#chapter probably 18 part 1

[britcision]

AND HERE WE ARE! Totally getting this out in February well done team! And this is gonna be our last chapter before a wee teeny tiny time skip and Jason’s finished core! What a beautiful day 🥰

We’re getting another two-parter too, because Danny and Jason refused to let me get to the end of this lil introductory arc without at least one more pile of abject fluff! But finally, we’re ready to begin the plot!

Once again, the link to the AO3 version is in the first chapter and the 15th chapter; you can see it in the text for the link if you wanna subscribe to be told when it updates 😁

First Chapter:

Previous Chapter:

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So That Just Happened part 1

Back in her own room on the other side of the country from Gotham, Sam Manson reclined back into giant, coffin shaped body pillow her beloved girlfriend had given her when they moved and contemplated her phone.

The brand new Wayne-chat was blowing up satisfactorily, although apparently Tim was a massive stalker too. That was probably a good thing; it meant she hadn’t actually nuked Tuck’s chances with his nerd-crush. Now they could bond over their mutual stalker tendencies.

But, did that make her revenge less effective?

It wasn’t like she was actually out to ruin his life, but she’d kinda like to leave a mark. Something that would make him think twice about letting her think he and Danny had fucking died in Gotham in her absence.

Or. Well. Gone radio silent in Gotham, which was probably actually worse because if they were dead she’d know exactly where they were.

The Wayne chat were all pretty sure Tim and Tucker were together too, and Sam’s new best friend Babs had even pulled up the feed from their living room tv somehow. Sam wasn’t exactly the tech wizard Tucker was, but… after seeing that, she disconnected her and Val’s TV from the wifi.

And settled in to remote watch Tuck get his ass kicked at Spiderheck, apparently. At least for a little while; until something else on her phone caught her attention.

It was… almost funny. While she knew she was a whole three timezones away, she’d never really felt left out before. Like maybe she should have stayed on the east coast…

Not that she regretted it, of course. She had a good job, a good school, a wonderful girlfriend who’d been so excited to get into a good school and really go to town on the business department.

(Apparently there were posters of Val’s face in the ethics classrooms. Sam refused to ask if they were golden example or dire warning.)

She was just… a long way away. Even a long portal away, and… being back with the guys, even in Gotham, made the quiet of their comfy little apartment seem lonely.

Huffing, she turned and traced her fingers through the leaves of her mimosa plant on the windowsill beside the bed. They curled gently shut at her touch, and made her smile. Just like always.

She was happy to be home. She wasn’t technically liminal enough yet that it was her haunt, but… well, for all the jokes Val made, Sam had to admit she’d put down roots. She loved her job at the greenhouses, and her internship at the botanical gardens.

She loved scaring the hell out of the dudebros in Val’s business classes who thought ethics were a waste of time. She loved sharing messages with Jazz about the boys, laughing that even three hours ahead, Tuck and Danny still couldn’t get up before them.

She was kinda considering texting Harley about Timblr too. Not like, for any particular reason; if Tim’s family weren’t gonna embarrass Tucker enough, Harley probably wouldn’t either. She’d probably think it was adorable.

Or, y’know, worrying evidence of obsession. Psych types worried about stuff like that, usually.

Sam was kinda also considering sending Harley Jazz’s number. Jazz might still be skating just on the neurosurgery side of the line, but she’d always been big into psychology. Big enough to try and triple major, and only drop to major-major-minor after the third pre-exam meltdown.

And she could use having someone else do the shrink bit on her a little more often. Although really, for that Sam should make her a professional appointment; friends didn’t ask friends to psychoanalyze their overprotective pseudo-sisters. And Jazz could use more friends.

Jazz could use a transfer to a specialty that would let her sleep once in a while, a more stable supply of fresh ecto, and about six weeks in a meditation retreat to get the accidental telepathy under control, but more friends would be good too. And less stubborn insistence on her second try for double majors.

Maybe the switch to psychiatry full time would be good for her? Or psychology. Sam was a little fuzzy on the difference, which one Jazz was currently still minoring in, and which one Harley did.

(Jazz’s current second major was neurosurgery, which Jazz insisted was totally less taxing alongside a neurology major because it was the same body part. She was the only person in her class attempting the double major though, so.)

Humming tunelessly to herself, Sam flicked back into the group chat. Babs was still sharing the feed… brows drawing in, Sam frowned at the little spider figures still fighting to the death. Now, she wasn’t as big of a gamer as she used to be, but she was pretty sure Spiderheck didn’t actually offer red berets.

Snorting a laugh, she flicked back out of the chat and opened a new one, adding both Jazz and Harley. All it needed was the perfect name… something that would grab both of their attention.

Obvious. Child’s play.

Snuggling back into her coffin pillow, Sam grinned down at her phone screen.

Danny Has A Boyfriend chat was live.

**

Having eight legs wasn’t exactly the same as suddenly having four new ones, or two new legs and two new arms. While the first two were definitely functioning as “hands”, being the ones to pick up and use all of the weapons, Tim had quickly learned that he could grip with any of the eight “feet” that were available.

Yeah, spinning a laser staff all the way down one side of his body and up the other was fucking cool.

He’d adjusted pretty quickly during their “practice” round, while they all got used to the web slinging and worked out how to open the boxes and use the weapons.

(Tucker had swung himself into the lava by accident, so they’d started a second round.)

Tim felt pretty much ready to go, although if he was honest with himself… his only actual complaint was that he didn’t have a camera.

Conner had asked Tuck at the start of their second round if his powers had been nerfed to make it “fair”. Tucker, sweet innocent Tucker, had managed to convey a sidelong look even looking at even without a face on their little blob bodies and said he didn’t think Conner needed a nerf.

He just needed to understand how the powers worked, and they could be incorporated into the system. Which, well, was like catnip for Conner.

At least Tucker seemed a lot less flustered about talking to him while they were both spiders, because Conner had started talking his ear off about TTK and hadn’t stopped since.

Tim was kinda considering swinging over and taking them both out, just to get the game moving. But Conner was cute when he got really into something, and being a headless little spider body did not seem to have changed that.

He spent the time practicing with the webs instead, spinning and tossing himself around the map. It was pretty similar to using a grapple, although he wasn’t exactly sure whether or not the web was coming from his own body.

If it was, it was coming from inside a foot, which wasn’t how actual spiders worked… but Tim was pretty sure that was on Spiderheck, not Tucker.

Being able to run around upside down was the biggest change for him, and pretty cool. Tim scuttled around under a couple of the higher platforms for a while, planning his strategy.

Honestly, he was pretty sure TTK was going to wind up fucking Conner over rather than making anything easier for him. You’d think that flying would be an advantage in Spiderheck, at least as far as avoiding lava or an out of bounds, but Tim knew pretty explicitly how far it took Conner to stop.

It wasn’t exactly on a dime, and in this game? The pace didn’t exactly allow for imprecision.

And they were wasting time talking about it rather than getting used to having an extra six hand-feet.

Still upside down, Tim twisted until he could see the other two spiders. Which was when he learned that… they did kinda have their faces on them. Just, instead of being in a face position, on the front of his body that he was seeing out of, it was just sorta… plastered across the body.

Like a photo skin mapped onto a flat blob.

He considered letting the other two know; if anyone walked into the room, they’d probably be able to see their little faces on the screen. If they were just standing around talking.

Also, the pictures’ mouths weren’t moving, which hadn’t been weird when Tim was listening to them talk and didn’t think they had mouths. Kinda was to look down on Conner’s smiling face and hear his voice at a mile a minute.

Tucker probably already knew, and might have done the faces on purpose? And if he hadn’t, it was gonna be pretty funny to see what happened when he noticed.

He’d gotten progressively better at actually talking to Conner the longer he wasn’t actually looking at him, and the focus being on the game had helped too. Face in the game? Probably gonna throw him again.

And it was probably time to get things actually moving, so he could enjoy that.

Humming softly to himself, Tim scuttled across to the loot crates, found himself a double ended lightsabre, and dropped down on Tucker and Conner’s heads.

**

“Sooooooo…” Danny clapped his hands, doing his best to make his broad grin at least look a little innocent as he floated sideways into Jason’s field of view, “not that that wasn’t adorable and dramatic and everything, super touching, buuuut…?”

He almost laughed as Jason jumped, having apparently forgotten Danny was there for a hot second, then pulled his hand back from Lady Gotham’s to glare at him. The Lady herself didn’t bother hiding her chuckle, settling back to recline once more on a cloud of smog.

“Was there something you needed, Phantom?” She asked with a dry amusement.

Danny shrugged innocently, sticking his hands in his spectral pockets. Much more dangerous than regular pockets, but he’d not been doing more than blob wrangling lately.

“Not so much what I need, just, y’know, trying to keep things on track. I dunno if you’ve got other plans for the night Jay, but we were with Frostbite for a while and if you did…” he trailed off, and Jason grimaced.

���Not what you’d call set plans, but…” Jason trailed off as well, and Danny could feel the guilt even before it tried creeping in.

Nope, not having that. He’d almost talked himself into that bullshit already tonight, none for Jason. He nodded airily, floating up to drape an arm over the larger man’s shoulder.

“All I’ve gotta do is get to bed before midnight, so I’m not rushing now that Tucker’s found himself a new ride.” Waggled eyebrows punctuated that comment with enough emphasis that Jason snickered, darker feelings pushed aside without finding purchase.

“What, you don’t wanna go watch that train wreck in person?” Jason teased with a lopsided half smile.

Danny pulled a face, both at the thought of Tucker’s goddamn disastrous attempts at flirting and… well, the possibility of running into Bruce again. Maybe Constantine.

Danny was maaaaaybe kinda avoiding the wizard since he’d started collecting the other contracts on his soul; it wasn’t like he wanted them for nefarious purposes, it was just fucking weird. He didn’t like owning people. Not even overgrown Sour Patch Kids in trench coats.

(At least Constantine was still alive though. Those unlucky souls who died still bound to Pariah damn near went through a full reboot. No memories, no personality, none of what Danny would have thought of as like, the core components of a soul.

So far nothing anyone had done had been able to help them, and Danny had a nasty feeling the final answer would be Ending them. The Observants didn’t want to, they were perfectly happy with a thrall army so long as they controlled it, but Danny was firm.

No slaves, no thralls. If the only way he could free them was through a final and permanent death… he would.

But Clockwork was still looking, and so long as the ancient of time thought there might be a way… Danny held out hope too.)

For now, he shook his head quickly, holding up both hands.

“No way man. Bruce already hates my guts, I’m gonna keep a healthy distance.”

For both their sakes, really. Jason’s mood every time Bruce had spoken to him today kinda proved he hadn’t listened to Danny’s advice and stepped up. Not that Danny had exactly expected him to; again, hated his guts.

Jason pulled a face but didn’t bother to argue; he’d probably rather not actually deal with the old man for a third time either. Instead he just shrugged, turning his attention back to Lady Gotham.

“Do you know what time it is in Gotham now, my lady?” He asked, and the really weird thing was that it didn’t actually sound weird.

Danny always felt awkward and formal whenever he tried to address a ghost by their title, and Lady Gotham was the very worst because she never bothered to hide when she was laughing at him. Which was, y’know, every time he said it.

(He wasn’t gonna just call her “Gotham” though. That would be worse, so he just sucked it up.)

On Jason’s lips, words like “my lady” just sounded right. Danny flashed back for a moment to snow in a graveyard, and Jason knelt before him quoting Shakespeare. There was something in Jason that was just made for flowery language and dramatic proclamations.

Lady Gotham clearly agreed, bestowing a fond smile upon Jason before inclining her head back for a moment, those red on black eyes glowing suddenly brighter. Looking into the living world, or right up Clockwork’s ass?

“It’s coming to ten o’clock,” she said softly, something almost like regret in her tone. The smile that she turned back to them was softer, sadder.

Danny’d feel bad about being the one to point it out, except, yeah. He’d had to. Ghosts in general didn’t exactly think about time. It was a problem for the living, so - him. And Jason.

Who didn’t seem nearly so sorry with the answer. He nodded, fingers beginning to drum against his thigh.

“Time for a few more questions, then.” That wasn’t a question, and if Danny was completely insensate or possibly locked in a sensory deprivation tank he might have warned Jason about talking to a powerful spirit like that.

It’d need to be a damn good tank for him to miss all the signs though; Jason was so in the good books. Lady Gotham just smiled and nodded, gesturing once more with her traffic cone.

“Of course. And, of course, we will have plenty of other opportunities to speak. I may spend much of my time here, but now that we have been introduced… I can also speak to you there, if you would like?”

It was a delicate question, and Danny hesitated, suddenly wondering if he should… well, elaborate again.

“Uh… yeah, sure? I’d like that?” Jason asked, clearly confused by the reticence, and that made up Danny’s mind.

“She’s not going to sound the same,” he explained quickly, giving Lady Gotham a quick smile. She smiled back, gesturing for him to continue, because none of the damn older ghosts explained shit for themselves.

Danny totally didn’t roll his eyes.

“Like, the way we talk to her in the Infinite Realms is kinda the abstract? She looks kinda human,” he added, gesturing vaguely at the Lady.

