counter without a word.

He nods, murmurs a gruff thanks.

You hesitate a moment, fingers wrapped around the warmth of your cup. Then, casually—

“Are you busy today?”

Satoru raises a brow over the rim of his mug. “Why?”

“There’s that new theme park just outside the city.” You keep your tone light, conversational. “I was thinking we could check it out. See if it’s something the students might enjoy for a field trip.”

You don’t say I thought it might be good for you. You don’t say You looked like you needed to get out. You just smile. Simple. Easy.

“You’re good at pretending to have fun, right?”

Satoru exhales through his nose, setting his mug down with a soft clink.

“A theme park?” he repeats, like the idea personally offended him. “On my day off?”

You don’t flinch. Just sip your tea and shrug. “Thought you might want a reason to get out. But if you’re busy brooding in the dark all day, I’ll go alone.”

That earns you a faint smirk.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans on the counter, studying you for a moment too long.

Then—

“Fine.” A sigh. “But I’m not riding anything that spins, and if there are mascots, you’re dealing with them.”

You hide your smile behind your mug.

“Deal.”

The theme park looms over the hill like a castle built of color and noise. You buy your tickets at the gate while Satoru adjusts his sunglasses and surveys the chaos with mock dread. Children shriek with laughter, bubbles float in the breeze, and somewhere nearby, a jingle from a costumed parade nearly makes him flinch.

“This is field research,” you say, straight-faced. “You’re a responsible educator now.”

“Cruel,” he says, deadpan. “Unforgivable.”

But he doesn’t walk away.

In fact, the moment you pass through the gates and the scent of popcorn and artificial strawberry hits him, he tilts his head toward you and says—

“Alright. I’m buying us cotton candy. Don’t try to stop me.”

The morning is a blur of motion and color. Satoru stops in front of a ring toss booth, scanning the setup with a faint smirk.

“Rigged,” he mutters. Then he hands over a single bill, rolls up his sleeves with flair, and sinks the first toss clean through the narrow-necked bottle.

The booth attendant blinks. Gojo barely looks satisfied as he points to the biggest prize—the slightly lopsided stuffed fox with mismatched eyes.

“That one.”

He turns to you and hands you the fox.

You raise an eyebrow but accept the fox, lips curving despite yourself. “Show-off.”

“Naturally,” he replies. He points to a swinging pirate ship next.

“Come on. Let’s see if your stomach’s as unshakable as your poker face.”

You scoff. “You said no spinning rides.”

“This swings. There’s nuance.”

He ends up screaming louder than the kids behind you—and laughing harder when it’s over, his hair windswept and a little ridiculous. You laugh too, really laugh, and for a moment, you’re not playing roles.

You’re just… there. Together.

You settle into a quiet corner of the park after lunch, sitting side by side on a bench with a view of the artificial lake. Children toss bread at ducks. Music plays faintly from hidden speakers.

You cradle a cup of iced lemonade, watching the sunlight dance on the water. Satoru leans back, arms draped over the bench, legs stretched out, sunglasses slightly askew.

He’s relaxed in a way you’ve never seen. Not performative. Not distant. Just real.

“You’re having fun,” you say, voice light.

He hums. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

A pause. “...You needed this.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just tips his head toward the sky. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think I did.”

Something settles between you then. Not silence. Something warmer. You watch him for a second longer—how the sunlight catches the edge of his jaw, how his mouth twitches like he wants to say something but doesn’t. And you know: no one's watching you here. There’s no clan. No expectations. No act to maintain. So when he shifts, just slightly, and his shoulder brushes against yours, you don’t move away. You let it stay.

Later, when the sky turns gold and the crowds thin out, Satoru insists on one last ride—the Ferris wheel. You hesitate. Your eyes lift toward the slow-moving wheel, toward the way it creaks and rises high above the park, higher than you’d like to admit.

“You said no spinning rides,” you say, voice light but just slightly tight.

“It’s a gentle rotation. You’ll live.” He says, already pulling you gently by the wrist. You don’t argue—just walk a little slower, eyes flicking up every few steps. When the attendant closes the door of your car and it begins its slow climb, you fold your hands tightly in your lap. Satoru leans back casually, arms stretched across the seat behind you.

“You’re quiet,” he says, watching you.

“I’m fine.” But your shoulders are tense. Your eyes avoid the windows. He tilts his head.

“You’re scared of heights?”

You exhale, slow. “A little.”

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk. Just shifts subtly closer, his voice lowering.

“You know this thing’s barely off the ground yet, right?” That earns him a sharp look from you. He chuckles softly. Then, quieter: “I’m right here.”

You sit like that as the car rises higher, the park shrinking beneath you, the sky now stained with the deep orange of dusk. Satoru doesn’t press. Just lets the silence sit.

Eventually, when you exhale again, it’s looser. Your fingers unclench.

“You’re easy to be around,” he says, voice casual.

You glance at him, side-eyeing through still-nervous lashes. “Is that your way of saying thanks?”

“No,” he says with a faint grin. “That was me stalling while I figure out how to tell you I didn’t hate today.”

Despite yourself, you let out a quiet laugh. The car reaches the top of the wheel. The world stills. Satoru doesn’t look at the city.

He looks at you.

Satoru hasn’t said anything in a while. You think he might be admiring the view. So you risk a glance sideways—only to find his eyes already on you. Not briefly. Not in passing.

He’s watching you with a quietness that doesn’t match the version of him the world sees. No smile. No smirk. Just a stillness. As if he’s trying to figure something out about you he hasn’t dared to ask yet.

You meet his gaze, unsure who’s going to look away first. The air feels thinner up here, and not just because you’re high off the ground. There’s something in the quiet. Something fragile. A thread pulled tight between you.

He doesn’t blink.

Neither do you.

Suddenly, his phone rings. Sharp. Loud. Jarring.

Satoru sighs, shifts back, and pulls the device from his pocket. His expression changes instantly as he glances at the screen. “It’s work.” A beat. Then he answers. The conversation is brief, clipped. You can’t hear what’s said, but you see it in his face—everything pulled tighter. Alert. Focused. When he hangs up, he turns to you, already moving.

“Something’s happened. There’s a threat near Jujutsu Tech. They need me on-site—now.”

You blink, startled by the sudden shift in energy.

“Is it—?”

“The Star Plasma Vessel. Someone’s targeting her again.” His voice is firm, calm—but there’s something sharp beneath it. Controlled urgency. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone again, firing off a message.

“I’ve called the driver. He’ll meet you by the entrance in ten. Just wait for him there, alright?”

You nod, more out of instinct than understanding. Then he turns toward the window of the car—already sliding it open. The wind rushes in, lifting his hair and snapping at the edge of his coat. You instinctively tense, heart stuttering at the drop beyond the glass.

He pauses. Glances back. And then—without saying a word—he slides the window shut again. Clicks it into place. “Didn’t forget,” he murmurs, like it’s nothing.

Then he’s gone.

A flash of movement, a gust of air—and the car sways lightly in his absence. You stare at the closed window, your heartbeat loud in the quiet.

He remembered. Even in the middle of an emergency. Even when he had somewhere else to be. He still made sure you’d feel safe. And somehow that unsettles you more than the height ever could.

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The Ferris wheel ride down is quiet without him.

You sit still, hands folded in your lap, eyes on the reflection of the city lights in the glass. You don’t let yourself think too much about what just happened—or what almost happened.

The car reaches the bottom with a soft lurch. You step off, walk past the crowds and food stalls now beginning to thin out, the stuffed fox tucked under one arm.

You’re just reaching the park’s exit when your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

No—hospital number.

Your heart stops before you even answer.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Y/L/N?” The voice is rushed, clinical. “I’m calling about your brother.”

You don’t breathe.

“He’s taken a turn. His oxygen levels dropped suddenly, and we’ve had to transfer him to the ICU. He’s stable for now, but… it’s critical.”

The world tilts. Theme park lights blur in your peripheral vision. Laughter, music, conversations—all still going, all still alive, while yours narrows to a single point of panic.

“I’m on my way,” you say, already moving, already shoving the stuffed toy into your bag like it suddenly weighs too much. “Please—stay with him until I get there.”

“We will.”

You run through the park gates, through the people, through the end of what was supposed to be just a pretend day. By the time you exit the theme park, you’re pale, silent, and trembling. Not from fear of heights. From something deeper.

From the fear you’ve been carrying all along.

That no one—not even Satoru Gojo—can fix this part of your world.

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It’s well past midnight when Satoru returns.

He tosses his coat onto the arm of the couch and sinks into it with a quiet sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

No sign of you. The lights are off. No shoes by the door. No tea kettle humming in the kitchen. No sarcastic comment about him tracking dirt onto the floor.

He frowns.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

He checks the kitchen. Empty. Your room—door open, untouched. No sign of you curled up with a book. The space feels… wrong. Off.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through messages. Nothing from you. No updates. A thought strikes him—he’d arranged for the driver to take you home after the park.

He calls him.

“Sir,” the driver says, a little hesitant, “I waited at the front gate, just like you asked… but she never showed up. I assumed she made other arrangements.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens.

“You didn’t follow up?”

“No, sir. I didn’t want to overstep.”

Satoru ends the call without responding.

For a few seconds, he just stands in the middle of the living room, coat still on, phone hanging loosely in his hand. He tells himself you probably went for a walk. Or met a friend. Or just needed space. But his gut says otherwise.

His jaw clenches. He grabs his phone, opens your contact, and hits call before he can talk himself out of it.

One ring.

Two.

“Come on,” he mutters. “Pick up.”

Three rings.

Still nothing.

He calls again.

One ring. Two—

“Seriously, Y/N—”

The line picks up mid-ring.

“Hello?”

Your voice lands like a punch.

Not sharp, not angry—just… shaky. Raw. Like you haven’t spoken in hours. Like you’ve been swallowing tears until your throat burned.

He goes still.

The irritation he felt moments ago fades in an instant, replaced by something colder. He can hear it now—the faint echo of machines. Voices in the background. Hospital.

“Y/N?” His voice drops, the edge gone. “Where are you?”

Silence.

You inhale softly, then exhale like it physically hurts to let the breath go.

“I… I can’t tell you that.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to come here,” you say, quietly. Not defensive. Just tired. That lands harder than he expects. But he doesn’t push. Instead, after a beat—

“Alright,” he says, voice calm. “Then tell me where I can pick you up. Later. When you’re ready.”

Another pause.

You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no either.

And for now, that’s enough.

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The soft hum of vending machines buzzes behind you. Fluorescent lights spill over the sidewalk, pooling at your feet like moonlight caught in a puddle.

It’s well past 2 a.m.

You sit outside the convenience store, elbows on your knees, eyes fixed on the ground like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You hear the footsteps before you see him. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been.

Just quietly sinks onto the stool beside you, hands in his pockets, gaze forward.

You sit in silence for a minute. You don’t speak, and he doesn’t push. But after a while, he leans back slightly, tilting his head toward the store window.

“You know,” he says, voice casual, “if we stay out here any longer, they’re gonna think we’re either loitering or planning a heist.”

You blink. Slowly.

And then, like something heavy shifts just slightly inside you, you let out a quiet, tired chuckle. It's small—barely there—but real.

“You’re terrible at reading a room,” you murmur.

“In my defense,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, “this is a sidewalk.”

Another pause. Another breath. Your posture doesn’t change much. Your eyes still feel hollow. But something softens around the edges—like the weight you’re carrying, just for a second, doesn’t crush you quite as hard.

You don’t talk about where you’ve been. He doesn’t ask and you’re quietly, deeply grateful for that. The silence settles again, but it’s lighter now. Not so suffocating.

You shift slightly, pulling your knees closer, your voice soft.

“The Star Plasma Vessel…” you begin, still not looking at him. “Is she okay?”

Satoru glances at you. You’re not asking because you’re curious about the mission. You’re asking because it’s easier to ask about someone else. Easier to care from a distance than explain why you’re here, sitting outside a convenience store at two in the morning, shattered behind your eyes.

He gets it. “Yeah,” he replies after a beat. “Scared, a little scratched up, but she’s safe. We got there in time.”

You nod slowly. You don’t say I’m glad. You don’t have to. Then, a little quieter—

“Good.”

Satoru watches you for another moment. Then looks away, his voice lower this time. “I wouldn’t have left if I knew...”

You cut him off gently, a small shake of your head. “I know.”

He doesn’t try to apologize again. But somehow, sitting side by side in the glow of a cheap vending machine, you understand each other just enough.

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The ride back to the Gojo compound is silent.

You lean against the car window, Satoru’s coat still wrapped around your shoulders, your face turned toward the blur of passing lights. Your body slackens slowly, bit by bit, until your breathing evens out.

He glances at you just once.

Asleep.

Your fingers remain loosely curled, still holding the hem of his coat.