Jason’s brows furrowed for a moment, but he felt more curious than concerned.

“So… she’s an anthropomorphic personification, but not in the living world?” He asked, and Danny’s eyes nearly crossed.

He turned to Lady Gotham, hoping that this might be some weird city slang, and she laughed at him. Again.

“Yes,” she agreed with Jason instead, which absolutely did not help. “It’s easier for me to speak with you here, using eyes and ears like your own. But building and maintaining this shape in the living world is… complicated.”

“Because her real body there is the city,” Danny added, privately resolving to ask Sam what the fuck Jason was talking about later.

Honestly, Jason would probably get along real good with Mr Lancer. They both liked weird words.

At least he actually looked a little confused too now; Danny had freaked the first time Lady Gotham talked to him out in the city itself. He gave Jason a consoling pat on the shoulder.

“You’ve gotta see it to believe it, man. Just… it’s gonna be weird.” Not the most helpful, sure, but Danny was doing his best!

Jason nodded slowly, willing to table it for now, and refocused on Lady Gotham, something darker now welling in the purpose building inside him.

“So you said the Joker wasn’t from the Curse,” he said bluntly. Danny flinched, more from the lack of any aura inflection than the remnants he could feel.

Yeah, a lotta Gothamites hated the Joker specifically, but if Danny had even the faintest doubt of who’d killed Jason… the black, leaden lump of Death in Jason’s aura wiped it out.

Lady Gotham stilled too, her own smile fading as she regarded Jason. Those red and black eyes were suddenly so much older, so much sadder.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, lowering her traffic cone to rest at her hip. “Are you sure?”

‘Are you sure you want to know?’

Or ‘Are you sure you want to know now?’

Danny wouldn’t put money on which she’d intended, but it didn’t take a genius to know the answer to both. Stubborn, emotionally repressed, and self destructive as hell, bat-training only left one answer.

Jason nodded firmly now, his jaw clenching.

“Yes.”

Lady Gotham studied him for a moment longer but didn’t argue, inclining her head gently.

“Then I will be brief. While the Curse has always been part of the city, feeding on fear and despair, in recent years we have both felt… something else. I told you of the malevolence on the land?” She asked, and Jason made a soft, impatient noise.

“And that it’s where the Curse comes from, yeah. And that the Joker is different,” he prodded.

Danny made a face. He was usually very much on the side of blunt answers, and knew full well that the Lady wouldn’t actually like, break Jason for being mouthy. He was very, very used to seeing favouritism from the outside, and Jason was clearly a firm favourite.

Maybe because he was currently Gotham’s only actual part ghost child? (To be fair, Danny didn’t think that’d change much in the fullness of time; Jason was his favourite of all the bats alive or dead.)

Whatever it was, his interruption only brought a flicker of a smile to the Lady’s lips, which vanished just as quickly.

“Yes. The Curse is indeed the original manifestation of that malevolence, given form and now, purpose. But even that malevolence came from somewhere; Gotham lies on a crack between worlds, older than time. Every world in the multiverse exist along certain markers; certain weak spots. Gotham is one of them.”

“Of course it is,” Jason grumbled beside him and Danny shifted closer, brushing their shoulders together.

Personally, he figured that if Gotham was a weak point in the universe and all the bad shit just leaked through, they were probably doing pretty well for themselves. Then, he’d seen the depths of the Ghost Zone; he knew what else could be trying to leak through.

Which, obviously, meant the good luck had to end.

“When the Joker died,” Lady Gotham continued, only to be cut off by a startled “What?!” from Jason and a totally-super-dignified squawk from Danny.

“You are not gonna tell me that asshole’s a ghost!” Danny moaned, dragging his hands down his face. Honestly, if he’d missed a whole actual ghost in the city for an entire year too, he was never going to live it down.

Like any of the other ghosts had any fucking clue what it was like being half alive… or living fully inside a city spirit’s haunt. Let them visit Lady Gotham’s and see what they sensed.

“Who the hell killed the Joker?!” Jason demanded, something weirdly like panic spiking through anger. “It wasn’t fucking Bruce-”

Lady Gotham silenced them both with a pointed look, shadows growing suddenly long and dark under her stare. Then she returned her gaze to Jason, her expression sombre.

“The Joker is not a ghost, nor a halfa. Bruce Wayne resuscitated him, which may be all that kept him from becoming a manifestation himself; he was killed not only in Gotham, but by a nexus point, in rage and revenge and hatred.”

There was something dark in Lady Gotham’s eyes now, something black and burning and for half a second Danny could swear he felt that rage himself, deep in his chest.

“Something else leaked through in the short time that he was dead,” she went on, her gaze firmly locked on Jason’s and Danny couldn’t imagine just how much the older-younger halfa was feeling under its full force. “Something small, and hungry, and craving death because it was denied his - the death I believe would give it shape.”

It wasn’t enough for Jason, that much was obvious; bitterness-frustration-grief hung in the air in a cloud almost thicker than the Lady’s smogs, and this time Danny gave in to temptation.

Let his own soothing-sorrow-loss twine through, even if he didn’t exactly understand the cause of the feeling. Jason startled a little, knocked from grumbling something that hadn’t been for anyone but him, but his hand reached back for Danny’s. Squeezed tight, even as the bitterness deepened.

His eyes narrowed, he remained focused on Lady Gotham though.

“Of course. Of course he fucking brought the clown back, even after someone did the world a fucking favour,” he hissed through his teeth, then raised his voice more clearly. “So, what? No one can ever kill the Joker, or Gotham gets another curse? Who’d fucking notice at this point?”

A genuine sorrow and pain passed across Lady Gotham’s face but she schooled it, kept her own aura calm and composed… or at least in closer than they could feel. There was probably a reason she’d put space between them again.

“Not quite, but close,” she agreed softly, those red bat eyes somehow more gentle even against the black pupil. “This other entity is already here, growing each day. Every violent death in Gotham is being consumed by it, which I will admit has strengthened the truce between the Curse and myself. Neither of us wish to feed it any more than necessary.”

Danny’s brows furrowed at that and he tried to think back to everything that Frostbite had ever told him about spirits. Not the dead-people kind, but the Neverborn; entities, concepts, ideas given form. Like time, and cities.

“So… when did the Joker die?” He asked cautiously, and felt surprise jolt through Jason. Lady Gotham gave him a quick glance, and cocked her head at Jason himself.

“Not so long after Jason did. A matter of months, less than a year, though he was dead less than a few minutes.” There was something in her tone, a weight on the words that made Danny think he was on the right track… but that she didn’t want to say it.

Which. Well. That was all kinds of bad fucking news if an entity as old as Lady Gotham was wary of speaking it into being. Luckily, Danny was just a fucked up little half ghost who had absolutely no supernatural tie ins to things like belief.

And he believed in just laying all the cards on the table before he decided if he had to flip it.

“That’s really young for any kind of belief spirit,” he said bluntly, watching Lady Gotham’s eyes. Saw… just a hint of something, creasing the corners, and seriously considered reaching his aura to hers for the first time today.

It’d save so much time to just get the message through feeling, but… if she preferred words, the words had to be important, and Jason probably needed words.

Fuck, they’d all need words, because this was going to be a goddamn bat-briefing if Lady Gotham was filling them in, and Mr Emotional Repression Is My Soulmate was not going to be up to aura reads.

Chewing his lower lip, he thought through the next stage a couple times before speaking slowly, watching for any hint he was still on the right path.

“If… it’s grown fast enough that you both noticed… it’s not new?” He tried, wondering briefly if he’d retroactively doomed them all by thinking about “what else could break through” from the depths of the Zone.

Lady Gotham shook her head though, gesturing impatiently through her smoke to clear it… maybe the first sign he’d ever seen that she didn’t control it entirely.

“No. That much, we are both certain of. This entity… it is new and unformed, with no Name of its own. At the moment, all of the fear it wreaks is only feeding belief in the Curse, which is why it only has death. But there is already a will there, long before it should even have awareness. And it wants to grow.”

“Oh great, so Joker’s got a Pitty 2.0 but his is on the outside,” Jason quipped, irritation sparking through him… and Danny was kinda glad to see it, honestly. Just a little flash of the guy he’d been getting to know in all the dark.

Even Lady Gotham managed a brief smile, and didn’t actually bother refuting it; closing her eyes for a moment, she waved her hand and the clouds of smog between them solidified briefly into a model of the city. Buildings only, but with horribly empty shadows between them.

“The Joker’s death gave it an entrance, and his revival denied it his shape, his Name, and the fear he commands. But it is no longer fixated on killing the Joker - and it was, for several years. It pushed him before it had the power for anything else, driving him further, feeding poison to those around him, trying to have him killed so that it could become The Joker, the pure essence of every bloody mark the clown left on Gotham. And it very nearly succeeded,” she added softly, her gaze turning back to Jason with an almost tangible sorrow.

Something in Danny’s gut iced over, and suddenly he was really, really glad he didn’t know what she was thinking.

**

Bruce looked better as he rose from the table, Diana decided, watching her old friend closely. For all that he’d come with an actual reason for his doom and gloom (for a change), his attitude during the briefing was positively relaxed compared to their own discussion that followed.

He would still be worrying and fretting, she knew him too well to believe anything else, and… she knew why. While Diana had no children of her own (though she had met and heard of other versions of herself who had), she did dearly love her own proteges, and those of her friends.

She remembered Jason as the young, sweet boy who’d stumbled over every word he said to her and stared at her like she’d hung the stars. She remembered Bruce’s grief, Batman’s rage, and the shadow that hung over the Dark Knight with every step until Tim Drake took him to heel.

She knew that there was too much there, the guilt and pain and loss and grief for Bruce to see Jason objectively, and she didn’t begrudge him that. Nor did she condone it.

It only hurt both men, and while she would not give her opinion when it wasn’t wanted… well, she was aware Bruce spoke to Clark of his worries around Jason much more often than he would to her. This time though, she’d had no choice.

She knew the man well enough to know what was truly scaring him in this situation; that Jason would be taken from him again. He was at least as upset by this “Danny” boy as the thought of war with an entire realm.

It would have been cute, if he wasn’t a grown adult man who prided himself on critical thinking. Or actively forcing his son away with his own actions at every turn.

Still, there was one piece of counsel she could give. The thing he hated the most of all was a mystery. And while she also didn’t usually condone his stalking-as-a-sign-of-affection…

“Batman.”

He stopped in the doorway but didn’t look back, still as a statue. At least he was listening.

A fond smile pulling across her lips, Diana shook her head. Let the formal tones of Wonder Woman return to the voice of a friend.

“You see many dangers in the unknown. Perhaps you might reassure yourself by getting to know young Danny Fenton as a person, rather than a potential threat.”

He stayed frozen in the doorway for a moment longer, then nodded his head sharply and swept away.

Diana stifled a chuckle. Honestly, for all Constantine had come to her as if the world were about to end… all of their problems with this Infinite Realm were perfectly clear to her.

The American government had overstepped drastically with their Anti Ecto Acts and would be brought to heel.

The new ruler of the Infinite Realms had turned their head in this direction, and guided them to what must be fixed.

And young Jason Todd, while far from the only hero who had died and returned, had been chosen by this ruler to be favoured with protection, in exchange for service.

Of course, it may all blow out of control and become as dire as her dear friend already seemed to believe it was, but for all Bruce was constantly creating contingencies and backup plans, he very rarely had to use most of them.

She turned her attention to John Constantine instead, the magician seeming much less inclined to make himself scarce than usual. At least he had also calmed considerably, and was even smiling in his own crooked fashion after Bruce.

“You know he’s gonna go stalk that poor kid even more now?” He asked sardonically, pulling another cigarette from his pack but not reaching for the lighter.

Diana hesitated for a moment.

She’d meant for Bruce to talk to Danny, preferably directly. But Bruce did not like talking to new people; not without thorough research and a chance to prepare.

Then she shrugged.

“If it will keep him from disrupting our already tense situation with the Infinite Realms, better that he distract himself with more fatherly concerns,” she said simply.

Constantine snickered again, then frowned.

“Wait, fatherly concerns? For some kid his boy’s known like, a week?”

This time, Diana didn’t bother to restrain her smile, glancing down at the phone in her pocket.

“Merely a week, perhaps, but according to Wonder Girl they have already been caught at least once without their trousers.”

Which hadn’t been part of the official presentation, of course. Nor apparently whatever Bruce had already shared with Constantine, as the mage promptly nearly swallowed his unlit cigarette and began choking.

Diana gave him a carefully gauged slap to the back, sending the now soaked and crumpled smoke across the meeting table, but politely did not laugh.

**

Jason was pretty sure he was going to puke. Or scream. Maybe both.

It wasn’t bad enough that Bruce had refused to kill the Joker, to stop him from killing anyone else, no, he’d fucking brought him back to life. Given the fucking Joker the chance that none of his victims ever got.

None of them except Jason.

And now apparently even wanting the bastard dead was all part of some master fucking plan to make the fucking asshole even worse.

He’d wanted Bruce to be the one to avenge him from the second Tallia pulled him out of the Lazarus Pit, but when he’d come to Gotham… when his plans to carve out his turf, provoke the Joker with an old alias, set the trap had suddenly become stuffing heads in a bag…

He’d thought about it. A lot. About just hunting the fucker down, putting a bullet between his eyes, and leaving him in the Batcave deader than dead.