When you arrive at the compound, he doesn’t wake you. There are still too many eyes during the day—elders, handlers, aides—but at this hour, the halls are finally empty. Quiet.

He slips out of the car and opens your door carefully.

“Y/N,” he says softly, just in case you stir.

You don’t.

So he bends down and lifts you into his arms. You’re light. Too light, maybe. But you don’t stir except for a faint shift of your head against his shoulder, a breath catching quietly in your sleep. He walks the familiar path back to your shared guest room inside the compound, passing closed doors and quiet corners. The old wood creaks under his feet, but no one wakes.

Inside, the room is dim—just one warm light glowing from a corner lamp left on earlier in your rush to leave.

He lowers you onto the bed gently, carefully pulling the blanket up over you. You shift faintly, murmuring something incoherent, your brows tightening for a moment. A flicker of whatever had followed you from earlier. He hesitates—then reaches out to brush a hand lightly across your hair, smoothing it back without thinking.

You exhale slowly, tension easing again.

Satoru stands there for a second too long.

Then he steps back, sits on the edge of the other side of the bed, and pulls off his jacket. He doesn’t turn off the lamp. Doesn’t climb in beside you just yet.

The room is dark now, save for the soft glow of the moon cutting across the floorboards. You’re asleep beside him, your breathing even and quiet, barely a whisper in the stillness.

Satoru lies on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, arms folded loosely behind his head. He hasn’t moved in a while. Can’t. Not because he’s comfortable—but because moving would break the fragile calm he’s pretending still exists.

He glances sideways.

You’re curled toward him, just slightly, one hand tucked near your face. The line of tension in your brow is gone now. The exhaustion hasn’t left your features, but for once, you look… at peace.

And it bothers him.

More than it should.

He sighs quietly and closes his eyes. But sleep doesn’t come. All he can feel is the weight of your presence. The echo of your voice on the phone. The way you didn’t want him to see you like that. The way you still thanked him—without ever saying the words.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be clean. Controlled. Useful. An arrangement. A lie. No attachments. No mess. No room for feelings.

And yet—here he is.

Lying next to someone who was never supposed to matter. Feeling things he knows better than to let grow.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, breath shallow.

"This is a mistake," he mutters to no one. Not because you’re the problem. But because he is. Because feelings are dangerous. Because he knows how it ends when he lets people close.

He turns his head and looks at you again.

A reluctant tenderness rises up in his chest, sharp and unwanted.

Maybe it’s time to end it. The arrangement. The act. Before it starts becoming something he can’t pull away from. Before you give him that quiet smile one more time and make it even harder.

But as he lies there, the words catch in his throat. Because the truth is—he doesn’t want to let go.

Not yet.

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The next morning unfolds in hushed movements.

The compound is quiet, the staff respectful, the air still.

You find Satoru already seated at the low table in your shared quarters, hair still damp from a shower, dressed in a plain black shirt. A half-eaten bowl of rice sits in front of him. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

“Morning,” you offer, voice tentative.

He gives a faint nod. “Morning.”

That’s it.

No teasing. No lazy grin. No offhand comment about your bedhead or the way you always squint at the light.

Just silence.

You sit across from him and begin eating slowly, glancing up every so often. His eyes are trained on his food, but his mind is somewhere else.

You don’t ask.

Then, out of nowhere—

“We’re moving back to the apartment tomorrow.”

You pause mid-bite.

“The new barrier system’s installed, wards are reinforced. I checked it myself last night.” A beat. “It’s secure. You’ll be safe there now.”

Your gaze lingers on his face, searching. There’s something clipped about the way he says it—efficient, cold, like he’s listing mission details. You nod once, slowly, but the words feel like a weight in your chest.

Something’s different. Pulled back. Sharper around the edges. You don’t press. Don’t ask if anything’s wrong. But the quiet between you stretches long and wide—louder than any answer could be.

And breakfast continues like that, two people sitting side by side, the same as always.

Except somehow, it isn’t.

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Evening settles like a hush over the compound, soft gold bleeding into pale gray.

Your things are mostly packed—orderly piles by the door, everything ready for the move back to the apartment. Satoru moves through the room with quiet efficiency, folding, zipping, double-checking everything with practiced ease.

You watch him from across the room, arms loosely folded.

He hasn’t really spoken to you all day. Just short replies. Nods. The kind of presence that feels more like absence with a face.

You walk over, stopping a few feet behind him as he shuts the last suitcase.

“Satoru?”

He straightens, still facing away. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been… quiet.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, unreadable. “Tired.”

You nod. Try to believe that.

But you know better.

“Is something wrong?”

He shrugs once, turning away to crouch beside the suitcase. “Just a long week.”

You watch his shoulders tighten faintly.

“Okay,” you say quietly, though everything inside you feels far from okay.

He doesn't respond.

You stand there a moment longer, waiting for something—anything—to break the silence, to let you back in.

But Satoru zips the last bag, gets to his feet, and dusts off his hands.

“We’ll leave after breakfast tomorrow. The car’s set to pick us up at nine.”

“Okay,” you say again.

He offers a tight nod and brushes past you, heading toward the other side of the room without another glance.

It hits you harder than you expect—that shift in him.

Like he’s already pulled away, like he’s decided something but won’t say it aloud.

The distance is quiet, but it fills the entire room.

And for the first time since all of this began, you feel like you’re truly alone beside him.

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The apartment is just as you left it—neat, modern, impersonal.

The sun filters in through half-drawn blinds, casting muted light over the familiar furniture. The kitchen hums faintly. The faint buzz of the city outside leaks in through double-glazed windows.

You walk in first, setting your bag down in the entryway with a quiet sigh. Satoru follows a few steps behind, his keys jingling as he drops them into the ceramic bowl near the door.

No words are exchanged.

No welcome home.

Just silence and shoes being slipped off.

It’s almost jarring how quickly the rhythm falls back into place.

Two rooms.

Two routines.

Two people under the same roof, each occupying just enough space not to cross into the other’s.

You don’t say it aloud, but it feels like everything between you—whatever fragile, warm thing had started to grow—was left behind in the compound.

At dinner, you eat separately.

You reheat leftover soup in the microwave while he pours himself cereal. You pass each other in the kitchen like strangers in a hotel. He hums something tuneless under his breath. You don’t ask what it is.

Later that night, your door is closed.

His is too.

The walls between you feel thinner somehow, and heavier at the same time.

And for all the ways things have “returned to normal,” you lie awake in the quiet and realize:

You don’t miss the quiet.

You miss him.

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It starts innocently enough.

A Jujutsu Tech function. Some casual, semi-formal gathering arranged by Shoko—part staff meeting, part social hour. She had insisted Satoru bring you. He nodded.

When he asked you the night before the function, you nodded too. Said nothing.

The venue is low-key—lanterns hanging over a garden courtyard, students milling around the edges, a few elders pretending to enjoy themselves. You keep to the fringes, glass in hand, eyes drifting.

You don’t know most of these people. You don’t need to.

And then you see it.

Across the courtyard, Satoru’s talking to someone.

The Star Plasma Girl, Maiko—tall, elegant, beautiful. She laughs at something he says and lightly touches his arm. He leans in a little. Smirks. Says something else, that easy Gojo charm on full display.

He smiles at her. The kind of smile you’ve only seen once—maybe twice—and always when he thought you weren’t looking.

It cuts sharper than you expect.

You look away. It’s stupid, you tell yourself. It’s nothing. But your chest feels tight. You press your fingers to the base of your glass, trying to ground yourself. You can’t even name what you’re feeling. Just that it’s unfair. That you were the one losing sleep over him. That you’re the one who knows how quiet he gets when he's tired. That you’re the one who—

You stop the thought. It doesn’t matter. Because none of it’s real. It never was.

And when Satoru finally walks back to you, drink in hand, still half-smiling from whatever flirtation he’s left behind, you force a small smile and accept the glass he offers.

“You okay?” he asks, not really looking at you.

“Of course,” you say with practiced ease.

And if he notices the shift in your voice, the slight crack in your smile, he doesn’t show it.

Later that night, as he drapes his jacket over the back of a chair and vanishes into the bathroom, you stand alone in the dark kitchen and admit it quietly to yourself—

You wish you were the kind of woman Satoru smiled at like that.

The real kind.

Not the arrangement.

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The evening has begun to wind down.

The courtyard is quieter now, the lanterns glowing softer, casting long shadows across the stone paths. Satoru steps away from the crowd, phone in hand, pretending to read a message. In truth, he needs air. Space. Something to clear the fog from his head.

You’ve been quiet all night.

He’d noticed your distant smile, the slight edge in your voice, the way you didn’t meet his eyes. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not with half the jujutsu world watching.

“Still escaping your own party, I see.”

A familiar voice. Satoru turns. Maiko. She steps toward him, heels clicking against stone. “We never finished our conversation,” she says gently, resting a hand on his arm like it belongs there. She steps closer.

Too close.

Before he can stop her, she leans in—eyes half-lidded, breath brushing his cheek, her lips nearing his like this has been inevitable all night.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. Not out of desire, but disbelief.

Then, calmly but firmly, he lifts his hand and presses two fingers against her forehead.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t happening.”

She blinks. A little thrown off. She pulls back, visibly irritated.

But before she can say anything—

Footsteps.

A presence.

Satoru turns just in time to see you standing there at the edge of the path, frozen.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

Your expression says enough.

Wide eyes. Hurt flickering like a crack across a glass pane. You turn without a word and walk away.

“Y/N—” he calls after you, stepping forward.

But you don’t stop.

You disappear around the corner, head low, shoulders rigid.

Maiko raises a brow. “I didn’t realize she was the jealous type.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “She’s not.”

But his voice lacks its usual ease.

And as he watches the space Y/N vanished into, that tightness in his chest—that sharp, sudden ache—tells him: She might not be jealous. But she’s hurt. And that’s worse.

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Satoru sees her across the party.

Y/N stands near one of the drink tables, half-listening to a conversation she clearly wants no part of. Her eyes flick briefly toward him, then away, like she hadn’t been watching him moments before. Like she hadn’t seen what she wasn’t supposed to see.

He breaks away from a group of colleagues without excuse, crossing the courtyard with quiet urgency.

She notices.

Her posture stiffens when he gets closer, but she doesn’t move—doesn’t turn away. That alone feels like forgiveness he doesn’t deserve.

He opens his mouth—

BOOM.

A deafening crack splits the air.

Screams erupt as a wave of energy slams into the far end of the compound. Dust plumes into the lantern-lit night as intruders breach the perimeter with cursed weapons drawn, chaos scattering the gathering into a frenzy.

Y/N flinches instinctively, ready to run to the safety of Gojo’s presence.

“Stay there.” His voice is sharp where he stood several meters away from her, all warmth gone, replaced with immediate command. “Don’t run. I’ll come back for you.”

She blinks up at him, startled. He softens just slightly. “I swear, Y/N.”

Then he turns—and she sees where he goes.

Straight to who he wagers the attack was aimed at. Maiko, the Star Plasma Vessel.

She’s in the middle of the commotion, a blade aimed for her throat. Without missing a beat, Satoru flash-steps between her and the attacker, deflecting the blow with a curse-wrapped hand. His back shields her entirely, shoulder to shoulder with her as the fight escalates.

Y/N doesn’t move.

She stands there like he told her to, the crowd parting around her in panic, her ears ringing, eyes locked on the one man who told her he’d come back—

and is now fighting for someone else.

For someone who touched his arm.

For someone he almost kissed.

Her hands  tremble but She doesn’t run. She doesn’t cry. He’ll come back for me. She repeats to herself. 

But her chest feels like it’s caving in, and she thinks—maybe for the first time—that staying might have hurt more than walking away ever would.

The moment he turns away, everything moves too fast.

Y/N stays where he told her to—at the edge of the courtyard, tucked by the low stone wall. The guests scatter around her, some screaming, others pushing past in panic. Jujutsu sorcerers engage the intruders midair, cursed energy flashing like lightning across the sky.

She clutches the edge of the wall, heart pounding. Eyes on Satoru.

He’s brilliant—blinding. Fluid. He tears through enemies with unshakable ease, always three steps ahead. Every movement is deliberate. Controlled.

He doesn’t look back.

Not even once.

And that’s when it happens.

One of the intruders, flung by a burst of energy, crashes into the wall just a few feet from her. He grunts, bloodied and dazed—but not unconscious. He sees her.

A non-combatant. Alone. Vulnerable. He rises, blade in hand, limping toward her. Y/N’s eyes widen. There’s no one close enough. Everyone’s preoccupied. She can’t scream—her throat closes up. Her limbs freeze.

And then—

A flash.

Pain.

Blinding, white-hot pain across her side as she tries to scramble back, too slow, too late. The blade slashes deep across her ribcage, and she falls, breath ripped from her lungs.

She hits the ground hard.