Had nearly done it, but no. He’d wanted… he’d wanted Bruce to choose him. To put him first, to say he loved Jason more than some moral stance, to value Tim’s life more, and Steph, and Cass, over the fucking scum who would have happily killed every last one of them with a smile on his face just to see if Bruce finally broke.

And Bruce hadn’t.

Bruce had nearly killed him.

And in and around that whole mess, he’d never gotten around to actually thinking about how his fucking daddy issues had saved the Joker’s life for… years, by now.

Jason wasn’t killing anymore. Not like, actively. Intentionally. Not because he thought Bruce was right; something, someone, had to be willing to stand up for the people of Gotham and actually stop fuckers like the Joker from killing them.

But… well, Crime Alley was his territory, and a scared enemy, a cowed enemy who’d seen their life in Jason’s hands and knew just how easily he could end it was more useful than dealing with the power vacuum, or the next million upstarts who’d think they knew better, would be better, and could take on the Red Hood themselves.

Ironically, keeping fuckers like Black Mask and Great White Shark alive and in power (at severely reduced scale) saved him time. Kept him from dealing with all those upstarts himself.

That was how Waylon had put it, back when Jason was considering adding to his bag of heads. It was… like farming. Keep them low, but keep them stable. Break anything new they went for, or anything that got on his turf.

Let them harvest some of the power hungry fucks who thought they could take a piece of the Alley.

And then Dick had noticed. And reached out. And didn’t stop until Jason gave in and reached back.

When Danny came to Gotham. Somehow, it all swung back around to Danny.

And the fact that if he actually believed what he told Bruce, he could have gone to kill the clown himself at any time since returning to the city.

And he never had. The time wasn’t right. Something came up. Something went wrong, or broke, or distracted him before he thought too hard about it.

Killing the Joker hadn’t even been in his original plans for his triumphant return. He’d just wanted to take back the Alley, prove his point to Bruce. Keep his home safe.

When had killing the Joker become such a big part of the plan? Who the fuck had gotten into his fucking head, redefined him as the last moment of his fucking life, demanded his new life be all about how the last one ended?

Eyes narrowing, he looked searchingly into Lady Gotham’s face just in time to catch her slow nod, like she’d heard every thought. Like he’d been speaking aloud.

“I could not stop it from reaching to you,” she said softly, her voice heavy with sadness, “but I could… distract. Get in the way, make its path harder. That you did not give in…”

Something soft, something proud flickered in her eyes again, and it made him want to squirm.

“You may not have consciously known that you fought yet another enemy, yet you triumphed regardless. My dear Jason…” she sighed, heavy with sorrow, and reached out a hand again as though to cup his face.

Jason found himself moving to meet her before he even thought about it. Stopped himself just before it actually got him anywhere.

He wasn’t done being angry yet. He wasn’t even sure he’d actually started. If he could ever, would ever, be angry enough for this.

There was something building in him like a tide, riding high on resentment and his spiralling thoughts. It wasn’t green tinted like the pit rage, his vision was still clear… if anything, it felt sharper, like everything had been dialled up to eleven. Like the terrible, roaring anger was seeking a target.

“I am sorry that you have been robbed of your justice in this way,” Lady Gotham said quietly and once again Jason’s focus narrowed down with her intensity, like she was the only real thing in the world, “that even your own emotions of this, your death, have been used against you. It is…”

She hesitated, actually looking to Danny for help herself for the first time. Judging from the sudden low horror Jason could feel from the other man, he might actually be under reacting.

Or the tide was still rising.

He felt like razing the whole city to the fucking ground, with his own hands, brick by brick. Or puking. Or screaming until his lungs ripped out of his chest, if only he could move.

It felt like something had reached into his brain and cranked up the contrast, made the already neon brights of the Ghost Zone brighter, the shadows darker, the very air prickling at his skin like needles with the urge to do something.

Because if he moved, did anything, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Not when every muscle ached to tear the whole universe apart.

He was almost a passenger in his own skin as something else, a different, slow boiling rage barely under control clamped him in a vice.

“So y’know we talked about not asking about how ghosts died?” Danny said slowly, his voice suddenly low and hoarse.

Jason managed a stiff nod, every muscle twanging tight with tension. It had been pretty important, pre-Ghost-Zone.

And he could put the pieces together, right from the tight hot center of that ball of rage that he was pretty sure was his own core.

“This is worse,” he said gruffly, not bothering to look over. Didn’t have to, when he could feel the face Danny was pulling through the worry-worry-fear-anger-horror still surrounding him.

He… fuck. He was a little afraid of what he might do, if there was even an ounce of pity on Danny’s face, and honestly that panicked him more than anything else. All the rage wanted was a target, and he didn’t think he’d be able to choose what it was.

Danny nodded anyway, making a conscious effort to try and reign his aura in. Like he couldn’t hear the subtext, feel it in Jason’s, or like he could and didn’t care.

It left him feeling cold, icy and alone, but still relieved under the echoing slam of rage in his veins. A little more alone in his own head. A little less watched. Judged. Not good enough.

“Like, worse than worse, dude. Ghosts will throw down and rip each other apart just for fun and no one’s actually hurt, but… you don’t fuck with somebody’s death. You just don’t. It’s the worst thing you could do to a ghost, worse than Ending them. Not even Pariah Dark…”

“Exactly,” Lady Gotham hissed, baring her teeth in something not even remotely a smile, full cheeks and lips suddenly gaunt and hollow as the teeth became fangs. It lasted barely a moment, a flicker before it faded, but it snapped Jason straight out of his fury with a sudden shock of terror.

She’d been intimidating before. Effortlessly, gracefully powerful and commanding, the kind of person people would beg to step on them without a hint of aggression. Those teeth though… just the moment of that rage, of something so powerful suddenly nothing but raw, feral danger…

It wasn’t even directed at him but it still felt like a bucket of cold water down his spine. An instant urge to duck his head, show his throat, convince this much larger predator that he wasn’t a threat.

She was immediately contrite, turning her head away as her face cast into shadow, only the red pupils still visible.

“My apologies. It is… less personal for me than it is for you, yet it seems still too close to my heart.”

Forcing himself to swallow, Jason took a couple of deep, heavy breaths. The anger was still there, kind of. He could feel it in an almost distant way, past the hammering of his heart, but it wasn’t all he was anymore.

It was just… a feeling now. One he was in control of.

The shadows were just shadows again. The green of the Zone no longer blinding.

He blew the last breath out slowly, and let the remnants of the anger go with it.

“No, uh… it’s fine. I think that helped, actually,” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and suddenly embarrassed at just how tense he’d become.

Justified, apparently, from both the other ghosts’ reactions, but that didn’t mean Jason wanted to feel so out of control. How close to just… being carried away by the anger.

No matter what anyone else said, no matter what the damn Pit or Joker-monster or whatever the fuck else tried to do, Jason Todd was not going to be defined by rage.

For one thing, he’d never live it down.

Danny sagged beside him, relief as tangible as that last breath flowing out of him, despite the core of concern underneath. That was fine; Jason was still concerned too.

And maybe thinking about his stash of ecto-candies again, but he honestly didn’t feel half as drained this time. He wasn’t even scared of Lady Gotham anymore - that moment had ended as soon as it started. As soon as she’d tucked those terrifying needle-like teeth away. Now she just looked…

Proud. Proud, and fond, and so, so sad. Like Alfred had been the first time he presented Jason with his very own Robin suit for the field.

It choked something inside Jason just a little, made his throat tight and breath hitch.

“You are so much more than anyone gives you credit for, Jason Todd,” she said softly, her sclera softening briefly to a bright, sunshine yellow. Like the cape he’d drowned in as a boy flying from her rooftops, “and they all think far better of you than you believe.”

That caught him up for a moment, confusion pulling into the absolute fucking mess of emotions he was pretty sure he was projecting to all and sundry.

Then Danny sighed heavily and draped himself sideways over Jason’s shoulders like a particularly lanky and bony scarf.

“Yeah, yeah, and your ghost mom is fucking terrifying. Did not need that reminder, Ladyship,” he tossed at Lady Gotham with a cheeky wink, effectively steam rolling the tension yet again.

Jason could have kissed him, but from the angle Danny had flopped on, his options were armpit or hip, and neither appealed.

Sassy comebacks, he could handle. Reassurances that people didn’t think he was a complete sack of shit, apparently not.

The whole batfam were just perfect poster kids for mental health, alright?

The Lady herself laughed softly and inclined her head, not arguing the point.

“Of course. Still, I am sorry Jason.”

He cut her off this time, raising both hands and stopping just short of reaching for the back of his neck again, which was about where Danny’s waist was sat.

“Don’t be. I… think I needed to be knocked out of my head there. I really do feel better now,” he added, and Danny huffed a noncommittal noise and ruffled his hair.

“Yeah, well. You’re allowed to be pissed about it,” Danny informed him like he wasn’t sure if Jason actually knew that.

Which, obviously, Jason absolutely wasn’t. He had a pit ghost baby to teach good habits to, and Danny still had no idea what Jason was like when he actually lost control of the anger. But he could appreciate the sentiment.

And deflect like a Robin.

“Oh, is that a royal decree?” He asked archly, and while this noise was no more coherent than the last it was decidedly more whiny and drawn out into wordless protest.

Which still ended in a very quiet “yes.”

Luckily, quiet enough that Jason could pretend he didn’t hear it.

“Anyway, I’m good. Still gonna kick this thing’s ass for messing with my head, and maybe put it in a blender, but for now I’m good. Chill vibes only for Pitty,” he added with a roll of his eyes when Danny made a confused little chirping sound.

Lady Gotham chuckled softly to herself and nodded, resettling herself to recline on her smog clouds once more.

“Indeed. You currently have more pressing concerns; as little as I enjoy the present situation, it can wait. The Curse and I can monitor this new being’s behaviour through the rogues it has affected; they are noticeably becoming more violent, while the Curse is swaying the rest towards being less. For contrast,” she added before Jason could ask.

Which… might actually explain why Riddler had tossed a broken game box at Croc and the Wayne gala rather than trying to fix it. He’d stripped most of the interesting stuff according to Tim’s report, sure, but Nygma never let a thread go.

So he wasn’t gonna be on this new bad guy’s kill list.

Nor would Waylon, and Harley had been more destructive than homicidal for years. Already making a mental list on the events he’d caught wind of in the last few weeks, Jason didn’t even realise the conversation had moved on without him until Danny stuck a wet finger in his ear.

“What the actual fuck!” Jason demanded, trying to shrug the ghost off his shoulders. And while there was deadass no weight to Danny in this form, it was frankly unfair that he just rolled with the movement like he also didn’t have bones, snickering.

“You had Resting Bat Face,” he explained with a grin, twisting upwards to look down at him in a way that actually really shouldn’t have been doable with a human spine - and Jason had grown up around Dick Grayson, who ran the limit of everything a human spine was capable of.

“He does best with a problem to solve,” Lady Gotham noted with a sly amusement. “This one, however, has no time limit as yet. If I thought you would listen, I would have insisted on telling you at a later date.”

And that was just pointed enough that Jason rolled his eyes, feeling his cheeks flush in spite of himself. He just… liked to have all of the information. It’s not like he was Bruce.

“Yeah, well, I like to know what I’m dealing with,” he grumbled, folding his arms and scowling at Danny. Who grinned back and ruffled his hair.

“Well, either way. Not like you need to pull the spandex back on imminently, right? There’s plenty of bats around,” he offered hopefully, and Jason felt a quick pang.

Danny… really didn’t want him to have to be a vigilante. He could taste it in the hope, in the worry, in everything his king was putting off. For some reason, he seemed to think Jason had come back to life and left the masks behind.

Like he hadn’t even thought about why Jason was still in fighting shape to be his fucking knight in the first place.

He knew he’d be annoyed if it was anyone else trying to insist he stay out of the game. He’d shot at Dick more than once for suggesting he go home when he was injured; the rest knew better than to say a word.

He hadn’t even considered giving up the vigilante life when he came back from the dead… except that brief period when he’d sort of been a rogue. He’d never even been a normal crime lord, most of them were way less hands on.

If he looked at the future now, he couldn’t imagine ever giving it up. The rogues would apparently literally always be a problem; the city would always need protectors.

That thought had never made him sad before, and yet…

Was it really the first time anyone had suggested he’d done enough? He’d died, and sure Jason was back now, but Danny seemed to really, actually believe he could stop wearing the mask.

That he’d given enough, given everything, and could and should just have a peaceful life now.

It made him almost ashamed to admit that he’d never even considered the possibility.

For all Jason railed against teen heroes, he’d only stopped being one for a temporary villain arc. Which was apparently at least partially supernaturally motivated, which was fun.

It’d shut Bruce up if Jason ever dragged that out in an argument, but Bruce already thought Jason was too volatile and susceptible to being controlled. Never mind that he hadn’t actually killed the Joker and started the apocalypse or whatever, all Bruce would hear was “someone else made Jason a villain so it could happen again”.