The noise of the battle becomes muffled, distant, like she’s underwater. Blood pools beneath her hand as she tries to apply pressure, vision swimming.

She tastes iron.

Feels cold.

And in the haze, she wonders—not why she stayed, but why he never looked back.

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He doesn’t realize she’s hurt until the fight is over. Until the last attacker drops. Until someone calls his name—urgently. Frantic.

He turns and that’s when he sees it.

The blood. The torn fabric. The stillness on the ground near the wall.

His heart stops cold.

He doesn’t remember running to her. Only the silence in his head as he drops to his knees beside her, shaking hands brushing her cheek.

“Y/N?”

Her lashes flutter weakly. Her lips part. She tries to speak, but no words come out.

And in that moment, surrounded by the wreckage of a battle he won, Satoru realizes— He told her he’d come back.

But he didn’t.

Taglist: @flmdrva @sarcasticintrovertedsoul @goonforgeto @riddhimabhatt @fangirlingtod3ath @updated-version

[vmlnrzmp4]

"i wish i had a different papa!"

sae , rin , yoichi , michael

read tokyo revengers version here.

itoshi sae

natsuki didn't mean to say it out loud like that. she was only pouting when she mumbled that she wanted uncle rin to be her papa. sae felt like the most appropriate response was to give her a cold shoulder(it isn't. not cool. don't do it.) he was watching his practice match again on the tablet when natsu confronts. he pretends not to know when she asks if he's ignoring her. he obviously was but he doesn't take his eyes off the screen. that's till he hears sniffles. he almost dropped the tablet. almost. he has a hold on himself. "i didn't mean it like that, papa...i was only jealous cause uncle rin didn't scold sakura when you scolded me," she explains. sae puts the tablet aside and opens his arms. natsu rushes to hug him. "you hurt me, natsuki." "i know papa, 'm sorry. i love you."

itoshi rin

bro sulks. after the fight with sakura, cause she said it with her whole chest that she wants uncle sae to be her papa. he's in the kitchen, shuffling around, trying to make something you couldn't quite understand. cause who makes simple food with all that force? "tch...said that to her own father," he mumbles, then turning to you to ask you where the seaweed is. "rin...it's ok—" "yeah yeah i known," and the truth is...he does, "where's the damn seaweed?" he asks again but more gently this time. you sigh, grabbing the seaweed pack that was on the cabinet in front of him. "...i was going to check there," he grabs the pack with a hmph. the dots started connecting in your head about what he's making. after preparing lunch for sakura, he places it on the table, telling her to not forget it. and the lunch had a note on top.

"from your boring papa.

i'll listen better next time."

isagi yoichi

see, yuki is a simple girl. she sees uncle kurona buying himself a whole cart of plushies, she couldn't stop wondering how fun it would be he was her papa 😄. and ofcourse, she doesn't hesitate to share her thoughts to her original papa. yoichi just awkwardly laughs about it. but boy he couldn't stop thinking about it. kurona was himself a baby, how could he raise one? yuki should know that. but anyways..."yo-chan...?" you call when you find him zoned out. he sighs, admitting that maybe he got a little insecure and thinks he's a boring papa. you raise an eyebrow, questioning where he got that from. when he told about what yuki said the other day, you understood. later yoichi buys a big teddy plushie for yuki. now she doesn't think uncle kurona is a better papa than yoichi<3

michael kaiser

michael runs his hand over his face. and sits. he wouldn't have been this silent about it...he was really hurt, man :( "mihya—" "nah it's fine." he cuts, looking at anne who was standing there with teary eyes. he sighs again, "you're allowed to want things, anne...even if it hurts someone else a little bit," he's honest. "...papa, no i didn't mean—i just thought he was cool—" anne cries, reaching to him, "i love you," she hugs him, looking up with her glassy eyes. michael smiles, suddenly picking her up as he starts tickling her. "damn right you love me." she laughs nonstop, trying to free herself from his grip, failing horribly. "ok papa! you're the coolest! coolest than the coolest!" "oh i know." he finally stops tickling her and hugs her tight, kissing her chubby cheek as she giggles, sniffling lightly, "i love you, papa." "i love you too."

taglist: @anyaminz @luciddre @kongkhoi @illyriakrasniqi2007 @passw-0-rd @x3nafix @levihanmyotp @vellichorira @sapph1r3x @tamashithe2nd @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 @sasukevrz @syleepy @i-eve-i @sukunaspillow [open]

[inejinn]

Marks you shouldn't have to hide

────── ──────🗡────── ──────

I) rumi centric: in wich hiding from your friends by covering yourself during a heatwave is not the brightest idea

(takes place before the events of the movie!)

-------------------------------------------------

It's so hot. The heat? Blazing. Blithering. She's dying. She's going to drown in her sweat.

Rumi has everything she could wish having. She's never had to endure being destitute: she's always had more money than the amount you need to have to live and not just survive.

She's strong-minded, her will more than firm.

Never has she been bullied, but now it's absolutely the opposite. People? They love her. They love her, so, so resolutely it can be a little scary sometimes.

She's not just speaking about her friends, who seems to appreciate her despite much, like that one time Zoey forgave her for breaking her favourite cup, when she had accidentally used too much pressure while holding the "precious" dinnerware.

While Rumi was fretting over the broken shards , trying to rebuild the ugly lizard that adorned the tea-cup, its owner had fretted over making sure she had been unhurt, assuring her "i don't care about it all that much, really! i can buy another one, i promise, are you sure you're really fine though?"

She's not just speaking about her friends, but she's also speaking about their fans, who seems to admire everything they make. To extents that are sometimes a little much. Downright scary some other times, yes, mayyybe. But, honestly, sasaengs, or papparazis, are not that much of a problem.

They somehow are not recognized when they're just wearing simple facemasks, so..

Rumi's life is great, really. It is. Perfect, almost.

It would be, if her face was the only thing she'd be hiding.

But, unfortunately, it very much isn't. She has things to hide. Not her face, sure, but still parts of herself.

Rumi has everything she could wish having, wich include a fancy appartment that really is more a penthouse, that she gets to live in with her best friends. Their appartment has AC.

She's still dying.

It feels like her second skin is stuck to her first skin, the fabric of her shirt wet with her sweat. Her leggings are doing pretty much the same. Ohhh my god this is awful.

"I'm dying", she says outloud to no-one in particular. No-one, because she's currently alone in the penthouse. Wich logically means that she could go around as unclothed as she'd want to, but the thing is that there isn't a world where that is something she would want.

Mira and Zoey could be back any minute now, back from the pool and its water that must feel so refreshing. Back from the pool, as in, the most effective way of fighting against the heat of the summer wave.

Unfortunately, she has to resort to spraying herself, as if she were some sort of wilting house-plant. The vaporized water feels nice, but. Not enough. Definitely not enough.

"arghhhh, i hate thisss"

She really, really does. Hate this. This being how she's currently feeling as she's laying on the couch and gross with sweat, of course.

Not how she's using the heat as an excuse not to see her own skin and what's on it. Not even the slightest bit, noo, never

She might just have to go lay on the floor instead. It has got to feel blissfully freezing, right? Taking a nap on the tiles sounds heavenly right about now. She'll move there once she'll have finished her daily internet-scrolling session, maybe.

But right now, chosing wich tweets she should answer to and wich to like and wich to simply secretly chuckle to is way more important. Doom-scrolling time is too important.

The only thing that might be allowed to disturb it are messages from Bobby, Celine or her friends: .. very much like the one she just got from Zoey.

"Be there in a minute! ", it goes, wich means they might be back in about , what, 10minutes, if they don't get too distracted. But given that a new coffee shop opened recently...

Her heart pangs a little. She hopes they won't take too long. Because, well, of course they can go to places without her, but a coffee place is somewhere she can easily go with them, and she loves sweet, tastful drinks. So. It'd be upsetting not going. She should ask them to some other day.

'See ya", she sends.

The floor sounds more and more enticing as she keeps scrolling. Specially given that her phone is becoming a little too hot for her comfort. The disadvantage of fast charging chargers is that they get hot very quickly. They get hot.

And the additional heat is pretty annoying, when her body's own is already very much too high. Is the AC broken? If not, then it is definitely not doing its job, the lazy-ass.

With a groan, Rumi unplugs her phone, reachs down to unplug the charger as well and..

Her fingers release their grip on her phone, and she smushes against a previously discarded pillow, and the feet of the table comes greet her and. Woah. Yeah, it is definitely a little cooler down there.

The "ow" that comes is muffled into the plush pillow. Well. Floor time it is, apparently.

Sometimes, things happen despite not having being planned and that's fine, she supposes. You can't fight back against fate. You have to make do with it, and try not to suffer because of its doing as much as you can.

There's things that cannot be escaped.

Ending up down there was apparently one of those things.

She's kind of lucky, really. The (plush as well, courtesy of that one time Mira bought too much fuzzy fabric for an outfit concept and insisted on using the left over) carpet is far away from her that she didn't land on it, which means she's in direct contact to the floor. And to the tiles. The cold, cold tiles. "Oh my god. that's, like, perfect."

She had been right. This is her paradise. She can almost ignore the buzzing of her head. Yeah, she's forgetting about it again. Definitely. She's more focused on getting rid of the pillow, once again chucking it further away, just to lay her cheek directly on the floor. "Wow." As Zoey always says: "yep, that's the stuff", though she usually uses that declaration for food-related affirmations.

She can almost ignore that she still feels very much too scorched underneath her sleeves and pants. She should have stayed in the confines of her room, where's she's able to expose more of herself, but the girls could be back any minutes now, and she promised she'd watch a movie with them. To make up for not going to the pool with them, or to the bathouse, or to the private beach they rented once, or- yeah. Basically any place where it's necessary to show off flawless skin.

Not going means not having to explain things, like why she's not wearing a swimsuit and, what, going in the water fully clothed while Mira and Zoey are swimming around in their own swimsuits that, really, really display way too much?

Yeahh. This is better for her lungs, anyway.

Here, in the relative coolness, her pulse and breathing pace can stay relatively normal, at least.

Even if it means she's stuck inside with an AC that is probably broken , and that actually might have turned into a radiator. Seriously, why is it so hot in there?

She should ask Bobby if the building has any insulation problem, or anything like that. Wich, well. She needs her phone to do that, and she has no idea where it landed. Fuck. Guess she has to sit up.

Nooooo.

With a deep sigh, she does sit up, away from the coolness. Her phone's tucked away, near the other couch, a little bellow it. The screen's light is highlighting the presence of dust bunnies.

She grimaces.

Standing up to go get it is not sounding too appealing right about now. Nope. Her legs are way too achy. Maybe she should just stay there. The looping song from the reel she had been watching isn't that annoying, if a little frustrating. Seriously, they just had to pick an extract ending just before the best part?

Or maybe she could just..

Clanking sounds comes from inside the home. She hurries up, almost stumbling right back to the ground as her head goes slightly tingly at the rush. Is this-

"WE'RE BACKK", comes from in between the entry and the kitchen.

Rumi relaxes, her shoulders lowering back down as she herself does aswell. Okay. Phew. Just her girls.

"Wow. You're looking so red, are you cosplaying a lobster?", she hears next. Next to her, or rather, above her. Mira.

She blinks. "You're back already?"

"Uh, yeah? I texted you some minutes ago, Zoey's phone died so she couldn't tell you" Mira's towering over her, looking down as she speaks, folded arms on the headrest of the couch.

"Hah, yeah, that makes sense. ", Rumi blinks again. Her friend's still wearing her pop-star like (not that she isn't a star) sunglasses, wich is quite a contrast compared to her flowy, angel-like t-shirt. It fits her oddly well.

"Sooo.. why didn't you answer? I thought you were having your internet-phone-couch time. .. No, actually, screw that. What are you doing down there? "

" Mira, it is so much cooler down there", she bemoans. " I feel like I can survive there" Her friend's eyebrows furrow. She leans down a little further.

"Uhm, have you considered trying logical solutions like tying up your hair? Wearing more adapted clothes? You could go around naked and we wouldn't mind to be fair, i'm 1 degree away from doing it myself"

That gets a snort out of Rumi's nose, because , yes, Mira might just do that.

Rolling up her sleeves sounds so easy, right now.

Suddenly, Rumi almost feels like she's younger, just having her first summer with her two newly encountered co-stars and having to subtly manage to state that sleevless costumes were out the question without raising actual questions.

"Nah, my braid was giving me such a headache,"she settles on saying (It really is better now that she lets her hair loose, in comparison) "I prefer having my Rapunzel moment"

"Sureee", Mira drawls, right before masterfully tumbling over the headrest to land on the couch, lowkey striking a pose, except Rumi knows very well it's probably not done consciously. "Hope you atleast drank."

Something in her expression is convincing Rumi that Mira is reconsidering things. Like not having dragged her along to the pool with them, for example.

Wich is exactly why she (hurriedly) gesture to the bottle she fully emptied some half an hour ago. "I was gonna go stand up at some point to grab some more"

"Welp, no need to anymore. We got-"

"Better water than the sink's water?", she asks. Rethorically. Mira is concerningly obsessed with trying out bottled water brands to find out wich is the best.

Her teasing tone is not lost on her.

"Excuse me, I'll let you know that volv-"

"Rumi, want ice-cream?! We bought watermelon flavour, you've got to try!", Zoey screams from the kitchen, making herself known again.

So that's what she's been doing. Probably struggling to find a place to store it in, what's with all the noodles currently in the freezer.

"Oh, no, thanks th-"

"Yes she does!", Mira interrupts her. " Come on, you've got to try it, it taste like nothing but at the same time like absolute shit."

Mira is still carefully scrutinizing her. They're almost face to face. This is actually kind of creepy, really; and definitely disturbing.

"Why would it still be in sale if it's really that bad?"

" Zoey will argue it's good, but do not believe her, her taste buds definitely suffered when she inhaled the chlorine"

"Okay, yeah, I'm intrigued now"

" Ice cream time it is then", Mira snaps upright- like it's not way too hot and like she still has plenty of energy after swimming during around 2hours- , offering a hand to drag Rumi along with her.

She barely stumbles when she gets up, this time.

"We got drinks too, you might finally get to get the strawberry flavour if Zoey didn't drink them all already"

"I did not! ", comes immediately from behind the door, from an offended Zoey. Like she hasn't been drinking all the bobba tea they've been getting, because, you know, it's supposedly cheaper and way better tasting than the ones in America. "I'm innocent, this is slander"

"Why does it sound like you were trying to drown her for this earlier in the pool?", Rumi asks , looking to the side at a Mira that definitely seems guilty of said crime.

"I was not." "She absolutely was."

"Okayy", she laughs "sure"

"I would never." , Mira assures, solemnly nodding, the hand that's not on Rumi's back placed on her heart like she's pledging her honest honesty, or something along the lines.

"Everybody in this building know you would, you innocent looking-demon.", Zoey deadpans. Her gaze has shifted to Rumi's neck . To her turtleneck? To what's underneath it? She almost freezes, except- "Oh my god, I can't believe I didn't notice, you let your hair down? That fits you so welllll" oh.

Yeah. This is her friends. The watermelon flavour waiting for her and the laughter that escapes Mira's throat makes that evident. They're okay with her habits, as odd as they can seem.

"Zoeyyy, do not murder her with your compliments before she's convinced you that ice-cream taste like fucking garbage."

"Excuse me? It does not, it's tastefully original"

"Yeah, usually that means something taste bad", she intervenes. She's still going to try that ice-cream out, but teasing her smaller friend is too nice of a thing to pass. They do the same to her, anyway.

‎‎‎ ‎

[majiq]

if i told you that most of my wifes are gods and sometype of angels..

and above the gods there is infinity ampunt of levels which will be never known to the human mind...the max we know is gods..

its impossbile by any means to describe there beauty, taste, natural smell of their body..just impossbile by any means and its real..

the beauty is natural like the tree is natural..compare to plastica and general image how woman need to look like..

above the human there is aliens, above them is another live thing called angels and above them is gods..and above the gods there is infinty amount of levels up to the source,

yes..there is a source to everything..and gods is something different...

in the begining

they didnt believe you can generate electricty forever for free..or to open dimension which is real...

and other real stuff...or bring information..secret knowledge that worth hundred trillions...its proved..not theory..far away...

i can close in phone call the debt of USA which is 40 trillions...not only close to move them to + hundred if trillions...

i can explain to facebook how to make more 50 billions a day without investing single cent...its in front of their face...

50 billion a day...

i know things..ir call its secrets..which no amount of money can buy them...hundred of gazzilions its nothing compare to this...

the mirror people see every day is a smart hard disk that contains information and beyond the word magic...

did you hear about solar hologram..hell ..its beyond words

its even not 0.000000000000000001%..

of what i know...

i explained how electric car charge it self in a second..and you dont need to charge it..if tesla was today ..was put his hat down...

generations and they didnt get to it...such secrets worth hundred trillions...you dont need affiliate such things..its different here..

all the start ups you know is bullshit and we can check them one by one..

i know people that you cannot imagine how powerful they are and who they are..

did you know that there is global hidden police..

G.H.P

which did the most bizarre assinations in the entire history..and i explained one of them.

they did spy after sometype of aliens on earth..the real real man in black...compare to fake stories or the russians capture alien and know there technology and in real time the results are different..stay true i say

i know the man who control all the armies of Europe...and explain him how to generate electricty very is and alot..to not be depended on russia gas

i know the biggest man in usa which is my family...

littel bit about me..

and yes most of my wifes are angels and gods which appear as woman...and the beauty, taste, everything is beyond any words ever will be, if man or woman see them...they will cum forever and its far away from joke... because the body tasted high voltage energy...

above gods there is inifinty amount of levels which i cannot describe their name, abilities in nature and much more compare to the last level known for us which called gods...

all real real...they beauty is natural...and very dangerous to see...

this infinity is seen everywhere in nature...the see, space, air...

and all our reality with whatever inside there from dimensions and other stuff is a littel dot in a mystical card...and we will never know what go in other dot...

when you move dimension..you still inside your reality..its have infinty deepness...

now why its like this...the answer is simple...

from dinosaur burn something big compare to butterfly..the genetics DNA is different..

so why this reality is big and only dot in the end in a mystical card...is because the source..what ** burn from

ABA

mean dad is from Kabbalah..and its impossible to explain it deeply its so far away for the human mind...

its called the desret that burn from dad and why its so big...in the real Kabbalah there is explanations about the dna..of

ABA...

real science, not theory..or philosophical empaty talk which lead to depression..

we are one sand from the desret which is infinty... imagine for a second that the reality/sand we are in...is infinty...from dimensions to wormhole..gods..aliens..

and way more beyond our imaginations..and in the end is just one sand from the infinty desret which called the card..we will never ever know what goes in different sands..

yet the reality/sand we are in is beyond any imagination from infinty to other things...

[ahllohehn]

Can you complain about sk au convex pls :3

I'm not trying to force you it's just that I've been starved of Convex (/hj), and the brainworms I get from your SK au are infectious and have taken over my cerebellum completely now.

(I forgot what the cerebellum was doesn't it have to do with muscle movement?)

i dont know how to "complain" so just have a drabble

-------- Dedicated to You

"Dedicated to my roommate, Cub."

"Dedicated to my roommate, Cub, who forgot to wash the dishes during his scheduled days."

"Dedicated to my roommate, Cub, who forgot to kiss me goodnight on August 19, 9:05 PM."

"Dedicated to my roommate, Cub. I miss him. He's not dead, but he's also not at home a lot."

Cub snorts at the dedication page of Scar's latest book; Mind in the Desert. Ever since he and Scar had started living together, a lot of his stories had mentioned Cub in the dedication page. Sometimes it would only have Cub at all.

It's not that it was weird for a book to be dedicated Cub. Almost every book Scar has recently published was dedicated to him, except the select few that were saved for Jellie, who enviously took up more of the page than Cub's own mentions.

Not that he'd argue with the cat over Scar having more things to say about her than Cub. He was quite fine with the silly one-liners.

Besides, Cub's dedications were a lot more interesting. It wasn't as overly TMI as Scar's anecdotes about how Jellie inspired him by almost choking him in his sleep by loafing on his face, but it showed a lot of Scar's honest feelings that would've been better for text messaging but he ultimately chose to say in a published book, where he wouldn't be able to take it back even if it briefly embarrasses him.

Cub looked forward to reading Scar's stories, but he looked forward to seeing his dedication page the most.

He had texted Cleo about it at first, when they first started getting a little silly past the "Dedicated to the my roommate, Cub" part. Their reply to him had been simple;

"It was either that or the 5 page anecdote about the different measurements of Jellie's shedded fur. The story is long enough on its own. No one is buying them to read about Jellie!"

...Well, that's quite an assumption. Cub would've been more than ready to read a 5 page anecdote about Jellie before getting into the story.

But, alas, that is not the problem. The problem is that almost everyone in the entire world who has read Scar's stories is already assuming how bad of a roommate he is.

He'll have to fix that.

He opens his phone's messaging app to see if Scar had messaged at all related to the dedication page of his newly released book.

None. But the way his icon lights up and goes gray back and forth tells Cub that Scar was probably waiting for him to do something about it.

Cub smiles down at the page one last time, thumb carressing the page before shutting it. He hesitates for a while in the aisle before buying 2 more copies and rushing to the cash register.

As he thinks of home, of Scar, Cub wonders; what will it take for a book to be dedicated to a boyfriend rather than a roommate?

[htchnr]

꩜ 01 pink lemonade 𑣲 A. HOTCHNER.

𖦹 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𖦹 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢!

「 ꜜsummary,, you had honestly forgotten you had posted a listing for a roommate — until the firm but gentle knock on the door revealed a tall man behind it, in a neat suit. author notes at the end. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, r being a tad too trusting ⋆ awkward startup conversation ⋆ fluff ⋆ not beta'd yet ⋆ maybe a tad ooc Hotch, it's been a long while. ꜜwc,, 1,1k. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

you had honestly forgotten you had posted a listing for a roommate — until the firm but gentle knock on the door revealed a tall man behind it, in a neat suit.

"hi! can i help you?" you ask, puzzled, as your eyes flit across the bizarre character in front of you. he looked official — agent or lawyer official — in a charming suit and neatly combed hair.

he flashed a small smile, "i'm Aaron, Hotchner, we very briefly spoke through emails a while back about the roommate listing. is the offer still open?" he knows it's still open, you haven't taken down the listing yet.

you blink for a second, before a smile takes over your face. "yeah! d'you wanna come in?" you offer, stepping aside. he smiles, stepping inside the apartment. you close the door behind him, moving to the kitchen, "can i get you anythin' to drink? tea or coffee? i've got other things as well of course,"

he chuckles at your enthusiasm, you're a little too easily trusting — stepping aside for him and letting him in as soon as he asks about the listing.

the background check he had Garcia run for him turned up with nothing strange or crazy, you lead a simple, easy life. went through school, almost finished college but had to take a long break due to your grandmother passing away. but you've started taking classes again, and you're grades are great.

you don't work full time, you help out in the café just below the apartments a few days a week — you're good friends with the owner of the building, and have been since you were a teenager. she helps you out with your bills and you help her out with the physical work wherever you possibly can.

honestly he doesn't know what about you or the apartment pulled him in, maybe he was just sick of living alone — the silence starting to take a toll on him. or he just wanted a change in his life, a different environment to come home too.

"some coffee is fine, thanks." he replies, setting his briefcase by the door. the apartment looks nice — homey and sweet, from his first impression of you, it reflects who you are.

you nod, opening the cupboard to grab two mugs. lucky for you, you had just finished making a fresh pot of coffee. you set down two mugs, grabbing the pot as you pour the coffee. "do you like anythin' in it?"

he thinks for a second, "a little sugar?"

you nod to yourself, grabbing your little sugar jar and spooning in some. you finish making yours before taking the two mugs towards the living room. "please, sit down," you motion to the couch as you settle into the arm chair beside it.

you hand him his mug, earning a small smile as he looks at the colourful pattern on the mug. "thank you." he grins, taking a sip. the coffee tastes great, mixed with a hint of, cinnamon?

you can see him thinking, and you beat him to the question. "oh sorry! i hope cinnamon sugar is okay, i need to buy a new pack'o regular sugar as i used the last of it in the cookies i baked last night.."

he shakes his head, "the sugar is fine, don't worry."

you grin, nodding. "so, uh, Aaron?" you look up from your mug — uhg, he's handsome. "what drew you-" you huff, stopping your sentence. "uhg, m'not really good at this. uh, just tell me about yourself?" you sheepishly smile, tilting your head.

"don't worry about it," he smiles reassuringly. "well, i'm in my thirties, i work at the FBI," he pauses, thinking. "i work odd hours, sometimes i'm away for a little while, not more than a few weeks. oh, i do carry two guns, would that be a problem here?" he hadn't thought about that yet.

you finish your coffee in a large sip, shaking your head as you swallow it down quickly. "not a problem at all! i'm not a huge fan of guns, but as long as you put them away properly i have no issue with them." you smile.

he nods, acknowledging it.