He’d probably try and take Jason off the case of this mystic whatever that was feeding on death. Fuck that noise. Until Bruce got a face to face with Lady G, Jason probably wouldn’t even tell him the details.

(Honestly, if there was even half a chance of avoiding that subject altogether, he’d take it. Bruce got ornery about magic in his city in a way none of the Robins had ever enjoyed dealing with, and that had been back when he and Jason had a good relationship.

Now… well, Constantine had been sticking around, so hopefully he could handle that mess and Jason could just get the actual work done.)

He gave Danny his best reassuring smile anyway, rolling his eyes and reaching to try and ruffle his hair. Found that he actually couldn’t quite reach with the way Danny was twisted around him, which was kinda weird.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard Frostbite. Side effects of the forming core could be pretty much fucking anything, and til Pitty pops out I’m not even gonna do research on anything that’ll set us off.”

Which wasn’t the same as saying he wouldn’t start the case. He could arrange what he already knew, start a plan of action, and organise his next steps without doing any additional research, after all.

Something about Lady Gotham’s delicately arching eyebrow let him know that she, at least, was onto his bullshit. Lucky for Jason, Danny just accepted the words, grinning and twisting around to wrap his whole head in a hug.

And then flowed back off his shoulders like a fucking liquid before Jason could worry about having to breathe.

“That’s great! Oh, and we should set up your haunt too! That’ll help!” Danny enthused brightly, clapping his hands and doing his best impression of a totally solid human that was apparently not his default.

Maybe it was a ghost thing.

Just so long as he never did it in human form, Jason could ignore that he definitely shoulda felt a ribcage being squeezed like that…

And no, Jason absolutely wasn’t wondering about what else Danny could use that noodley flexibility for. Totally not letting Dick know either… for competitive gymnast reasons, definitely.

No one wanted to deal with that.

And then his brain fizzled to a halt as Danny’s actual words penetrated and a sliver of concern slipped in.

Because… yeah. They’d talked about haunts. It was practically the first topic on the list; what to do in someone else’s haunt, what to never ever do even near someone else’s haunt, what a haunt meant to a ghost.

It was soul-underwear again, one of the most sacred parts of a person’s soul; their truest, actual home. Fortress and power source.

Halfas had to have them too, since Danny and Frostbite had both insisted that keeping and maintaining his haunt were going to be vital to his health while his cores stabilized. As in, Frostbite told him not to leave it for long and suggested redecorating as a soothing activity.

(Danny’s was officially Amity Park, which had not escaped Jason’s notice when he was apparently being put on haunt-arrest. It might have been an older halfa thing; very few ghosts actually stayed in their haunts all the time, although Jason could see the temptation.

It also might have been something else, and Jason had this thing about secrets and surprises down the line. He’d ask later, if he couldn’t work it out himself.)

Danny called Crime Alley Jason’s haunt, and that had felt right from the first time he’d said it. Crime Alley was his, his territory, his space, his home more than anywhere else. He knew it inside and out, could feel its moods and taste the changes in the air when something went wrong.

Baby ghosts usually couldn’t claim a haunt of any size as their own, but Jason knew that the Alley belonged to him.

That was before he’d met Lady Gotham. And if she was the spirit of the whole city… maybe he’d been wrong? Maybe it was just through her that he knew it so well?

He found himself looking to her uncertainly, searching her face in case there was any trace of displeasure. Any sign she didn’t want another ghost’s haunt in… well, what was kinda her physical body.

He couldn’t see or feel anything, but when she’d already been so careful about keeping her feelings her own… no better time to ask, really.

“Yeah… about that…” this time he did scratch the back of his neck, Danny safely down beside him. Which was about when he realized that he had no clue how to word the question.

Haunts were personal, he knew that much.

Then again, Lady Gotham said she was his ghost-mom. That had to include stupid questions. Blunt it was.

“Is it weird if I have a haunt in the city? I mean, it’s obviously your city, duh, but how do I… it feels like I’m squatting in your closet,” he said finally, giving up on not being just the most awkward creature in a thousand mile radius.

Danny’s mouth opened and closed a few times, excitement fading to a confused fascination as his words sunk in.

“Y’know, that’s a really good point… except it’s more like he’s squatting in your kidneys,” he pointed out to Lady Gotham, turning to face her too.

Lady Gotham chuckled softly and took a slow drag from her traffic cone, which had almost stopped smoking.

“Ah, I forget the limitations of a halfa’s knowledge… all ghosts begin with a haunt within their parent’s, Jason. From the moment you returned to my arms I opened up the Alley for you, and it has been yours ever since.” She paused to blow out a long plume of smog, which shaped itself into a tiny row of very familiar buildings.

Jason didn’t have to see more than a couple to know what they were; he could feel it right down to his core.

“When you are older, stronger, you may desire another, although being in the mortal world is already a degree of distance, but Crime Alley will always be your first,” Lady Gotham continued as Crime Alley bloomed from the smog before them, tiny and yet more than just an image, more than just a replica; the real thing in the scope of her power.

There were no lights in tiny windows, nothing moving through the smog, and yet it was still clearly alive. No, filled with things that were alive, people and noise and even the rats.

And it was his. His beating heart.

Lady Gotham’s smile was a tender beacon in the fog, her hands coming up to caress the smoking Crime Alley and gently waft it in his direction.

“Every crumbling brick, every pothole, every shadow. It is a heavy responsibility, and one I shall share with you until you decide you no longer need my help, but it will always be yours, Jason. It would not have accepted anyone else.”

The cluster of smoggy buildings fell apart as they reached Jason and for a moment he nearly panicked trying to keep them together, but… he was suddenly washed in a wave of old, familiar scent.

Not the burned rubber and pollution of all the rest of the smogs, the constant smell of the city. This was… floral. Soft, and sweet, and chemical in the way that cheap perfumes always were because they couldn’t have afforded the good ones.

Watered down, because they could get even that so rarely that she would begin refilling the bottle with water when it was barely half empty. Catherine Todd’s favourite perfume.

It hadn’t covered the stink of cigarettes and worse coming from the very walls of their apartment; he’d only smelled it when she was holding him close. Shielding him from Willis’s rage, tucking him into bed, cuddled up on the couch to wait out the rain or sickness.

The smell of home.

It brought tears to his eyes, the pressure of the day threatening to spill over and overwhelm him again.

Intellectually, it felt like another moment that should have been terrifying. More than any show of teeth, this was her strength. Who and what she was, she could break him with a wave of her hand, a wisp of smoke, and yet…

He felt warm. Comforted. Wrapped in her smile and at peace in a way he hadn’t in… fuck it had been years.

There was something else too, a layer under the flowers that only the deepest detective-trained parts of him tried to pluck apart; it was part of the home smell, inextricable, but it didn’t make sense. Wasn’t the perfume. Just the very faintest hint of baking far away, and Catherine Todd had never been able to afford…

Oh.

Of course not. Because Catherine Todd, his mother in every possible sense of the word but one, had never met Alfred.

**

So, the good news: Tucker was currently in the lead for Spiderheck. Bad news: they’d finished the first set (Tim won, but he’d been two ahead from the start which was cheating), and… the game had ticked directly over into another set.

They hadn’t been planning on changing any settings, so it was fine, and Conner and Tim hadn’t noticed anything wrong.

But… Tucker was beginning to worry, just a little. He’d done video games before, with Danny and Sam; no worries, they’d taken a turn directly in pretty much every game they’d played together.

Just, y’know, he knew Danny and Sam really well. And Tim and Conner were really cool, and he understood a lot more about how the Supers worked than he ever had before? But, maybe that was why he’d kinda screwed up.

Because he wanted things to be fair, and didn’t want them to think he’d given himself extra advantages. So they were all spiders, all the same.

And he wasn’t completely sure where the meta controls were?

Danny and Sam always insisted he have a version of the controller somewhere, so they could flick to the menu (and sometimes run riot there too). Last time they did Spiderheck, he’d put the buttons on his stomach, so Danny and Sam could try and hit them for an extra level of difficulty.

But he wanted to be fair. Didn’t want extra powers. And, apparently, technopathy had sorta maybe converted that wish into him not being able to feel it while he was spidered up.

All his combat moves were fine! The break, grab, web commands were smooth and easy, just like every other time he did them. Different attacks, no worries. And, obviously, he hadn’t stood still and tried to look for the code, because they were playing Spiderheck and that was a really easy way to get wiped.

Dodging another swinging attack from Tim, he scuttled at top speed across the platform and jumped behind a box. No weapons here, and he scanned quickly for the next spawn point.

Which, normally, shoulda shown up on two levels; the normal game vision, and the white lined underlay of the code, which he could always see through from top to bottom of the level.

(This was usually an active impediment rather than an advantage in Spiderheck; it was way too hard to know what he could stand on.)

He couldn’t see one, just the platform above and the wall behind.

Maybe he should take an early death, just to give himself a little time to work this out. Just so he could stop worrying. He was 21, he’d had these powers for years, he totally knew how they worked by now.

He just, maybe, might have gotten overconfident.

Danny would never let him live it down if they all had to be rescued from Spiderheck.

And, way more importantly, Tim Drake-Wayne and his super hot boyfriend would only remember him as the loser who couldn’t even control his powers.

Nope. Absolutely not.

A loud buzzing heralded the arrival of one of the spinning laser traps, and Tucker made up his mind. Just one early death. No worries. He had a two win lead, and honestly he’d rather lose the set than admit he’d fucked up.

Scuttling “away” from Tim’s probable next attack, Tucker scurried into the path of the spinning laser trap.

And saw, at the very last second, Conner swinging in from the other side, directly into a laser.

Shit.

**

Sam was comfortably snuggled down into her pillows and thoroughly enjoying the chaos her new chat was creating when she finally heard the door. A little too buried to easily get up, or look particularly graceful doing it, so instead she stuck a hand straight up into the air.

“In here, love!”

And, like the angel of mercy that she was, Val only made her wait ten minutes to get out of all of her winter gear and put the kettle on before coming to save her from her fate.

“Not the fastest rescue I’ve received,” Sam teased, even as Val hauled her easily to her feet. Val grinned back and pulled her in for a quick peck.

“I wasn’t aware I was being timed. I can do better.”

“I bet you can,” Sam laughed, draping her arms around her girlfriend’s shoulders. Val gave her another, deeper kiss, then drew back enough to press their foreheads together.

“So, how was Gotham? I saw Danny made the front page,” she teased back, and Sam hesitated.

In amongst all of their various plans for disaster, it hadn’t really come up that whatever they did at the party, it was sure to make the gossip rags. Front page though? That was probably an achievement.

And, given what she herself had done, really annoying.

“What, they gave the front page to him? I blatantly accused at least two CEOs and Lex Luthor of weaponizing misogyny, with citations, and Danny got the front page?” She huffed, drawing back and folding her arms, fully intent on turning away to sulk, but not remotely objecting when Val’s arms snuck around her waist and pulled her back in.

Val’s chin tucked in over her shoulder and the taller woman snickered.

“I know, right? Sadly cold hard facts just fade away in the face of a scandal.” Val sighed dramatically, then dropped a kiss on the side of Sam’s neck. “You’re on page seven. It’s mostly about your parents, but using Lex’s name got a couple other points in. Oh, and Vicki Vale did a three page piece on how Brucie Wayne specifically upholds the patriarchy. I think she quoted you.”

Sam considered that for a moment, her arms automatically coming around to cover Val’s for a brief squeeze. It wasn’t like she’d actually been planning to change anything at the gala. Mostly she’d just wanted to be heard.

It could be an interesting starting point, though. Especially since she got to pick her outfit for the next gala; her mother hadn’t even specified that it had to be a dress on the document, which was definitely a peace offering.

Cass Wayne had looked really good in that suit.

Her cheeks suddenly hot for absolutely no reason, Sam twisted in Val’s arms to kiss her again.

“I’m sorry my mom’s… the worst,” she finished lamely, wrapping her arms around Val again.

The whole fall-from-grace thing may have been seven years ago, and Val had more than moved on, but. Well. Sam didn’t exactly believe all the scars had healed.

Especially when Val stilled for a moment in her arms.

Then she chuckled, wrapping her arms a littler tighter around Sam and lifting her off her feet.

“Hey, at least she’s not actually a bigot. It’s always nicer to be hated personally than in general, y’know?” She teased, echoing something Sam was pretty sure Danny had said to her back in her Phantom-hunting days.

Sam huffed and wrapped her legs around Val’s waist too, raining kisses down on her face.

“Yeah, well, she can still shove it up her ass. You’re my date for the next gala, if you actually want to come.”

Which.

Well.

Was about when she realized that the next gala was probably going to be extra interesting, after all their shenanigans. Maybe they should have been more discrete? More careful?

Her worry must have shown on her face, because Val gave her a very gentle bounce to shake her out of it.

“Hey. Samantha Manson. I would be delighted to go to the next gala with you, and tell all the little journalists that yeah, I’m that Val,” she said firmly once Sam had refocused on her. Then she grinned. “I’ll even be on my best behaviour and not one up Danny until the second one.”

That made Sam laugh again, hugging on tight even as Val turned and easily carried her through to their little kitchenette and sat her up on one of the counters.

“Hey, did you get that autograph from Harley for me by the way? I wanna send it to my dad for his birthday,” she added, sneaking another kiss and then pulling a pair of mugs next to the steaming kettle.

Sam considered hopping off the counter. Didn’t bother, reaching behind herself instead to pull her favourite tea for the month and drop a bag into her mug.

“Yeah, a couple actually. And she said if we wanna meet Ivy she’ll let us know when they’re back on the west coast, but it won’t be any time soon.” That hadn’t been particularly surprising, but it still made Sam a little sad.

Just another reminder that they were on the outside looking in all the way over here.

Valerie stilled, coming back and resting both hands on Sam’s thighs.

“Do you miss being on the east coast?” She asked quietly, those gorgeous green eyes so large and gentle.

Sam hesitated a moment longer, then sighed and let her head thunk back against the cupboard behind her.

“Honestly, I think I just miss being closer to everyone. It’s not far for Danny with the Zone, but if you or I wanna visit anyone we have to hop on an airplane or spend weeks driving, neither of which are good for the environment. We just… get forgotten out here, stuck out of the loop.”

Val raised an eyebrow, a smirk on her face but eyes still soft with understanding.

“Oh, like you’re one to talk. I thought I’d pick up a new phone and rejoin the group chat that day, but suddenly I gotta wait nearly a week for “new secrets”,” she teased and Sam sighed, shaking her head. Not quite able to lift all the way out of her funk.

“Yeah, I know… it probably woulda been fine, Danny shouldn’t have dropped anything at all in the main chat if he didn’t want everyone to see it, I just…”

“Wanted to be more sensitive than he is,” Val finished the sentence, leaning in for another kiss. Not needing to reach up even with Sam sat on the counter. “That’s why I’m still dating you.”

It did pull a smile from Sam anyway and she draped her arms over her girlfriend’s shoulders again.

“For some reason. So, what did you think?”

Val shrugged, her hands sliding up to settle around Sam’s waist.

“About a new halfa? Probably sucks for him. Especially when he’s gotta come out as dead to his family. The Waynes aren’t exactly known for being stable,” she pointed out when Sam snickered.

Which was a fair point.

“They’re actually worse when there’s more of them,” she mused, glancing back towards the bed where she’d left her phone, “and the oldest’s a cop now.”

This time it was Val’s turn to snicker.

“Yeah, I heard. Tuck already sent me the blow by blow of you eviscerating the poor guy.”

Sam preened. Deservedly.

“Hey, you know me, I’m not gonna play nice just cuz I’ve been dragged to some social function.”

The snicker turned to a chuckle as Val leaned in, rubbing their noses together.

“And you know me, baby girl, ACAB all the way, and I still think that should extend to the Justice League. Heard half of Batman Inc also showed up, did you let them have it too?”

“You know I did,” Sam purred, locking her ankles behind Val’s back and nipping playfully at her lower lip. Val laughed, her hands creeping slowly up the small of Sam’s back.

“That’s my little leopard. Tea’s done.” And then, totally unfairly, she reached back with one hand and pulled Sam’s ankles apart, slipping free with a laugh as Sam pouted. “Hey, you’d be more upset if I let it over steep.”

“I can make more tea,” Sam grumbled, finally slipping off the counter, but a rebellious smile made it onto her face anyway. Val toasted her with the french press.

“True that, darling, but I’m not wasting the good coffee beans. Daddy asked me four times if I was sure about taking the train but honestly, he’s a state away now, it’s not worth a flight.”

Setting her teabag aside, Sam squirted in some vanilla agave syrup and took a deep breath. Gotham was fine, but no hotels could match her home tea stash. Not even the Waynes could.

“Beautiful, strong, environmentally conscious, and a Daddy’s girl. How did I land you again?” She asked innocently as Val dropped creamer into her own mug.

“By being all of those but the last one,” Val countered easily, taking a mug and holding an arm out for Sam to tuck under. “Now c’mon, if I’m going to the next gala you need to tell me allllll about a certain cutie Cassandra Wayne,” she cooed, making for their couch.

Sam’s face flushed red and she made to duck away instantly, but those damn vigilante muscles made it so hard.

“Okay, veto, you’re not allowed to do that anymore! My mom is trying to hook me up with her!” Sam did not whine. She. Protested. With dignity. Totally no idea why Val snickered, holding her coffee up and away in her other arm.

“Yeah, that’s the point. How funny would it be if Danny and I both stole a Wayne from you?” She asked with a vicious grin.

Which… did make Sam pause. Because that would be really funny. And Cass would almost certainly be down for it; she wasn’t as loud or attention seeking as any of the boys, but Sam could recognize the wicked gleam in anyones’ eyes when they enjoyed the chaos.

Then she sighed.

“No, we have to be good for the next gala. Otherwise no one’s going to listen to what I actually have to say.”

Val hummed an agreement, guiding her to sit on the plush, well loved cushions. It was an old couch, and a hand-me-down from Sam’s work, but it was just too good to pass up. They could both lie comfortably side by side on the seat, if they snuggled just a little, and the back was wide and plush enough for two throws.

“Okay. The gala after that, then. It’ll make our slow burn long distance romance all the more compelling,” she added when Sam snorted, finally releasing Sam to sink comfortably into oblivion.

Sam swatted at her and put her tea down on the table.

“You’re dreadful. I love you. We’ll ask Cass, lemme just get my phone and I’ll hook you into the group chat with her, Steph, and Babs. They’re Wayne family friends,” she added at Val’s questioning noise, “I haven’t met Babs yet, but Steph is great. You’re gonna love her.”

“Only if we’re going for some three’s company action,” Val snickered as Sam jogged to the bedroom, flipping her girlfriend off as she went.

**

Jason was quiet as they left the Zone. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, especially after the day he’d had and the emotional whiplash.

Danny was doing his very best not to let it bother him. He remembered the early days of being a halfa, how much he’d second-guessed himself, how much every new change and discovery had rocked his world. And he’d been a teenager, all hormones and fire and energy.

He hadn’t even been dead a month before shit got weird.

Jason was twenty-two, and had already been dead for almost seven years. Danny’d like to think he’d found ways to cope, but seven years in himself he was pretty sure he still hadn’t.

Whatever Jason had dealt with in those six and a half years was being ripped up in front of him day by day.

If there was anything he wanted, anything he needed, Danny would be there for him in a heartbeat. Before he could even have to ask, if possible. Aaaand the only thing he couldn’t do that for was if Jason needed space.

Lady Gotham had been able to open them a portal directly into Jason’s apartment; Danny preferred to aim high enough to miss walls and buildings on the way back, but it was her city. She knew exactly where everything and anything was - the portal had been in the back of Jason’s front door.

Danny totally wasn’t jealous. He could come back out almost at the same place he’d gone in, if he was quick. And he could go intangible anyway.

It was still really cool to watch the city spirit do it, the way the realms opened easily and willingly at her touch. She’d given Jason a token, a coin that had to be at least six hundred years old that showed the city’s skyline. Apparently he could use it to get in touch with her, or get back to the Zone on his own if Danny couldn’t take him.

Danny was fine with that. For sure.

The Infinite Realms were dangerous, but the token should bring him straight to Lady Gotham, in an emergency. And then Danny could follow and find her, and find Jason. It was a super reasonable backup plan.

He still found himself hovering in the doorway, unsure if Jason wanted him to stay or go while the other man shrugged out of his coat, boots, and shoulder holster that Danny had totally missed this entire time. And then walked directly into the bathroom.

Danny hovered a little closer, entirely unknowing what exactly he’d do if Jason was crying. Or screaming. Or beating a hole in the wall away from prying eyes. Or, actually using the bathroom for its intended purpose, apparently.

Because Danny forgot Jason was still in mandatory human form at all times.

He couldn’t hear anything from inside the bathroom with the door shut anyway, not even movement or the sink running. But then again, Jason’s family knew Superman personally. That probably lead to some inside jokes and really specific precautions.

Danny hovered back to the door. Stared around at the incredibly clean, well organized display of video games and weaponry on the walls, the double shelf of books.

This, he was beginning to suspect, was a third, larger, more expensive apartment. The furniture and room layouts were about the same, but he was like 80% sure the apartment they’d played MarioKart in hadn’t had as much stuff.

This one had some dishes waiting by the sink though. Given how well organized everything else was, they stuck out.

…

Five minutes. Jason was still in the bathroom.

Danny hated waiting. If he was going to stick around, he could justify it by helping out. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

———————

Part two imminent! All my love to the tag list, you’ll be following the link on this one so you don’t get both separately

Part 2:

Tag list: @welcometosasakiworld @someonebored0100 @stealingyourbones @starkcravingmad @frostedthroughghost @akikkobara @rainbowbunny0159 @littlefeather345 @violet-catsarelife @serasvictoria02 @wolfjackle @blacksea21090 @secretdestinywerewolf @anime-hipster-the-amazing @undead-essence @skitscratched @blackroserelina @snoodly-boop p @mayoota-blog @xysidhe e @little-apricot-the-writer @chaoticmistake @the-legal-shipper r @bun-fish @aroranorth-west  @demon-cat-goes-woof @perfectwastelandcreation @onyxlightdragon @larks-and-katydids @peachesandcreamfemboy @jesus-camp-the-sequel @may-rbi @mothman-the-mothman87 @viyatrix @stargirl1331 @idfk-man10 @thedepressedrobin @skulld3mort-1fan @rootsmudge @ravenshadow17 @cankoking g @phantom-dc @mentalcarebear @magic-pincushion @redamancyardor r @lyra689 @itsparadoxlacuna @alcorbearson @asphyxia778 8 @why-must-i-be-like-this @tkiesai @greenpyrowolf f @frivolous-pastel

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 12/x (probably 18)

ᰔ words. 11.3k

a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i don’t see you

11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?

11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where i’m gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyo’s side of the field

11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then I’ll look for you before the game starts

11:10am you: no pls don’t. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i don’t want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(

11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha you’re silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there

11:14am you: or be square?

11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie

It’s a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. You’re stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and it’s the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.

Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your car’s still at the shop, but you’re happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.

It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldn’t be at this game, and sure enough, it’s all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were cc’d in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you weren’t opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).

It’s because it’s the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Men’s Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasn’t much of an option for them anymore. 

And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadium’s capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the school’s striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside. 

You’ve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.

Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then she’s darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. She’s understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kai’s little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets. 

A glance at your phone tells you it’s close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyo’s players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCU’s players practice shots off to the left. You can’t spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to. 

When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. He’s leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and he’s stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like he’s mapping out plays in his head. 

When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly there’s nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.

“Hey, you,” he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner that’s tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.

“Are you ready to win today?” you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, “clearly there’s no pressure.”

He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. “We’ve got no choice but to win.”

“Is that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?” you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. “Also, apparently you take years off of his life.” Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.

Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. “Yeah, it’s something he says to us often.” 

“So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

It’s hard to assume that he didn’t have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesn’t think about these kinds of things as much as you do. “I see.”

His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why don’t we—…why don’t we just give it a go already? I don’t see how we can move forward if you won’t at least let me take you out on a date.”

Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. You’re sure he’s all you’ll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life. 

You know when you want something so bad you don’t know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true? 

“I just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,” you confess, “it’s just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. I don’t know if this is odd to say, and maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind of…forgot who you were for a little bit.” This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything. 

His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced? 

“I just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.” You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasn’t giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, to be honest.”

You can tell he’s at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because it’s exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that they’re within arms reach but never truly. And they’re slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that it’s a fault of your own. You’re not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, “what’s a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.” But he takes a deep breath, like he’s already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.

There’s a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as he’s suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field. 

“Can we continue this conversation after the game?” he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, “sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like you’re taking up his time. 

He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again. 

“Um. Just a sec,” you say, “I have something to give you before your game.”

“Oh?” he looks at you with interest, “I fucking love things.” 

“You have to close your eyes though.”

“…what is the thing…” He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.

“Just close your eyes!” you snap at him.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. “You’re scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.”

You roll your eyes, useless because he doesn’t see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. It’s short and sweet with the sound of a peck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. “Alright, c’mere you,” he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.

“No no no, only on the cheek for now,” you say with a small laugh.

He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. “You can’t do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.”

“If you win, then, maybe I’ll let you kiss me for real.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He’s close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. “Alright. I like those odds.” 

You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyo’s alma mater. 

You’re stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyo’s side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minato’s filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athlete’s station and then he comes back around to find you.

“Are you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,” he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.

You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. “Yesss, all set. I’ll try to keep up.” 

He nods at you in approval.

The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course they’re high, because if they lose today then they’re out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but can’t quite discern. 

Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and they’re all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realize— it’s their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that haven’t qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable. 

The chief referee’s whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCU’s players choose to attack the left side goal.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. There’s a rhythm that you’ve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. You’ve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps you’ve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyo’s colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and it’s a desire you share with the crowd. 

Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and you’re lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the ref’s whistle. 

And then the kickoff starts. 

The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyo’s players, placing pressure on YCU’s defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyo’s #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowd’s horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCU’s forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.

Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each other’s defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyo’s overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyo’s defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyo’s best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCU’s striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before it’s sent flying into the net. 