"but FBI? are you a secret agent or somethin'? as long as you can talk about it obviously," you grin, intrigued by his profession.

he chuckles at your enthusiasm. "i work in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, we profile behaviour and habits to catch killers. we pick apart what makes someone tick, how they move, what their house looks like for example, what their job is, their facial expressions, little habits. and we create a profile based on that, that describes the person we're looking for."

you look utterly captured by his explanation, very intently listening. "that sounds real interestin', so you deal with serial killers too?"

he nods, "serial killers, arsonists, bombers."

your eyes light up, "tell me, is it anythin' like true crime shows?" you watch a little too many of those..

he laughs, "i guess a little, though much more complex."

you grin and nod. "on another note, is there anythin' you'd like to know in detail about the apartment? specific things you need or?"

he thinks for a moment, "could we take a look around?"

you nod, setting your mug down on the coffee table. "yeah! well, as you've been lookin' 'round, this is the livin' room, ..."

✦◟ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

the tour went well, Aaron intently listened as you explained things and showed things, asking small questions here and there. he took a good look around every window and door, thoroughly checking the front door as well. you showed him his room, as well as a room you told him he could use as an office if he needed to.

he ended up staying for dinner, as it was late when the tour and brief check up was finished. you had insisted on cooking, while he didn't want to trouble you. you had said that you were gonna order something cause you were tired, but when he agreed to staying for dinner you changed your plans and decided to cook. you had made biscuits and gravy, having made the dough this morning already.

"wow," he says, a hand in front of his mouth as he chews. "this is really good." comfort floods his body as he eats — he'd been living off of take out for too long..

you smile, looking down. "thank you, m'glad it's good."

the rest of dinner was filled with small talk, little things about you, little things about him. with the last few scrapes of your forks your plates were empty and the two of you sat in silence for a second.

"so, what do you think?" you smile hopefully.

he returns the smile, "when can i move in?"

safe to say you're just a little ecstatic. it's been a while since you've lived with anyone — not since you first semester in college — so you're excited.

your grin grows, "whenever you're ready."

「 authors note,, oh my god y'all, after 2 whole years i'm back with writing for bbg Hotch 😩🫠 i've been daydreaming about this series ever since i started it, so i've decided to do a whole overhaul of the parts i had written so far! it needed some serious work 😅.. ꜜtaglist,, open!. 」

𑣲 join the taglist ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ

[inkydelusions]

introducing... smitten!spencer

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smitten!spencer who’s had a crush on you since forever and becomes a stammering mess whenever someone mentions it.

smitten!spencer who had never been all that interested in arts and crafts until he found out you have an entire room dedicated to your projects. now he finds himself stopping by every art supply store he encounters, and sometimes he even dared to enter, which leads to him buying some new paints and other materials for you.

smitten!spencer who feels so comfortable around you, he allows himself to ramble on about anything, and he will open up about his past and his personal life because he knows not only will you understand him, but you also won’t judge him.

smitten!spencer who’s always been a fan of the silence. until he met you, until he heard your voice for the first time. now, he’ll almost beg for you to tell him all about the newest rom com you just watched, who’ll allow you to play music in his car and sing along to every single song

smitten!spencer who will attend every school function you direct and will ask for penelope’s camera so he can take pictures of you dressed up as a cute rabbit or as a bearded man. who will wait afterwards with a small, simple bouquet of flowers to congratulate you on your amazing work with the kids

smitten!spencer who has to endure penelope’s threatening looks and persuasive talks after fumbling yet another opportunity to confess his feelings

smitten!spencer who is oh so scared to mess things up and lose you in the process

smitten!spencer who didn’t really know what romance and romantic love felt like until, one night, he looked at you sitting across from him in a bar and something clicked inside his chest

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #10: “please look at me again.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you didn’t even want to go to Barnes & Nobel, but your mythology 102 professor INSISTED that everyone in class find a greek & roman myth book and write a paper about it.

so you dragged your pretty little ass into the bookstore, a tote bag in one arm with your arms crossed. the plan was simple:

-go inside, get the smallest easiest book, and get out-

half skimming the synopsis of a book you weren’t even going to buy, your eyes wondered. and landed on her.

god, there she was.

no, not in the mythology section where you lazily dragged a finger through the spine of the novels. she was just there. across the store. somewhere near fiction. slouching a little, hands in her pockets as she stood besides another girl; louder…more animated.

you just kept staring, she wasn’t looking at you. not yet, but your heart was already captivated.

then she looked up. straight at you. eye contact. quick. just a second or two.

you looked away first, lips pressed together into a straight line. pretended to fix the hem of your sweater like it was the most important thing to you at that moment.

she didn’t look again for a while.

but you did. twice. maybe three times. (okay, like five times but who was counting?)

you needed to do something.

you casually made your way to the LGBTQ+ section. just to send a message. you know, in case she was…perceptive…insightful.

you stood still, flipping through Carmilla and (right on topic) Song of Achillies, trying not to look obvious. trying to seem interesting, mysterious, slightly queer but not desperate.

she never looked over. or if she did, you missed it.

she made her way to the music section, alone. perfect, you could just go up to her and maybe talk about the GnR record she held.

“you already have the CD version.” her friend slide next to her and you spun around walking the opposite direction. fucking hell

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you spent the next ten minutes actually looking for that dumb mythology book, all while side eyeing her from three aisles over. at one point, she laughed at something her friend said and you swore your stomach did a backflip.

whatever. you weren’t going to be weird about this. just as you were about to give up and walk out, you noticed the book in her hand. you had read it a couple years ago and loved it.

she was holding it like she wasn’t sure if she was gonna commit. so maybe it was stupid. maybe it was bold—but you went.

you took a deep breath, walked right up to her…well pretended to skim the shelf next to hers, and then:

“hey.” you said, casual.

she looked up. and for the first time, she really looked at you.

she blinked, slowly.

“sorry hehe,” you said quickly, motioning to the horror novel in her hands. “that one is really good. if you like unreliable narrators and mind games.”

the girl blinked, then looked down at the cover.

“oh. i haven’t read it yet.” her voice was low and smooth, your stomach was doing somersaults now.

“i have,” you smiled. “it gets weird. in a good way of course.”

that made her smile too. small, crooked. “weird is fun.”

you nodded, “it is! just don’t read it at night. unless you are into being paranoid about shadows.”

she laughed, then tilted her head, “noted.” her eyes just roaming your presence, the smile never leaving her mouth; it grew a bit actually.

“any other recommendations?”

you were going to answer when her friend came back and tugged on her sleeve. “dude. we have to go.” she said, obviously impatient. “you said five minutes like twenty minutes ago.”

the girl gave her an apologetic glance, then turned back to you.

“i guess im being dragged away,” she sighed, voice light but her eyes were disappointed.

all you could do was smile, “it’s okay. enjoy the book. or at least the paranoia that comes with it.”

she grinned, then: “thanks. really. for the rec.”

“anytime.” you waved.

and then she was gone. but you can swear she turned her head and smiled at you one last time, the book still in her hands

you stood there, staring at the empty spot she left behind.

no name. no number.

for fucks sakes you didn’t even get that damn mythology book you went in there for.

still, you left the bookstore thinking-wishing-begging:

“please universe. bring her back to me please.”

maybe when you return for the mythology book, if the greek gods were by your side….then you had high hopes~

[satyricplotter]

you forced me to

pairing: (yandere?) dick grayson x female reader rating: explicit word count: 9.3k warnings: explicit sexual content, non-con, (justified) paranoia, underwear theft, manipulation, somnophilia, cunnilingus, fingering, drugging, gender-specific terms of endearment (pretty girl), reader calls themselves whore at one point. please take the non con warning seriously. notes: this is a very old fic i am posting upon request, just for fun. by this point in time i think the characterization is off and if i had to rewrite i'd do it differently. reader has a pussy and calls themselves girl/woman, but there is no use of pronouns. mentions of them wearing a skirt too. please listen to the theme song while you read. (you forced me to, lizzie mcalpine).

read it on ao3.

He’s been stealing your underwear.

You sit back on your haunches, staring at the old pair of underwear in your hand—torn at the crotch, the very same reason you’d thrown them out. Or thought you’d thrown them out. You’d just found them jammed behind the lower desk drawer. It is not an unlikely place for them to be, considering it’s still inside your bedroom. You might’ve placed them on the desk while gathering clothes to shower, or perhaps you hung them on the windowsill to dry and they fell behind the desk. These are all sensible explanations.

But you cannot explain the stains, worked deep into the fabric, gone stiff and nasty grey with dust. Or the huge hole. What had started as a little tear at the upper seam of the crotch (a recurrent occurrence—you’d learnt to toss them out as soon as you couldn’t patch it up) was now a big, gaping hole; most of the crotch destroyed. Coupled together, it… it paints a picture.

You’d thought you’d thrown them out.

By the time you finish flipping your apartment on its head, you are farther even from reaching any sort of understanding. Your search does not produce any more abused underwear, but a close of inspection of your scrap bag (which is to say, clothes that need mending or will be turned into kitchen rags) reveals neither of the other two pairs you’d finally gathered the courage to bin, but hadn’t yet thrown out. (Because you still had to decide whether the blouse with the underarm gash was salvageable, and it’s still there!)

Sitting on your couch, still holding onto the torn underwear, you remain perplexed. They’re not even sexy panties. You specifically make a point not to buy anything but the most practical of underwear, because they’ll end up in the trash sooner rather than later. They’re not anything that would invite temptation at the best of times, much less the depravity implied in the deterioration of this particular pair. Fear eludes you, because it cannot make light to the depths of your bafflement. This, this situation is not something that happens to people like you.

And from Grayson of all men?

Because it must be him who’s been stealing your underwear. The stains are cum, plain and simple, so it can’t be any of the girls. Grayson is the only man that stops by, the only one that spends any time in your apartment, in your bedroom. You’ve left him there alone multiple times. For you to shower. For him to take a nap. For you to catch a long call outside. Any of those times, he might’ve been—

It could’ve been the plumber.

You fold over yourself, chest pressed to your knees. “It could’ve been the plumber,” you repeat, unsurely.

Could it really?

.

“Dick,” you say, next time you have time to catch up with him. You’re having a late breakfast at the diner—more of a lunch than a brunch, but you’re eating pancakes, so. “What do I do if someone’s been stealing my underwear?”

Grayson chokes on his coffee. To be fair, it’s not something one brings up out of nowhere in polite conversation. Still, you shovel a mouthful of syrupy pancake in your mouth and watch him.

“Someone’s stealing your underwear?” He coughs. The tips of his ears are pink. You wonder if it’s genuine or if he can control that sort of thing.

“I think so,” you say, pushing a bit of hash brown aside before the syrup can touch it. That’d be gross. “I’ve had a few pairs of panties go missing. I’m sure I haven’t tossed them out, but last Sunday I did a deep clean and found nothing. I can’t think of anything else that could’ve happened to them.”

“I see,” he says, just a little stiffly, but nods. It could be awkwardness, though Grayson’s never struck you as the type of man that’d be queasy about female underwear. Not that, if he were the culprit, queasy would be a word to describe his relationship to your panties. “Has there been any signs of forced entry? Anything else gone missing?”

“Nope,” you respond, popping the p loudly. You’re being extra playful, extra nonchalant—a challenge. You should dial it down. “All my valuables and documents are where I left them, and my locks haven’t been tampered with. Short of Nightwing dropping by for a visit, I doubt anyone but me’s been riffling through my drawers.”

This seems to throw Grayson for a loop, but considering what he asks next, perhaps you just phrased it wrong. “You know Nightwing?”

You roll your eyes. “Of course not. I only meant that Nightwing’s about the only person who could come into my apartment without me noticing, what with being a vigilante and all that,” you say. And then, after considering it a bit longer, you amend, “well, him and the Batman. But I seriously doubt Batman’s had a hand in my underwear drawer.”

Grayson’s disgusted face rips an honest laugh out of you. He huffs and tries not to smile as you make fun of him, and suddenly, it’s like none of this has happened. There isn’t any torn and stained piece of fabric stuffed into a bag underneath your bed, and there is no suspicion weighing heavy on your shoulders. There is only Dick Grayson, your friend, and the times he’s silly when he doesn’t mean to be.

He still walks you through the process of reporting every crime that may be involved in that situation—trespassing, theft, sexual harassment, if not assault—and tries to placate the fears you don’t let on. “It may be another woman at the Laundromat,” he suggests, “who is only envious of your good taste in, um, undergarments.”

“Oh, please,” you mock. “If it was another girl, she would’ve grabbed one of my tops, or, like, a cardigan. No self-respecting woman would go for my ugly, Fruit-of-the-loom panties.”

Grayson rolls his eyes. “They’re not ugly.”

Ah.

“Because you’re so well acquainted with how they look?” You say dryly, trying to play it off, but you watch. And he sees you watching, because Grayson’s not stupid.  Far from it.

He could play flustered. He could even play unapologetic. What he does is pause delicately, and then—

“Well, at Donna’s Halloween party—”

“Ohhh, my god, shut up.” You launch forward, pressing your hands over his mouth and nearly taking the whole table with you. Grayson laughs against the skin of your palms, the sensation uncomfortable but inevitable. You’re burning in the face, and glaring daggers. “We agreed not to talk about that.”

Grayson shrugs arrogantly, and mumbles around your hands, “I wasn’t the one that pulled my skirt up in the middle of billiards because I felt hot.”

“It was hot,” you say, huffing, and retract your hands. There’s a little bit of spit in your palm, which you wipe with a semi-disgusted look. Worse yet, your hurried silencing-of-man has left you with a big glob of syrup smattered across your chest. Grabbing some napkins, you chance a dirty look at Grayson. “It’s all your fault.”

“What,” Grayson asks with a smirk, leaning his cheek on his propped up hand. “You flashing the crowd or soaking your shirt in maple syrup?”

“All of it.” You scowl at the dark stain seeping sticky and wet into the cotton of your t-shirt. Your tits are going to be unbearable in a minute. In the reflection of the glassware, you observe Grayson watching you swipe at your chest. You wonder what he would’ve done if you’d ordered the cinnamon rolls with the runny cream cheese frosting they’re so famous here for.

He’d mixed up the drinks for you at Donna’s party too.

“This is impossible,” you sigh, standing up. “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up. Don’t stick me with the bill.”

“Don't take too long, then,” he says, but if the teasing tone is any softer today than usual, you elect to ignore it.

.

Come Monday, you get an idea.

It’s a crazy, dangerous idea that you immediately dismiss out of hand. But it continues to nag at you all throughout the week, an itch you cannot scratch. Friday evening, you find yourself staring at your kitchen island, fingers tapping the weathered laminate. Considering.

He could kill you.

It is not unlikely, though Grayson doesn’t seem the type. But they never do, do they? That’s how they find the girls down in the dumpsters, features contorted into a furious mask of betrayal on what’s left of their faces. They never seem the type, and then they get you alone while you trust them, and you never see the light of day again.

An underwear thief might’ve been something you could’ve ignored—a vaguely uncomfortable reminder of the depravity of man and a light weight on your bank account—were it not for the pair of panties you’d found. You’re not stupid. You know what he did. He’d waited until you were out, or showering, or otherwise occupied. He had dug around your clothes bag, pressed the dirty fabric to his nose and inhaled. He’d taken his cock out of his pants, and fisted it harshly, blood booming, tugging at it quickly because you could come in any minute.

But it hadn’t been enough. His fingers had dug into the little tear—perhaps it hadn’t even been his fingers first, but his tongue—and still it hadn’t been enough. He’d torn it open so that the head of his dick would snag just so as he pretended to fuck you, and not the empty space between his hand and your panties. With every slide, his dick touching the same place that your pussy had leaked onto. That must’ve made him screw his eyes shut, his head loll back. Fucked up little indirect kiss that it was.

Then he’d come on the rag, sputtered thick, hot cum on the same fabric that’d tugged and wrapped around your pussy. It was almost good enough, almost the same.

Almost. Not just it yet.

That’s the thing about escalation—about provocation, which is what your plan would be. The statistics say most cases of this behavior, particularly when focused on a single victim (and you don’t know what to call the cum-stained panties shoved under your bed if not focused), tend to develop into more grievous offenses. Stalking. Cameras. Assault. Confronting him is risky, but leaving it up to chance is the same as leaving it up to him.

You simply do not want to leave it up to him. You do not want to be caught off guard. You want to see it coming.

Whatever it is he’ll do.

If it even is Grayson, you think. If it isn’t…

The banner on your laptop screen pops back up, grabbing your attention. LAST CHANCE! It reads, bright and yellow. BOOK YOUR TWO-DAY, ONE NIGHT TRIP TO THE LOVELY HILLS OF…

The clock ticks.

You book the trip.

.

YOU: hey

YOU: connie just bailed on me for our weekend getaway

YOU: wanna go hiking with me ? lol

GRAYSON: this weekend?

YOU: yeah

YOU: all paid. on connie bc shes dumb and a traitor

YOU: we’d be leaving sat 7am and returning sunday evening

GRAYSON: haha oh connie

GRAYSON: it’s an overnight trip then?

YOU: yep i rented a cabin but nw its two bedrooms

YOU: we only have to share a bathroom

YOU: is that okay?

GRAYSON: yeah. it’s cool

.

Grayson picks you up Saturday morning, seven o’clock on the dot. It is perhaps unwise to allow your only means of escape to be his own vehicle, but you figure they can trace it back to him if anything happens. Besides, it’s not like you own a car to drive around. You move exclusively on public transport and, like, Lyft.

He loads your gym bag (clothes + toiletries) and backpack (hiking equipment + first aid kit, because you’re nothing if not paranoid) onto the empty, kidnapping-tool-free trunk, and you set off on your way. You command the aux cord and blast an annoying kpop girl group playlist to bother him, and he sings merrily back at you because fuck you, he likes this kind of music.

The three hour ride is spent mostly singing and talking, with a brief interlude where the sun lulls you to sleep. Grayson turns down the music, puts on the calmest indie album on your library (you probably shouldn’t let him touch your phone, but it’s not like it’s the first time), and lets you nap. You half expect to wake up with his hand on your thigh or your neckline askew, but you’re just… mellow and a little cramped.

Dick is still driving, almost to the campground. He has rolled his sleeves up, gorgeously tanned skin wrapping tight muscle. You know he’s strong, even if you don’t quite understand how strong yet. His face is calm, free of worries. Not warm. Not particularly inviting. He’s just looking ahead, driving. A normal man driving a normal car.

Why me? you want to ask. Of all people in the world—because it is suddenly, sharply clear to you that Dick Grayson, so handsome, so charming, could have any person in the world he so desired—why you? There is nothing special about you, or your relationship with Dick. Prior to this, you had never even given the man a second thought. So why?

What had you done?

“You up now?” He asks, smiling.

“Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. Slowly, deliberately pushing that last thought out of your mind, you unfold yourself, crack your neck and roll your shoulders. “Christ, that’s stiff.”

A little smirk wounds up on his lips. “That’s what she said.”

“Ugh.” You swat at his shoulder, and he laughs. Lord, he does not make it any easier to bear.

.

Hiking is fun. You do not get quartered in the woods, which is always a pro.

It takes you and Dick most of the day to make it up the mountain and back. The man is as respectful as he’s ever been, which is to say sometimes he makes crude jokes and chases you with bugs, but he doesn’t touch inappropriately or stare at your tits. It’s not like you suddenly expected him to do it, but… apparently a part of you did, and now you’re left feeling slightly queasy about the fact that the only reason you’d taken him hiking was so that he’d keep  thinking about how sweaty your underwear must be.

It’s not Grayson, you think on the way back down. Dick is carefully stepping over a branch ahead of you, instructing you on where to place your feet. You’re staring at the nape of his neck, where sweat beads to curl the ends of his black hair.

Dick Grayson is your friend. He’s not your stupid panty thief. He’s just your friend.

The revelation hits you with both relief and a dizzying rush of fear, because if it’s not Dick, then that means there’s a lunatic out there stealing your underwear and cumming on it and planting it on your apartment for you to find. And you don’t know him. You cannot even begin to plan for it. He may be there right now, confused because you’re not home. Or perhaps he knew. Perhaps he’s been watching you all this time, running circles around Grayson who’s got fuck all to do with this, and laughing at you while he—

Jesus. What the fuck are you gonna come back to?

Your foot catches on the edge of a rock and you slip backwards and down the trail. Your back hits the soil with a muffled thump, a cloud of dust rising around you and clogging your throat. The fall reboots your brain to factory settings, mind going utterly blank for a good moment. It’s like you cannot process both the epiphany and the stunning hit, and your brain is left skidding as it tries to make sense of what just happened. Pain wafts from somewhere in your body, but you cannot even begin to divine where. You barely even register it’s there.

Dick rushes back to you, eyes wide and face pale with worry. He carefully turns you on your side, slips your stiff arms out of the backpack’s straps. Dick knows what to do when someone’s in an accident, knows how to move you, where to check. He’s all business when he runs his hands over your thighs, down your back, over your scalp. Searching for injuries. He asks you if you’re fine, asks: where does it hurt? You cannot speak. You can only stare back at him, his beautiful face covered in dirt only interrupted by the trails of sweat at his temples. As if it’s finally decided what to focus on, your brain kicks back in.

You sob.

It’s not him, you think with an animal sort of desperation that borders on hysterics. It’s not him. What are you going to do?

Dick scoops you up into his arms, pressing his cheek to the top of your hair. Strong and warm, his arms form a cage where you are safe from any danger. There, you sob even harder.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he soothes, smoothing a hand down your back. When he speaks, his lips touch your hair. “You’re not injured. It’s only the fright, baby. Only that.”

He’s right on all accounts, but he cannot even begin to comprehend what he’s telling you. Your mind cycles on a single thought, frightened and unseeing.

Why couldn’t it be you?

.

The cool-down period after those dramatics might’ve been the most embarrassing hour of your life if you weren’t so fucking drained by the end of it. Dick’s an angel throughout it all: holding you until you stop crying, saying nothing as he helps you the rest of the way down with your hand clamped on his, making light, one-sided conversation on the drive back without commenting on what happened. Meanwhile, you stew in shame to avoid falling back into panic.

Did you want it to be Dick? That option would’ve been much preferable in any situation—the devil that you know, as they say—but it could all be your own delusion prompted by feelings you weren’t even aware you held. The evidence of the underwear is undeniable: you do have a creep to deal with. But why must that creep have been Dick? What made you so sure you’d gone so far as drag him out of the city to—to what? Confront him?

What did you want from him?

You stumble into the cabin in a daze, so utterly exhausted you just want to drop on the bed and sleep this all off until the morning. As it is, you barely make it onto the couch. You must’ve been dozing off or staring into space for about fifteen minutes before Dick’s crouching in front of you and coaxing you into the bathroom. Your gym bag sits untouched on top of the toilet lid, and there’s bubbly warm water filling the tub.

You blink in astonishment. “You drew me a bath?”

“Yeah,” he says, setting a towel on the holder, and squeezing your shoulder as he steps back. His hair is wet, and the bathroom already muggy, which means he’s already showered. “The warm water will help with your muscles. You’re really gonna feel that fall tomorrow, you know. I don’t think we’ll be able to do the second part of the trail.”

“Okay.” You sit on the toilet, trying not to cry under the weight of your deceit and your disappointment.  “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he reassures. “It was just a little slip. Happens to the best of us.”

“We could go swimming?” you offer pathetically. You don’t have a swimsuit, but there must be a store nearby.

Dick smiles kindly. “Sure, if you’re up to it. Listen, you have your bath. I’ll go out and get us something to eat, yeah? I think I saw a diner on the way here that might be good, and if not, I’ll bite the bullet and buy the overpriced sandwiches we saw on the front office.”

Your throat closes up. He’s leaving? When you don’t even know what your next step is yet? The conjured image of the stranger waiting in the shadows of your home lingers at the edge of your vision, waiting for Dick to disappear so he can attack. Dick nods and goes to leave, when you, acting on your mounting panic, shoot out a hand to grab his wrist.

He turns back, eyebrows raised. You look up at him, equally stunned. The tiny, logical part of you being choked to death by your animal instinct still manages to chortle a quiet What the fuck are you doing? You do not listen to the voice of reason.

“Don’t go,” you say, and even to your own ears you sound absurdly freaked out. “Stay.”

Dick’s gaze turns warm and full of terrible pity, and to your utmost mortification, you start tearing up again. He takes the hand gripping his wrist into his own, intertwining your fingers with his, and crouches in front of you. “Is this about the thief?”

You suck in a breath. How did he—

He chuckles. “I figured you wanted to get away from the city to forget about that. That’s why you invited me instead of the girls, right? So I could protect you?”

He’s wrong. He is so, so wrong. You invited him to taunt him, to confront him, because you thought the worst of him. You… are such an asshole. When this trip is over and you’re back at your empty, cold apartment, there is no chance in hell you’ll be able to call on him for help. And Dick would offer, but with what nerve could you dare ask for it? Worse yet, if the faceless man did attack you, would you not deserve it after all you’ve done?

…which does not mean you don’t want Dick to stay despite your wrongdoing. The trip isn’t done yet.

“What if,” you say, licking your lips nervously, “what if he followed us?”

Dick nods seriously, squeezes your hand. “I personally think that unlikely, given what you’ve told me about the situation. The situation is at a stage where he has not given you any proof that he means to interact with you directly, or even threaten your safety. Following you this far—particularly with me as your company—would be a move too out of place for what he’s shown of himself so far. Granted, it’s not entirely impossible, but…”

“Yeah.” You screw your eyes shut, miserable.  Not like you can mention the ruined panties now. “I know.”

Dick observes you for a moment, and then sighs. “Look, I gotta get us something to eat. You’ve worked out too much today not to get some food into you. Whatever’s open now won’t remain so for long. What if we do this? Give me your phone.”