The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit. 

With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU. 

Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta you’ve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyo’s defense winded from play. 

You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead. 

The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts. 

YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyo’s offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but it’s passed between UTokyo’s players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.

The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows there’s not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him. 

He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and it’s sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you. 

1-1, even match.

UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojo’s back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.

They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyo’s defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.

Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCU’s attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet. 

The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCU’s defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net. 

2-1, UTokyo.

It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. You’re shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. It’s a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga who’s standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what he’s seeing.

You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and you’re insanely glad you’re not one of YCU’s defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines. 

Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

The “athletic zone”... You’ve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and they’re completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.

Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state. 

YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff. 

There’s fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojo’s signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and there’s an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCU’s center forward loses the ball over the goal line. 

Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyo’s best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCU’s defense. And with complete trust in his team, that’s exactly where he kicks the ball. 

Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that they’ll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post. 

You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where you’re dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. There’s no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You can’t even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.

It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalie’s head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him. 

3-1, UTokyo.

The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers you’ve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.

There’s a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if they’re just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you can’t tear your gaze away from Gojo.

It’s one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with. 

And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt so…close? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what you’ve been wanting resurfacing powerfully. 

“This is insane,” you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.

You twiddle with your camera straps. “I know…almost done with the first half and we’re up 3-1…I thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But what’s even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.” He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. “By Gojo Satoru.”

Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.

“You know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?” Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in. 

You shake your head and wait for his response.

He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. “Four. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osaka’s center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no one’s managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.”

You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.

“I think he’s trying to beat the record.”

You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the referee’s whistle draws everyone’s attention back to the field. 

The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyo’s very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this year’s season so far, and is now on the road to beat the league’s long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!” And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.

YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the referee’s whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime. 

All of UTokyo’s players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all don’t know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing. 

You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as you’ve learned to at least, and you can tell he’s not satisfied. He’s thinking it’s not enough. There’s still more to be done, and it’s not time to celebrate yet. 

His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you. 

Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet. 

Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while they’re at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and she’s showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side. 

UTokyo’s players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound. 

You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.

“There’s my freaky little photographer,” he says, and he’s standing up straight and—wait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.

Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments he’s been cocky, he’s been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, he’s been transformed into the final boss of cocky.

His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight you’ve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.

“You’re sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,” you reprimand him, “this is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.” 

“Hey, you’re the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?” one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.

“Oh yeahhh, ‘cause Satoru wasn’t paying attention,” another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field. 

You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojo’s got an irritated look on his face and he’s shrugging his teammate’s elbow off of his shoulder.

“I really hope you’re getting my good angles,” his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together. 

The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. “At least it didn’t leave a scar on your cute face—”

Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he grumbles, “she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?” he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, “when I—”

“Oh god, you know what’s soooooooooo super sexy to me?” you interrupt him. “When guys are humble.”

“Oh c’monnn,” he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. “Tell me you aren’t at least impressed by me.”

You pout, because you are, and you’d really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. “Satoru,” you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, “I’m working right now. Cut it out.”

He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize you’re being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. “What? Are you embarrassed?”

“Of what?” Your face twists with confusion.

“Of me. Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks.

“No. Why would I be embarrassed of you?” you ask with sharpness.

“I don’t know, just, sometimes I feel like you’re always annoyed by me,” he says with a sigh. “It’s like, you’re really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and it’s sort of messing with my head.”

You pout. “You were messing with my head for weeks.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, “but you don’t have to act like you’re all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.” He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. “You don’t have to act embarrassed around me either.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. “In fact, I’m the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.”

He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. “Can you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.” 

“You kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,” you grit as you cross your arms. “That’s the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.”

“Oh, okay, so there’s nothing else I’ve done that shows you that I’m serious about you?” he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

No. That’s not true, not true at all. But he’s pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not embarassed of me, and if you’re really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.” You’re speaking out of spite, and you fear you’ve just set him off too.

“Fine,” he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporter’s hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle he’s now holding with confusion. “I will.”

“W-Wait—” you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.

The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.

“Uhhh,” you hear Choso from beside you, who’s strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, “Why the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.”

“It can’t be for any publicly decent reason,” Geto muses.

All you can do is watch.

“Hi, uh,” Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, “sorry. I’m Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me from—uh, the game you’ve been watching?”

Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldn’t know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long. 

Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. “Oh, yeah, uh, number 10,” he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, “division player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.”

“SAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!” you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.

“Anywho,” Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him he’s got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. “Just here to say that there’s this girl I really like.”

The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope he’s gonna name call one of them.

Gojo’s voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. “She’s standing over there,” he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, “with the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. She’s super cute and I really like talking to her.”

“Uh-oh,” Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you can’t.

Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like he’s working the crowd. “But get this—she thinks I’m not fuckin’ serious about her!!!”

The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, he’s playing them like a violin.

“Huh?” Gojo’s voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that he’s being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, “oh, what’s that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. I’m not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Er— shit, okay. Wait—shoot, okay.”

Choso’s smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.

“LIKE I SAID,” Gojo continues into the mic, “the girl I like thinks I’m just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that I’m serious about her, I’m gonna…” He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he says—“I’m gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.”

H–

Huh?!?!?

You don’t even have time to be horrified or scared, you’re just bewildered beyond belief that that’s what he came up with.

What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?

The crowd goes wild, it’s no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and you’re going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.

The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

“Ayo why’s Satoru Magic Mike’ing the field right now?” one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, “What the fuck did I miss?”

The cameraman does God’s work in a hella zoom-in of Gojo’s sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you can’t help but stare even among all your horror. It’s like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but he’s making a fool out of himself for you. 

He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas he’s a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and there’s anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security. 

Except he’s an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?

The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that you’re pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadium’s got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers don’t know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.

And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and he’s down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojo’s—forgive me, I need to be crass—huge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.

He’s outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowd’s cheers and riots and roars and you feel like you’re the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe you’re just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.

He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesn’t. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.

His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. “Baby.” The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. “Will you do me the honor,” he’s huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, “of being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?” And then he holds the mic to your lips.

“W-Wha—” you stutter, and there’s chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize they’ve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! “Oh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!”

The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and you’re gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yaga’s vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga can’t kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.

You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasn’t even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you don’t know Gojo as well as you think you do.

And then the halftime timer is up.

You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.

“Did that prove to you that I’m not embarrassed of you?” he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space. 

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,” you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. “I’ll have to move to a different country.”

His grin is relaxed. “Yeah well you asked for it.”

“Maybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.”

“You’re my girlfriend now, you’ve gotta get used to it.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Satoru–”

“Tomorrow,” he cuts you off, “Hinode pier. I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.” And then he’s attentive to the chirp of the referee’s whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while you’re left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.

The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you haven’t taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.

Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that it’s shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCU’s player’s foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it was—that look again of pure focus. 

3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.

It’s immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyo’s defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Geto’s feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyo’s defense, and one of YCU’s strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.

3-2.

The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.

One of YCU’s offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCU’s offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Choso’s attempt to lunge for it in mid air.

Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the players’ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the league’s number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isn’t good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other team’s defense.

Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and he’s huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but there’s a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCU’s defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius. 

The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyo’s string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCU’s goalkeeper, up towards the corner, except–

It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who can’t even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and that’s exactly what it does. 

The stadium erupts with the momentum.

4-3, UTokyo. 

It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times they’ll ever get to play together on a team. 

Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that he’s tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo players’ faces in the wake of YCU’s relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk. 

YCU’s center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyo’s players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasn’t the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play. 

The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.

YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyo’s midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCU’s offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.

Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCU’s star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipation–

And the ball lands in the net. 

4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock. 

There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum. 

To your surprise, Gojo isn’t the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field. 

The referee chirps his whistle. 

Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyo’s midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCU’s defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowd’s roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyo’s defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion. 

It was a moment you don’t think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.

With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCU’s offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yards–

In a moment you couldn’t believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalie’s hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.

With three-two-one seconds, the match was over. 

5-4, UTokyo’s win.

The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their school’s team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.

You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You can’t see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.

His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath. 

“IT’S OFFICIAL!! IT’S OFFICIAL!! UTOKYO’S VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITY’S RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!” 

The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed. 

You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.

He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your school’s team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But he’s made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.

“I believe you owe me a kiss,” he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesn’t stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.

You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.

You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, you’re pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.

It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, you’re not the one behind the camera taking the photo. You’re the one that’s in it.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of kickoff ch12]

a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior 😂😂 i’ll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!

OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didn’t really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n i’m not sure if i’ll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojo’s pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant. 

the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0 

➸ you're all caught up!

additional notes. please do not pressure me for updates or ask when i will next update (read rules); taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you'd like! :0)

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[taglist is closed]

[hoshifighting]

       tutor!woozi + spanking

— where woozi gets tired mad tired from your disinterest while he tutors you.

WARNINGS: +18, smut, ass-spanking, fingering, crying, teasing, squirt, nippple pinching, rough sex, mentions of body fluids (cum/squirt), overstimulation, jihoon is mean.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

part 1 / part 2 (coming soon)

“you’re late.” jihoon’s voice is sharp, arms crossed like he’s been rehearsing this whole 'mad professor' act for hours. the second he swings the door open, his expression makes it clear he’s been dying to chew you out. you blink at him, leaning against the doorframe like you couldn’t care less.

“relax, lee,” you grin, walking past him, purposely brushing your shoulder against his arm. “i’m here, aren’t i?”

he rolls his eyes, shutting the door with a click, and you can almost hear him clenching his teeth. he throws himself onto the couch like he’s doing you a favor just by being there. you follow, plopping down next to him way too close for his comfort.

“you waste my fucking time, y’know that?” his voice has that edge of annoyance, the one that kinda makes you wanna push him even more, just to see if he’ll snap. “i could be doing literally anything else right now. anything.” he’s got this glare that’s sharp enough to cut glass, but all you can do is bite your lip and shrug like it doesn’t faze you.

“aw, come on, jihoon, don’t be so dramatic. you love this,” you tease, crossing your legs and tapping the spot next to you nudging him to get closer, but he just ignores. “besides, it’s not like i asked for that much of your time. just a few hours.”

he looks at you for a second, probably debating whether or not to throw you out, before he finally sighs and takes a seat. “you’re always distracted,” he mutters, grabbing the history textbook from the coffee table and flipping it open, not even bothering to look at you as he starts going over the material. “we’ve been over this chapter three times, and you still can’t tell me the difference between the renaissance and the enlightenment. do i look like a clown to you?”

you smirk, leaning back on the couch. “actually, you look like—” you pause, dragging your eyes up and down his figure slowlywatching he stiff when you don't finish the phrase. “—someone who could be a lot more fun if you’d loosen up a little.” you swear you see his eye twitch at that.

“i’m serious,” he snaps, and there it is—that flicker of irritation that you’ve been pushing for. he looks at you, eyes flickering down to the short skirt that rides up your thighs as you shift in your seat. “you can’t focus for shit, and i’m not here to waste my time. either you take this seriously, or you leave.”

“oh, i’m taking it very seriously,” you say, biting your lip again as you lean in, your arm brushing his. you always do this—those 'casual' touches . “it’s just hard to focus when you keep talking so much. i mean, what was it again? ‘the rise of intellectual movements in europe’? yeah, sounds really sexy coming from you.”

he bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying to keep it together, but you can tell he’s close to breaking, plunging his hairs out of his head or something.

“you think you’re cute, huh?” he says, voice low and strained. “if you knew all this shit, why’d you even ask me to tutor you?”

you grin, crossing your legs a little tighter as you tilt your head. “oh, i knew it already. i just wanted an excuse to get close to you. i mean, come on, jihoon. you really think i’m that dumb?” you laugh, watching as his jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing at you.

“you’ve gotta be kidding me.” he tosses the textbook onto the table, crossing his arms again as he leans back. “so this was all just a game to you?”

“not a game,” you say, shrugging. “more like…an experiment. i saw you present your project last week, and, honestly? you looked sexy as fuck up there. figured i’d see if you’re just as hot when you’re trying to teach.”

jihoon takes a deep breath, his eyes locking with yours, and for a second, you think he might actually kick you out.

you lean closer, pressing your arms together so your cleavage’s practically spilling out, and for a second, you see jihoon’s resolve crack. he doesn’t say it, but you can see it in his eyes—the fuck it that’s so loud in his mind, you’re pretty sure even the aliens up there heard it. without another word, his hand is at the nape of your neck, fingers curling as he pulls you down, flipping you so fast your chest hits the couch. your hips land right on his lap, and you gasp in surprise, not expecting him to actually snap like this. but the look you give him over your shoulder—god, the devilish smile that curls up your lips—he knows you’re getting exactly what you wanted.

“you think this is funny?” he growls, his hand coming down hard on your ass, the sound echoing through the room as you let out a choked moan. your body jolts from the impact, but you don’t even have a second to recover before his palm meets your skin again, harder this time. “huh? think you can play your little games and just walk away?”

he slaps you again, harder, and the sting radiates through your body, your muscles tensing as you arch back into him. “jihoon—”

“don’t ‘jihoon’ me now.” another slap. your skirt rides higher with each hit, and you can feel yourself starting to drip between your legs, coating you, but it’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

you open your mouth to protest, but then his hand lands harder than before, the force sending your skirt flying up, and he freezes. for a second, you think maybe you’ve won—until you realize he’s staring at your bare ass, his breath caught in his throat. “you’re not even wearing panties?” he scoffs, his hand gripping your hip, and it’s almost painful how hard he’s holding you. “seriously? this is what you came here for?”

you bite your lip, looking back at him over your shoulder again, and his eyes are burning into you. before you can respond, his hand’s back on you, spreading your legs apart so wide you can feel the cool air hitting your pussy. “you’re unbelievable.” he scoffs.

then, without warning, his hand smacks against your pussy, and the shock makes you yelp, your hands gripping the cushions tight. the wetness on his palm is undeniable, and you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smirk. “look at you. already soaked, and i’ve barely touched you.”

you whimper, trying to move, but he keeps your legs spread, his hand coming down again. “you like this, don’t you? acting all tough, like you’re in control, but all it takes is a few slaps, and you’re dripping for me.”

his words are low, almost a growl, as he brings his hand down again, harder this time. your body jerks forward, your fingers digging into the couch, but the sting—too good to ignore. each slap has you biting back a moan, your thighs trembling, but the wetness only gets worse, slicking his hand as he keeps going.

“see?” another hit. you gasp, your chest pressing into the couch as you arch your back more, needing the friction, the release. “so fucking wet. what would people think if they saw you like this? spread out like this—begging for a fucking slap? really?”

his hand comes down once more, but this time, he lingers, fingers brushing against your swollen folds, slick with cum.

jihoon keeps going, each slap making a wet smack as your juices connects with his fingers and palm. every time he brings his hand down on your pussy, another thin line of your slick sticks to him, pulling back with a sound that has your cheeks burning. he’s relentless—alternating between slapping your ass and spreading your swollen lips just to smack your clit directly. it’s brutal, the way he’s working you, and all the while, he doesn’t stop talking.

“look at this mess,” he mutters, his hand squeezing the curve of your ass before landing another sharp slap. your skin’s so red, stinging from the constant impact, but that only makes the wetness between your legs worse, dripping onto his thigh. “you thought you could just tease me and get away with it, huh? acting all cute, playing dumb—but you’re the one who can’t even control yourself now.”

your body jerks with every hit, the sharp sting spreading through your thighs, making you cry out. you can feel how soaked you are, your wetness practically running down the inside of your thighs, and it’s so embarrassing, but the way he’s looking at you, all smug.

"fuck," you whimper, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach. you need him—god, you need him so so so so fucking bad, his cock, anything to fill the aching void between your legs. but instead, all you get is another slap, harder this time, making your whole body jolt forward.

“needy little thing,” he growls, spreading your cheeks apart with both hands just to watch as the slick drips from your hole, down to your clit, and onto his thigh. the sight makes him groan low in his throat in approval, and you try to protest, humiliated by how wet you are, but he just laughs. “embarrassed now? after all that shit you’ve been talking?”

his thumb finds your clit, circling it slowly, teasingly, and you squeak in surprise, your hips bucking against his hand. he looks up at you with this exaggeratedly thoughtful expression, like he’s debating something serious. “hmm… so, should i finger you now, or keep spanking this little pussy? decisions, decisions…”

your breath catches in your throat as he dips a finger into your folds, running it along your slick entrance before slipping it inside, and you can’t help the way your walls clench around him. “fuck, jihoon—please,” you gasp, and he scoffs, adding another finger, curling them just right.

“please, what?” he taunts, his fingers working you expertly, slow but deep, making sure you feel every inch. “you’re the one who asked for this. i’m just giving you what you wanted.”

his fingers slide in and out with ease, coated in your slick, the obscene sound of it filling the room as he pumps them faster. your pussy clenches around him, every curl of his fingers hitting the g'spot inside you, and you can’t stop the moans spilling from your lips, hips moving on their own to meet his thrusts.

“feel that?” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit again as his fingers fuck into you. “so tight, so fucking wet. bet you’ve been dreaming about this, hm? me, fucking you with my fingers, making you beg for more.”

he thrusts his fingers deeper, spreading them inside you, and you cry out, your grip tightening on the couch. “fuck—yes, yes, jihoon—”

he smirks, leaning closer so his breath is hot against your ear. “and what do you want next, huh? my cock? think you can handle that after getting off just from my fingers?”

you don’t even answer, just nod frantically as you feel the pressure building, your walls clenching harder around him. each thrust of his fingers sends sparks shooting up your spine, your wetness dripping down his hand, and you can barely think straight, let alone form words.

“you’re gonna cum?” he growls, fucking you faster with his fingers, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. “gonna cum just from my hand. so pathetic.”

jihoon’s fingers are buried inside you, his long, perfect digits moving inside you non-stop, curling against that spot that makes you whimper like a bitch. you’ve spent too many nights obsessed with those hands—those slender fingers that always seemed to be calling you from the depths of your own fantasies. and now they’re inside you, fucking you, and it’s so much more than you ever imagined.

you’re a mess, your pussy squelching with each thrust. your eyes burn with tears, you can feel your orgasm coming, creeping up from the pit of your stomach, but there’s something else, something more.

“fuck, jihoon,” you sob, your voice shaking as his thumb circles your clit again, driving you higher and higher. but it’s like your body’s betraying you—there’s this pressure, this unfamiliar heat building between your legs, and you don’t know what’s coming, but it’s terrifying in the finest way.

his fingers continue their assault, squelching louder with each thrust, and just when you think you can’t take it anymore, the pressure snaps. a gush of liquid escapes you, soaking his hand, the sound loud in the room as your body convulses, your orgasm crashing over you. you cry out, burying your face into the couch, as you realize what just happened. you fucking squirted on him, on his couch, on his floor.

jihoon doesn’t say anything at first. he just watches, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted in surprise. his fingers don’t stop, though. they keep moving inside you, coaxing out more spurts of liquid until they weak. each spurt feels like it's shaking you to your soul, and you want to hide, want to melt into the couch and disappear from the embarrassment, but he’s not letting you go anywhere.

“are you fucking serious?” he mutters under his breath, but there’s a hint of fun in his voice. his clean hand reaches for your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he yanks you up just enough to see your face. you’re flushed, eyes darting everywhere but at him, your body tremblinge.

“are you embarrassed?” he asks, scoffing as his hand tightens in your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze. “really? after everything, this is what’s got you hiding?”

your breath hitches, but before you can even think to respond, his free hand comes down on your ass, hard. the slap stings, making you jolt, but he doesn’t stop. he lands another, and another, the sound of flesh on flesh mixing with your rough breathing. “answer me.”

“jihoon—” you gasp, but he’s not having it. his hand moves from your ass to your breast, getting under your blouse and bra, pinching your nipple between his fingers, hard enough to make you squeal.

“i said, answer me,” he growls, his fingers twisting the sensitive nub until you’re squirming beneath him. “were you embarrassed? or were you just so fucking turned on by cumming all over my hand like that?”

“i—i wasn’t—fuck, jihoon!” you cry out, the words tumbling out of your mouth without thought as his fingers twist cruelly at your nipple, making it hard to think straight.

“don’t lie to me,” he warns, pulling your nipple harder as his fingers start working you again, faster now, his hand still slick from your release. “you loved it. look at you—fucking soaked. i bet if i pulled out my cock right now, you’d make an even bigger mess, right?”

you can’t deny it. the thought alone makes your thighs clench, your pussy fluttering around his fingers, and he feels it. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and you hate that you love it so much. his hand on your breast leaves for a moment, only to slap your ass again, this time harder, making you buck forward with a cry.

“that’s what i thought,” he mutters, yanking your head back by your hair as he shifts behind you. you can feel him now, the thick outline of his cock pressing against your ass. “you wanted this. you’ve been teasing me, fucking with me for weeks, and now look where you are—about to get exactly what you deserve.”

his hand moves between your legs again, this time not to slap but to tease, his fingers sliding through your folds, gathering your slick. he rubs your clit, once, twice, then pulls his fingers away, leaving you throbbing, hurting for more. you whimper in protest, but he just scoffs.

he pulls your legs apart wider, positioning himself behind you. you try to turn, to look at him, but his grip on your hair keeps you in place, your face pressed into the cushions as you feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

he doesn’t ease in slowly. he’s rough, pushing into you with one hard thrust that has you gasping for breath, your pussy stretching around him, and even though you are prepared enough, the burn makes you cry out. he fills you so good your walls clamp down around him, trying to adjust on his thick girth.

“hmm fuck yes,” jihoon groans, his voice weakened as he grips your hips, holding you still. “so fucking tight. you’ve been teasing me all this time, and now you’re taking my cock like a good little slut.”

he starts moving, his thrusts rough and no mercy, each one pushing you harder into the couch. his hands find your ass again, slapping it with each thrust, and the sharp sting only drives you higher, makes you wetter. you can feel the slickness coating his cock, dripping down onto the cushions, and you’re a mess of moans and cries, hardly competent to form words.

“jihoon—oh fuck—” you sob, your hands gripping the couch. each time he thrusts into you, it feels like he’s hitting deeper, the angle perfect, making you drool.

“yeah? you like that?” he growls. “you like me fucking you like this? slapping your pretty little ass while you squirt all over my cock?”

your voice is poorly there, mumbling things that don’t even make sense. “so full… so—jihoon… fuck… it’s—”

you’re trying to say something, but the pleasure is too much, your brain too clouded to form a coherent thought. he laughs as he flips you onto your back with ease. your body’s boneless at this point, sprawled out beneath him, and he takes a second to drink in the sight of you—your fucked-out expression, the way your lips part in a soft smile.

“you still got a smile for me, hm?” he teases, but there’s something fond in his voice, something almost soft. for a second, it feels like he might lean down and kiss you, but instead, his hand wraps around your throat, and he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth—his pretty and pearly white teeth that you loved during his briefs smiles, or when he bit your lip.

you pout, tilting your head slightly, desperate for his lips, but he just grins.

“bad girls don’t get kissed,” he says, he tightens his grip on your throat just enough to make you gasp, your eyes wide as he watches your reaction. “you haven’t earned it.”

before you can protest, he slams into you again, hard, making your body jerk against the couch. each thrust is deliberate, punctuated by his voice, growling out words like a promise with every snap of his hips.

“you’re—such—a—fucking—mess.”

his pace is brutal, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin fills the room, and all you can do is take it, your body arching beneath him, your moans spilling out uncontrollably.

jihoon doesn’t slow down. he leans over you, his mouth finding your breasts, sucking hard on the soft skin there. you can feel the bruises forming under his lips, the red marks blooming with each rough kiss, each bite, and you know they’ll turn blue soon enough, the evidence of his touch lasting long after he’s done.

“fuck,” you whimper, your nails digging into his arms, trying to ground yourself. “jihoon—i’m gonna—fuck, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growls, not letting up for a second. his hand moves from your throat to your waist, pinning you down as his hips slam into yours with a cruel beat. “you’re gonna cum for me again, aren’t you? go ahead. let go.”

you don’t have a choice. the pleasure builds and builds until it snaps, sending you spiraling into another orgasm, your body trembling, your walls fluttering around him. jihoon watches, his eyes dark, his grip on your waist tightening as he fucks you through it, his hips never faltering.

“shit,” he hisses, his own release catching up to him as he pulls out, stroking himself once, twice, before spilling his cum all over your stomach, the warmth of it sticky against your skin. he groans, watching as it drips down your belly, his chest heaving.

for a moment, it’s quiet. your body is still shaking, your mind somewhere far away, but you feel his hands again—this time, softer. he’s cleaning you up with a towel he found somewhere, wiping away the mess he made, his touch surprisingly gentle after everything.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, the edge gone, replaced by something almost tender. he looks down at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you nod, still too dazed to form a proper response. you give him a weak smile, and he chuckles softly, shaking his head.

you think for a second that maybe he’ll kiss you after all—something soft, something to soothe the bruises he left behind—but instead, his expression shifts. his hand finds your shoulder, pushing you lightly as he mutters, “good. now get out of here.”

you blink, confused, sitting up slowly. “what?”

he smirks, grabbing a couple of books from the coffee table and tossing them into your lap. “you heard me. unless you want another good fuck, don’t come running after me. not for anything else.”

you raise an eyebrow, scoffing as you gather your clothes, slipping back into them without another word. his gaze never leaves you, watching the way you smooth out your skirt.

“right. see you around then.”

he doesn’t respond as you walk out, but you can feel his eyes on you until the door clicks shut behind you.

[loveafterdeath-if]

DEMO | EXTRAS | DISCORD | KO-FI Wordcount ~200k (Prologue -> Chapter 2, Part 1) Last updated: 12/10/2024

Your past is in the past. And your future is with your lover.

Life has been kind to you these past few years. After everything you've been through, after building yourself stronger both mentally and physically, after crawling out of what seemed to be a dead end, this peace is… nice. Very nice. A lover who adores you, a best friend who has your back, a cozy house to call home, hell, even a cat you didn't ask for.