The recently broken suspicion (misplaced, you remind yourself) has not yet cleaned up any of the lingering hesitation, but you were the one that insisted on buying food on-site instead of bringing any from home, for obvious reasons, so you can’t exactly start complaining now. Vaguely puzzled, you paw at your pockets until the black square slips out, and you wordlessly hand it over to Dick. He retrieves his own from his back pocket, and quickly taps on them both.

“There,” he says, giving you back your own.

DICK GRAYSON

00:00:13.

CALL ONGOING.

It’s on speaker. When Dick speaks again, it bounces off the walls of the bathroom, a shadow voice chasing after his. “I’ll have you on while you take your bath. You don’t need to speak, just put the phone on the shelf and do what you have to. If there’s anything amiss, I’ll come running. Is that okay with you?”

You nod, speechless. Dick’s grin is bright as the morning sun when he leaves. On his recommendation, you lock the bathroom door and try not to jolt when he tests it. You hover impatiently as he grabs his stuff and locks up the cabin, giving you green light to start bathing. You still wait until you hear the sound of the car pulling out the driveway, echoing weirdly on the phone.

Peeling your clothes off your body while Grayson listens in is… weird and guilt-inducing in more ways than one, but in his absence, you find yourself so exhausted you can barely rouse some leftover shame. There’s dirt collected on your every crevice, and you’re going to have to scrub hard at your scalp to get the caked mud out. You’d been on the fence about washing your hair here, but now there’s no way to avoid it.

Sighing, you go lay your pajamas out before getting into the tub… and then curse yourself, the thief and everyone involved in this nonsense all the way to hell and back.

Dick’s voice crackles in the open line. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, pressing the heel of your palm to your eyes. Unbelievable. “Just forgot to bring something.”

“You can grab anything out of my bag,” he offers. “I brought a shirt you can sleep in.”

“Thanks, Dick.” You sigh again. Whatever. You need to get on that tub before you have a breakdown or else you’ll never get clean. “I’ll see what to do.”

“No worries.”

The water’s divine when you lower yourself in. Just the right amount of hot: scalding, bordering on unbearable. You about manage to stifle a groan as you sink all the way down, muscles loosening up the longer you’re under. And you stew. You stew a while. Dick’s not very noisy as he drives, and you kinda forget that he’s there listening until you hear his muffled voice ordering who-knows-what. You take advantage of the fact he’s busy to lather yourself and scrub.

Fuck me if he’s not right, you think, looking at the side of your thigh. There will be a bruise the size of Texas on there come morning. You knead on your tired muscles, careful to keep the groaning to a minimum with the man listening in. Just because he’s not a creep doesn’t mean you’re going to turn him into one. Besides, you’re not really the whimpering type, even when it comes to sex—

—a statement which is swiftly disproven when your hand catches on a previously undiscovered, incredibly tender area of your side and you lurch forward with a sharp and throaty hiss. It’s a wet and guttural thing, ripped out from the depths of your chest, and it echoes on the enclosed space of the bathroom. Pain blooms bright behind your eyelids and for a good minute, all you can feel is the pulsating flesh at your side and the shaky breath leaving your lungs.

You hope Dick doesn’t make anything out of the panting and splashing that fills the air in the aftermath, but your hopes are quickly dashed when his voice comes in cheerily asking: “All fine at home?”

“Yep,” you bite, blinking out stars. “Just… scrubbing.”

“Ah,” Dick says delicately. “Listen, I’ll turn up the music so you can have some privacy. Do what you need to relax, I’m almost there anyway. Happy scrubbing!”

“I’m not—” you start, blood rushing to your face, but your voice is swallowed by David Bowie’s better hits.

You sit in stunned, mortified silence and not a little bit of pain, conditioner dripping down your back. What is this sudden tragicomedy? How come nothing’s going your way today?

Well, it’s not like you deserve anything going your way. You’d just about ruined your friendship with Dick on the very tenuous grounds of believing he was a creep with a penchant for your underwear out of all the women in the Gotham Metropolitan Area when, in fact, he’s so uninterested in you he believes you’re jerking off right this very moment and his first thought is… turning the music up.

You slump down the tub in despair and groan. Not like Dick fucking minds.

Yeah. You deserve everything you get.

.

Dinner is a relaxed affair, and it doesn’t last terribly long on account of how famished you are. The bath left you feeling loose and lax, and your threadbare pajamas, unglamorous as they may be, are just warm enough that you feel extra cozy this spring evening. Dick’s got a low fire going on the fireplace, and he’s somehow managed to acquire Chinese food, of all things, in his hunt for nourishment.

“Pretty good, though, right?” he says around a mouthful of noodles when you point out the absurdity of it.

You snort. “For a restaurant in the middle of nowhere? I’d say pretty fucking good, yeah. If you told me you had it flown in from that place on seventh and Bourne, I would honestly believe you.”

“That’s why you gotta run with me, Danger.” Dick winks at you, gesturing at the paper plate tittering precariously on his lap. “Who else can live it up like this with you?”

He’d been setting up your plates at the kitchen island when you’d come out the bathroom, had one look at the high and stiff chairs and noped right out of there and onto the couch. Dick had followed you with a fond shake of the head, and settled next to you. The TV above the fireplace had some movie playing you swear you’ve heard him talk about, but you haven’t been paying much attention.

Raising an eyebrow at him, you sip at your glass of sweet tea. Bit sweeter than your taste, but he’d gone to the trouble of preparing it for you so you couldn’t exactly complain. “Are you calling me Danger now? Is that supposed to be my superhero nickname?”

Dick snorts, lips tugging up in amusement. “Sure. I had another one in mind,” he says, “but I thought you might be offended if I named you Mudbiter.”

“Haha, you are soooo funny,” you say sarcastically, reaching over to rap him on the head. He dodges out of the way before your knuckles can make contact, and catches your finger in his mouth. The bite is gentle, but wet. You quickly retract your hand in disgust to wipe down while he laughs merrily at you. “You’re a gross little boy, Richard.”

“How are you going to fight crime if you recoil at a little spit, Mudbiter?” He taunts, altogether too happy to consider the ridiculous idea. “They’ll splatter way worse things on you back home.”

His innocuous comment brings you right back to the cum-crusted panties underneath your bed, and your mood sours immediately. Put upon, you begin stacking the dishes on the coffee table.

You slap his hand away when he tries to go for a last bite. “Stop calling me Mudbiter.”

“Don’t wanna,” Dick says, stealing a piece of broccoli from your plate before you can take it away. “If you can walk straight tomorrow, maybe I’ll let you graduate into Airtreader.”

You scowl at him. “You know, Nightwing would never treat me like this.”

“Ha,” Dick huffs, amusement taking a darker tone. You think he means it when he says, gaze a little unfocused, “Nightwing would tear you to pieces if he ever had the chance.”

Belatedly, you remember Dick’s probably met the guy, what with the whole Wayne ward thing. Actually, he’s probably even worked with him. You remember Nightwing became a regular hero at Blüdhaven right around the time Grayson got settled at the station. That piques your interest, but something about the way Dick’s jaw ticks puts you off asking too many questions. There may be some bad blood there you can’t get to right now.

“I thought you said I was dangerous,” you say as you return to the couch, breaking into a yawn in the middle. Dick scoots over so you can lie down, and takes down the blanket on the back of the couch to lay across your lap and his. “You don’t think I could take him?”

“Nah,” he says. The way he looks at you is slightly mocking. He really must know him. And he’s never introduced you? The bastard. “You’re a danger, but you’re not particularly dangerous.”

“A danger to who?” You ask. The elegantly raised eyebrow is an insult to your person.

As punishment, you shove your cold feet on Grayson’s lap. He takes them with a roll of the eyes, pinches the skin at your ankle in retribution. He leaves a hand wrapped around it, the warm weight of it surprisingly comforting. In less than a minute’s time, you find yourself supremely comfortable, and just about ready to snooze.

“My sanity,” he responds dryly, a moment too late.

“Cannot be that bad,” you mumble. Your lids are feeling very heavy all of a sudden.

“Mm,” Dick hums, turning to the screen. “You’d be surprised.”

You flit in and out of sleep, half there and half away. The weight of Dick’s hand on your ankle is just about the only anchor that holds you to the mortal world. Every time you feel it lift or shift, you rouse back up to follow up the conversation you’d dropped twenty minutes ago. Dick entertains your babbling, but he’s watching the screen intently. It’s been a while since you’ve lost the ability to follow the storyline. You think the spymaster may be cheating on his wife. In your half-dreams, you are both spymaster and wife, and Dick takes turns as the villain and the homewrecker. At one point, you cannot tell whether the quiet murmuring’s coming from the screen or from the man at your side.

“Oh,” someone breathes. You lazily open your eyes to find Dick gazing down at you in a daze. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

You flush, searing under your skin. From far away, you feel a little shame curl up inside you. You’d hoped he wouldn’t notice. The reason you’d cursed out God and all his disciples back in the bathroom was because you’d forgotten to pack a second pair of panties for the night. Your half-baked plan had been to string Dick along all day with the reminder of how sweaty and nasty your underwear must be, and then plant it on the shared bathroom during the night to see if he’d take the bait. You’d been so concerned about which pair of panties to put on that you’d forgotten to bring a second pair for when you had to change out of them.

It will be fine, you’d thought. Your pajama pants were threadbare, but not to the point you could tell right away you’d gone commando. Not unless you got real close, anyway.

Huh.

Much too late, you take stock of the position you’re in. Dick still has your ankle clasped in his hand, but your leg is folded at his waist, and half his body is on top of you. His other hand is currently resting at the curve of your hip, tracing over the thin fabric where the seam of your underwear would be, if you had any on.

“Oh,” you croak, looking into Dick’s dark and hungry eyes. Huh, you repeat numbly in your head.

He wants to eat you alive.

“It is you.”

But there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re fast asleep before the revelation even sinks in.

.

You awaken to a room filled with dim light and the obscene sounds of being eaten out.

Coming to is a slow and disorienting transition, a process to which the obscurity of the room both contributes to and eases somewhat. Whatever it was that Grayson drugged you with has made you sluggish and it takes your mind ages to fully capture what is happening. Your body not so much. It twitches and shakes, flushes and tightens. As you ease back into thinking, you can begin to decipher some of the input it sends you: your thighs quiver with exhaustion, your skin itches underneath all the moisture, and the wound on your side throbs like a bitch.

Then there’s the pleasure.

The pleasure is involuntary but readily felt. Once you manage to recognize it for what it is, it eclipses almost every other feeling. Except terror. That one sneaks up on you, steadily building as your eyes become accustomed to the darkness and you begin to make out details in your surroundings. You are in your room at the cabin—another transgression, but at least you haven’t been taken to a hidden dungeon in New Jersey. The surface underneath you is so soft you cannot be anywhere but the bed. The room is stuffy, thick with human heat and the smell of sex which means this has been going on a while.

Laboring under great duress, with the sloppy desperation of a frenzied mind caught in an unresponsive body, you manage to lift your neck. Three facts are readily made known to you. First, you’ve been stripped completely naked. Second, both your tits and most of your torso are splattered with fresh cum. And third… your legs are spread wide open, and house between them a flushed and sweaty Dick Grayson.

Your head lolls back as he crooks a finger and rubs against a spot that makes your breath rush out of your lungs as if you’ve been punched. Fuck. His fingers are inside you. Grayson’s tongue flattens against your throbbing clit with a little moan, low in his throat, and whatever half-formed thought was on your brain promptly shatters when he starts pumping his fingers in and out. He’s good at it, of course he is. He eats you out with an ease and skill that indicates extensive practice, and with such gusto that your puzzlement only increases. You feel yourself start to coil in anticipation, core melting into liquid gold, and panic. It’s too soon, even though you know it can’t be the first time you’ve come tonight. You’re not ready. You just woke up!

Harried, you attempt to draw his attention but your limbs are weak and numb. Your fingers twitch on the sheets and, god, are they rumpled. Stained. What has he been doing with you?

Your squirming only manages to drive Dick’s fingers deeper into you, and he uses his hand to steady your hip at such an angle that you cannot help the cry that escapes your throat. Well, shit. You were trying so hard to keep quiet. In a room that’d been hosting only the squelching of his fingers inside you and the labored breathing of your two bodies, your cry fills the air. Dick tenses between your legs, and your stomach churns in apprehension. He lifts his head.

Fuuuuck, you think desperately, locking eyes with the man.

He is gorgeous. The sweating has made a mess of his hair, sticking to his temples and curling all sides. It lends a beautiful sheen to his skin in the lamplight, which is complimented by how flushed he is. The tops of his cheeks are dusted in red. His lips are slightly swollen and dark pink, and the entire lower half of his face is shiny with what you have to assume is your own cum. Worst of all: his eyes, hazy and unfocused. In those first few seconds after your eyes meet, you see the picture of a man who’s spent hours between your legs and enjoyed every second.

Then his gaze zeroes in on your conscious presence, and it sharpens like a knife. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and hot, right against your pussy. “You’re up.”

Don’t—, you think, but it’s out of your hands. You go hard and tense, and then the dam breaks. You come against Dick’s chin, spasming around his fingers with a loud cry. He blinks down, bewildered, and you shut your eyes in mild despair as the waves of pleasure break on you. Mind blank, you hold onto whatever’s near until it’s over.

But it isn’t over.

Dick dips his head down to suck on your clit eagerly, fingers moving again in renewed vigor. Your eye twitches, your legs tremble. It’s too much stimulation altogether too soon. Pleasure becomes indistinguishable from pain. You squirm against him desperately, and the hand gripping your hip harshly pins you down against the bed. Dick is strong, much stronger than you’d first thought. It’s not even five minutes later you’re openly sobbing, mumbling whatever pleas cross your brain to get Dick to stop.

“I know, my love, I know,” he soothes you, like he’s listening, like he even cares, but he dips his tongue inside you as he does and you know he doesn’t give a fuck about anything other than tasting you. “I just need one more, okay, baby? Just let me have one more, right on me. Come right on my tongue, pretty girl.”

He’s insane. He’s fucking insane. Can’t he see the way he’s driving you mad too? What’s worse, now that you’re awake, he’s suddenly chatty. Every time he mumbles against your cunt, you feel the vibrations of his voice travel into your flesh. It’s a litany of so good for me, baby, and fuck, cry more like that, and it works, goddammit. You like hearing him praise you. He ruts against the mattress every time he speaks and his voice acquires a broken little whine that’s got you clutching the sheets just to keep yourself from grinding on his face. The shame and disgust that color your pleasure are still not enough to sour you from the feeling.

“Dick,” you gasp when it’s close. Your hands make their way into his hair and pull. Hard. He moans into you like it’s you sucking him. “Dick—!”

It’s like hearing his name makes something snap inside him. His arm slides under your hips, lifting you and bringing you even closer somehow. Your knee hooks on his shoulder, talon finding purchase on the firm plains of his back. It must hurt, the way your nails dig into his scalp, but if it does, the pain only spurs him into action. At this point, the way he’s fucking you is too fast and sloppy to be good, but you’re both riding on the same desperation and you really are so very close. It’s a twist of his tongue and a suck on your lips that does it, popping the bubble and sending you crashing down with a rush.

You do wail his name. It’ll weigh heavy on your conscience in a minute.

Dick holds you steady as you come, lapping up everything that gushes out of you. It’d be horrendously embarrassing if it weren’t so fucking hot. This whole affair is beyond saving, morally speaking.

The cool down is worse this time, but when you start crying out no’s and pushing Dick’s face away, he actually goes. It may be because this time you’re pretty serious about gouging his eyes out and he can tell by your tone. You lay there, boneless and half-delirious, as he presses his forehead to the swell of your stomach and mutters apologies against your skin. His hands rub soothing circles on your outer thigh, your side, but you’re too out of it to relay to him how much it stings.

“You did so well, my love,” he murmurs, kissing his way up your abdomen. You wonder if he doesn’t find the dried cum gross. You would. “So good and sweet on my tongue.”

His mouth stops to suck another bruise between your breasts, and your legs twitch involuntarily. You feel a smile spread across his face, and he sucks along the underside of your left tit, which must be sweaty as all hell. Not, much like your cunt, sweet whatsoever. Nothing about this makes sense to you. What is he doing? How does he find this arousing? When his teeth graze your nipple, you cry out again.

“Wait,” you beg, “please.”

Dick doesn’t listen to you. A wet mouth closes over your nipple, so hot your eyes flutter closed. His tongue is no less skilled here, and he plays with you like a doll. The hand on your side palms his way up to pinch and fondle your other tit, thumb brushing over your nipple and then pressing his blunt nail in to make you tense and hiss. Every little sound you cannot swallow seems to be music to his ears, making him babble incoherencies.

You thrash a little, upset because you told him to wait, everything is so wet, and you feel so drained—and all he can talk about is how much he likes your tits? But Dick’s hovering above you now, your hips bracketed by his knees, and when you brush against his hard cock, he lets your breast slip out of his mouth with a ragged moan and grinds. The idea of taking him inside you right now, when every nerve on your body is screaming for respite, makes you go loose as a rag doll.

He takes some pity on you, which only means he keeps playing with your tits and doesn’t breach your entrance. The head of his cock rests heavily against your clit, threat and taunt both. He’ll do it tonight. You cannot imagine any way he will not take you while he has you. That’s been painfully clear since the moment you woke up. What would be the point of this otherwise?

(What is the point of this? When he could’ve asked, and you—)

“Ah,” you croak, tearing up. You turn your head to the pillow to smother a sob. This is so stupid.             

Shaking and too preoccupied with not making it all too obvious that you’re crying, you do not notice Dick has moved until his hand closes on your chin and turns your face towards him. He is so close you can see the sweat collecting under the line of his hair, the slight sheen of his dark eyes searching yours. It’s a heavy gaze, meaningful but undecipherable. You may have left all language behind the moment you crossed this threshold. He finds nothing inside you of what he seeks.

His hand shifts to cup your jaw, a steadying weight. A sigh escapes your lips, and you inch towards the warm touch despite the slight dampness. His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer, flush against him. When his cock brushes against your leg, a leaking hardness trapped between you, his eyelids flutter closed and his fingers tighten their hold. But he doesn’t buck. The consideration is much belated and strange, but also sweet, you guess. You take the time to catch your breath.

Dick runs his fingers down your back, building a steady rhythm that has lulls you into the first moment of uncomplicated pleasure of the night. He stares at you all throughout it, though you keep your eyes affixed to the ceiling. Looking at him straight on makes a knot form on your throat. Sometimes, he skirts the edge of the tender patch on your side; each time, you tense up and sleep is chased away. You think you know why he does it. He wants you present, with him.

Maybe he shouldn’t have fucking drugged you in the first place.

Frustrated, you hide your face in the crook of his neck. You feel before you hear his breath hitching, the discrete rearranging of limbs. This must be some sort of torture for him. Does he get off on it? You don’t get why he’s holding back now. Why he didn’t hold back before all this. Why the drugging. Why the underwear. Why not ask. You wonder if he had been planning to kill you and your easily accessible pussy just distracted him.

You wonder what he will do after this. There has to be an after, even if only for him. Fear coats the back of your mouth in a thin bitter film. I want to see it coming, you tell yourself to calm down. A smidge of control over a situation that spills outside your means. I only want to know it’s happening when it does.

Grayson’s hand splays between your shoulder blades and holds there steady. His voice is rough and a little choked. “I’ll let you go,” he says, hot breath tickling your hair, “if you want.”

If you want?

“I can press charges,” you say, lifting up your head to look at him straight. It’s not a threat but a fact.  “I can tell everyone you know.”

“I know. You ought to,” he agrees readily, bright-eyed, and it’s like back at the dinner, when he was walking you through filing a report against every single one of his crimes. The same man who believes in justice and comeuppance—and accepts his share of the blame without any guilt behind it. Sick son of a bitch.

You push back against him, raising yourself on your elbow. Dick glances at your tits for a second, but trains his eyes back on your face when you snap your fingers at him.

“I could ruin your life,” you say, torn between anger and incredulity. “Do you not think I can?”

“I wish you would,” he replies, wrapping a hand around your wrist. His eyes search yours, begging. What for? He lifts your wrist to his mouth, presses a sweet kiss against the pulsing blood. “I wish you’d sink your hands into my life and tear it to pieces. I don’t care what you do. But touch it. Mark it. Make it yours, make me—”

“Are you listening to yourself?” You interrupt callously. A laugh bubbles up your throat, a nasty, hysterical thing that titters between a cackle and sob. “What is wrong with you?”

Dick closes his eyes at the sound, hiding his mouth behind your palm, eyebrows drawn together. Upset? Upset at what? As if he has any right to feel anything but shame. And perhaps it is shame what he’s feeling, confronted so obviously with the realities of his betrayal, but what does it matter to you. What do you care what he’s feeling.

“Don’t,” you say, rushing forward and gripping his chin in that same hand, tight enough your nail digs into the skin. The change in position takes him by surprise, allows you to shift atop of him and steady yourself on his chest. He still grips your wrist, but his wide-eyed gaze is fixed on you. Good. “You can’t hide now, Grayson. You can never hide anymore. Everything I say, you must listen to. Everything I ask, you must answer. You owe me that much. We were friends!” You shout, a wet cry from deep in your chest. Fuck his tender little gaze, the stuttering heart underneath your hand. “If you’d asked, I would’ve said yes. I would’ve come to you willingly, so why—why?”

This threatens to be too much for him. You can see it in his face. For the first time during the night, shame peeks through, clouded by lust and a little bit of sorrow. He must know what he’s lost by pulling this ridiculous move: your loyalty, your affection. What does he think he’s gained?

Still, though he struggles, he heeds your words, and answers around your fingers. “But it wouldn’t matter,” he says. Honest. Strangled. His eyes affix to the ceiling, can’t quite look at you straight. “No matter how many times we fucked, you’d always leave. Even if I managed to coax you into a relationship, you’d never be fully there. It matters this way, doesn’t it? It will never stop mattering.”

You blink back tears. “I could’ve loved you,” you say, voice trembling. “I could’ve learned.”

Dick gives you the saddest look you’ve ever seen from him. It’s a look that speaks volumes.  You remember, just barely, that night at Donna’s party, a night you’ve done your best to forget. Your lips tighten. You can’t say he isn’t right.

“We are friends,” he says. “I know you. Better than you think. I’ve watched you—and I’ve tried my ways to make a mark in your life.”

“By stealing my underwear?” It feels good, the way he flinches when you dig your nails into the plush skin of his cheeks. “By dragging me here, drugging me, fucking me while I’m asleep?”

“I never—ngh—ugh,” he squirms underneath you. He likes the pain. Unconsciously, you slide a bit downwards. “Only my fingers. My mouth.”

“Noble of you. Way to go, pervert,” you sneer, and you feel the way he twitches beneath you. Ah, you’ve slid a little too far. Dick’s eyelids flutter closed. He grips your hips, holds you down just enough so your cunt slides against his cock, not to penetrate. It’s a wet, pleasurable drag now that your nerves aren’t literally on fire. He’s been leaking precum for a while now. You allow Dick the grace of this act, if only for the pleasure of watching him get riled up and flushed again. There is no end to your wonder here: how a man so eternally composed and upright can succumb to such vileness only for the privilege of this feeling. From you.

What an idiot.

“Maybe,” Dick pants, lips pulling on an infuriating smirk, and you realize you’ve said it out loud, “but you’ll never forget me now, won’t you?”

Now you’re angry all over again. You pry his left hand from your hip with both of yours and drag it up your soiled body to your mouth. Dick watches you nuzzle against his palm, so big against your face, so warm and rough. Your lips close around the meat of his thumb, and suck, first delicately, then hard, at the tender skin, never taking your eyes off his. Dick’s cock throbs against your cunt, hips stuttering dangerously. When his pace quickens, growing sloppy, you bite down.

Hard.

“Ah, ah—” You catch Dick mid-moan. The sound draws out, long and broken, as he tenses underneath you, the one hand still holding onto your hip digging painfully at the tender spot on your leg. He sputters thick, hot ropes of cum right on his abdomen, which you watch shoot until it becomes small rivulets dribbling out. It’s… a lot. Dick makes a bit of a mess, it seems. You want—

It makes sense to you, that it is his hand and not yours. Not to Dick. He watches through half-lidded, exhausted eyes that widen as you bring your intertwined hands to smear the cum on his abs, using his fingers to spread it and then bringing it up to your mouth. You observe the thick, white liquid coating Dick’s fingers with an odd sort of wonderment—still hot from inside him. Soon to fill you up. Dick groans as you place his fingers inside your mouth, tongue swirling around first, and then sucking them clean. His dick manages a last, struggling jolt, and you release the hand with a pop and a satisfied, mocking smile.

Dick throws that arm over his face, muffling against it what you think is a string of curses. What would he do if you decided to lick the rest? As if reading your thoughts, Dick peeks from underneath his arm, not exactly despairing, but a very near yet happier thing. His eyes rake over your naked body, still sporting now-matching cum stains; tits out, thighs spread at either side of him, the head of his dick barely peeking out beneath your pussy. It’s an obscene little picture, and you play act the whore for him to stir all the quicker.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters, fingers fluttering at the juncture of leg and hip, eager to touch. You let him. You allow it to happen.

I only want to see it coming, you think. Control. I only want to know it’s happening when it does.

You give him a very mean smile. "I hope I am."