No more stress. No more tears, rage, helplessness, or feeling powerless. Everything is going smoothly.

But isn't it going a bit too smoothly?

Content warning: Please note that "Love After Death" is rated 18+ due to sexually suggestive scenes, optional sexual content, themes of child abuse, violence, death (duh), and more. If you find yourself uncomfortable at any point while playing, please prioritize your well-being and stop playing.

This game is a slice-of-life with heavy romance elements. If romance isn't your cup of tea, this might definitely not be the game for you (sorry!)

Customization: Shape your journey by choosing your gender, appearance, personality, and your love after death. Meet other people than your bestie. Suffer... from stuff. Get along with kids or their parents. Have a new job as assistant. And more...

Elias/Ellie Winter (m/f), 26:

Your lover and a rising star in the modeling world, someone you trust and love. They've always been your rock in whatever situations you found yourself in, no matter how hard it was to pull you out of your past. You're all they always wanted, and you're all they'll always want. That's just fate for them. You are their fate. But here's a tip: don't get too attached. No, seriously. Don't.

Luna/Leon Melth (f/m), 43: Your neighbor and CEO of a prestigious cosmetics corporation. They're mature, but not exactly ancient. Their good looks and charm turn heads wherever they go, and they love every second of it. They live for it. It's been ages since their last serious relationship. Maybe they miss love, maybe that's why they make sure their bed's never cold, or maybe they're just having fun. Who knows?

Tracee/Travis Melth(f/m), 27:

Your neighbor's son/daughter and CFO of their parent's corporation. You never know what they think or what they might feel. They're like a locked diary, impossible to read. While most people struggle to get more than two words out of them, you've noticed they act differently around you. Not as stoic or cold with you as they are with others. Maybe you're special, or maybe you're delusional.

Athiel Winter (m/f), 24: Your lover's sibling and fellow model. An annoying and arrogant person who can't seem to stop antagonizing you. You two mix like oil and water. Even when things seem peaceful, Athiel makes it their personal mission to remind you that you're nothing more than an annoying bug beneath their designer boots. That's all you are. Charming, right?

Ekissa Jones (m/f), 28:

Your best friend and a passionate artist. How you managed to befriend this grumpy soul remains a mystery, but beneath that prickly exterior lies… well, still someone pretty grumpy, but in an cute and adorable way….. You're probably their only friend and you know what? They don't care, because that's enough for Ekissa. You've always been enough.

[theorist-fox]

Takes practice

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposting from AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

In my feel-good romance era. Usually more of a slap me pull my hair touch me there, there, there - no more talking. But not today. No SIR.

The bit regarding the satellite phones and telemarketers was inspired by the first chapters of Shadowed by Tarajanee. Absolutely adore that work and I thought those scenes at the beginning were lovely!

Word count: 13k

Summary: Simon is deployed for the first time since the beginning of your relationship. Instead of finding purpose in keeping the world clean, he finds it in keeping himself alive, because he's never been this eager to come home.

18+

CW: smut!!! dry humping, mutual masturbation, thigh fucking, P in V. Fluff, this is very fluffy. Soft Simon Riley, Simon is absolutely fucking whipped. Self-deprecating thoughts, intrusive thoughts, angst if you squint so don't squint and you'll only get yearning and love making.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon doesn’t remember your eyes.

He’s been clawing at his face, both literally and metaphorically, because each time he closes his eyelids to succumb to exhaustion, he sees your face.

And you’re pretty. So much. He envisions the curve of your smile and how your lips part to give way to your teeth. The lines at the corners that scrunch your nose and how it flushes when it’s too cold out. He has memorized the shape of your brows for every expression. Knows the line of your cheekbones and how they swell under your eyes when you smile.

Your face is lovely, even when he conjures it in his head. But when your form breaks through the mist, he gets startled every time. Because he can’t see your eyes.

It's like a mock picture of you. A mimicry gone bad. You’re there, fresh and real, whispering sweet words to him, tossing a quip, or moaning breathlessly as he remembers the way he’s fucked you, but your eyes are carved out. Blank spots instead of the windows to your soul, like everyone always seems to chatter about.

Sure, he remembers the shape of your eyes, and if he takes deep breaths, cancels out Johnny’s blabber blaring from his cot, and enters a deep meditative state, he might be able to draw their outline.

But it’s the shade he misses. Are they sapphire, dark, and cryptic? Or frostbite blues. Emerald, maybe. He ponders, but he’s not sure. Brown, like his? Chocolate, with swirling hazels like golden speckles. Stormy grey. Charcoal black. Amber. Gold. Fucking crimson.

He doesn’t know.

But it's only been three months since he left.

And it’s been six months since Simon has taken you on his bed and fucked his name into you. Six months since he’s finally tasted your skin and imprinted your flavor on his tongue. 

It’s your fault, he thinks, if now everything he eats tastes bland. Nothing sweeter than the salt of you. The dichotomy is not lost on him. He’s a rational man, and figures easily that skin can't be sweet, especially not after he made you sweat by pounding you into the mattress. Yet he might have lost a marble or two after that, because now not even honey can compare.

Which is why he’s moved his things in your room. Just because it’s bigger, he told you. No other reason, really.  

Fucking liar. 

But again, you’re as saccharine as you taste. And maybe not as naïve as he thinks. Because ever since that night, six months ago, your hands often intertwine with his own when you guide him to bed – your bed. 

And that’s how he found a nightstand full of his things on the side closer to the doorway of the room. There’s the book you’ve lent him and a re-filled plastic bottle of water right next to it, one that he should probably throw away like you constantly tell him. Something about microplastics, but fuck if he knows. Because ever since that night, he’s lost a bit of his logic, a lot more of his sanity: you can speak for hours on end and he wouldn’t hear a damn thing if not for how your voice vibrates against his eardrums, sending tingles down his spine. 

Surreptitiously, his things have started to appear in your room. He doesn’t have much, a phew photos of his family are shuffled with your trinkets. Plain, white frames stuffed in between your smiles on pictures you’ve taken with friends. 

A frame of his medals, the ones you insisted he kept, nailed to the wall next to your PhD certificate. 

Tidy, onyx wardrobe polluted with pinks and greens. Breathable cotton and faux furs. Fuzzy fabrics that leave a rainbow of synthetic hairs on his clothes. He doesn’t bother to pluck them off, it’s just another piece of you he’s lucky to carry around.

His old bedroom turns into a storage room. Filled with boxes of forgotten things and broken appliances you can’t be bothered to fix. 

And he promises to tinker a little with the vacuum, so you won’t have to spend money on a new one and use your savings for your guilty pleasures. That book you saw when you went out together for groceries? Consider it yours. The cooking classes you wanted to attend at that restaurant you’re always raging about? He’s already bought you a pristine new apron. 

And maybe he’ll take you there, too. Ask for a more secluded table where he can still spot the door, so he can also uncoil the muscles of his back and use his eyes only to look at you, instead of having them dart around for dangers.

But fuck, he can’t do any of that now. 

It’s his first mission after that night, six months ago, and Simon is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. You’re worse than morphine on a dying man; you leave him aching for something he knows he can have because you're so obviously there, but he’s so stupidly far away.

And he can’t even tell you where he is. Can’t even give you some peace of mind. Can barely call you, because Johnny’s been hogging the satellite phone to talk to Lord-knows-who.

The Scot is not selfish, Simon knows he would only have to ask, and the bulky device would practically materialize in his hand. But Simon also knows that if he dared, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Because in the years spent in the task force, he’s never needed to call anyone. 

Can’t call the dead, now, can you? 

And now, popping a question like that would only raise suspicions. It would have his mates up his arse until his head would split in half.

But it’s been six months since that night. Three months since he left. 

And that pocket of time he’s managed to spend with you, uninterrupted, almost made him accustomed to civilian life. To the lack of his mask and the AC of the flat breezing against his face. The taste of homecooked meals. The constant presence of another soul (a beautiful one at that) in his same space. 

With you, he’s never parched – of anything. You feed him mind, heart and body, showering him with that innocent love you so easily dispense, allowing him to bathe in it. 

He’d listen to your never-ending chat for days. His mind has always roared with sounds, yet the more noise you make the more you silence it. Baffling, really, how he’s spent his whole life looking for quiet and found it in the loudest person on earth.

He’s always sated with your kisses, your words, your quick mind and razor-sharp wit, your moans and your mewls, and God, anything you were willing to give. Your lips, your spit, the juices he makes you drip, and the ones he makes you spray. He dreams of cupping your clit with his mouth as he ravages your cunt with two thick fingers until you’re splashing on his tongue. He’d drink you dry, if you’d let him. 

And oh, you have. 

There’s  the wonderful catch. These are not wishes; these are memories. Too real and fresh ones for them to be just another one of his daydreams.

Finally, after three months of pondering – or better, yearning – he realizes that every skin-prickling migraine his mates would induce is worth the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

He’s disgustingly sweaty. He tugs at the lip of his collar and grimaces when he feels the cotton unstick from the dampness on his chest. 

Johnny's sitting idly, enjoying the few days of break from mayhem. Just a handful of hours allowed, really, enough to get them back on their feet – tactical planning, refill of their resources. Boring shite like that. But at least it’s a breather all right.

“Got the phone, Johnny?” He grumbles.

And Johnny would love to act as none the wiser, but his eyes peek from behind the sketchbook he holds in his hand. The smirk that curls at his lips has Simon roll his eyes. 

He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers, giving him a pointed look. “Johnny.”

“L.T.” He responds in kind. “Callin’ the landlord?”

Simon levels him with a deadpan look that could freeze the desert they’re stuck in. “Sergeant.”

Bastard’s too cunning for his own good.

Johnny drops the sketchbook immediately, showing the lieutenant his palms in defense. The cheeky bastard that he is doesn’t manage to conceal the absolute fascination in his eyes. He’s studying his superior as if he’s staring at another species.

And Simon doesn’t blame him. He’s like a sock that’s been turned inside out, the negative image of himself. All that gloomy energy turned blinding light, ever since he’s had a taste of what life could be with you in it.

But alas, no one wants to have the Ghost up their arse, so Johnny looks around the messy area around his cot and plucks the girthy satellite phone out of it.

Simon picks it up by pinching the tiny antenna on its side. It prompts Johnny’s smirk to broaden. 

“Haven’t done anythin’ with it.” He quips, letting it hang in the air for a second longer. “Or have I.”

Simon grunts a noise of disgust. “Spare me.”

He finds a secluded spot in the area they're occupying. There's nothing around them but the rubble of a city that has been torn by war and time. The sight is dour, and the silence echoes a dark past he hasn’t witnessed. Even so, the remains of the buildings are tall enough to offer their lot some cover. 

He slides with his back against a wall, knees spread wide. 

He knows your number by heart, his thumb presses each button with newfound resolve. Only when he brings the phone to his ear, does his determination falter. Because he hasn't contacted you in any way, shape, or form for three months. So, what if you’re livid, now? You’d have every right. He’d understand if you’d rip him a new one through the receiver. He just hopes you didn’t spend these days rethinking your choices. 

God, you’ve infected him with this overthinking bullshit.

“Hello?” Your voice breaks through the fog in his brain, like a hand wiping mist from glass, and his own breath threatens to choke him. He’s speechless for a moment, forgetting how to function properly.

Just your voice has sent his mind into overdrive - burnt his synapses to ashes. 

He reckons he’s completely fucked.

“Hello?” You repeat, sounding a little more annoyed. 

You grumble something about telemarketers having lost the decency to call at a reasonable hour. And when he doesn't answer again, he hears you sigh. Your voice gets all clinical, then, as if you were trained to repeat the same script over and over. “Listen, if you’re trying to sell me somethin’, my husband’s not home – he takes care of that stuff.”

He snorts.

“Your husband?”

Silence.

There’s a sort of shifting sound, he gathers you might have removed the phone from your ear and checked for the number on the screen. He can practically see your eyes squinting at the phone.

He hears you gasp, and he hints at a smile. Fucking hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that.

“Simon?” You venture.

“Hello, love.” 

You squeal, and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. But he’s tired of lying to himself – his heart is soaring. 

"Christ. Made my ears ring," he deadpans.

You chuckle, sighing afterward, as if a weight has been lifted from your chest. God, you’re a dream to listen to. If only he could also look at your face right now, just bask in the way your smile would light up the room. 

“Serves you right,” you chide him, as if that could ever be a punishment. “Could’ve called a little earlier than three months in. Was already looking for a new flatmate.”

He’s eternally thankful for the skull mask, even if it’s soddened with his sweat because if anyone were to walk by, they wouldn’t see how his face has softened. 

“Yeah?” He sniffs, “Made a new flyer and all tha’?” 

“Oh yeah,” You agree flippantly. There’s a shuffling sound that reminds him of bedsheets. “Made sure to add my boyfriend left me as a footnote.”

The corners of his lips twitch minutely. 

“Thought it was your husband who wasn’t home.” He retorts. “Got a stash of ‘em, then?”

Your chuckle is a breath of fresh air. He wants to have it imprinted in his eardrums, replacing the aggravating tinnitus. 

“Oh, y’know,” you sigh dramatically. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Keeps things interesting.”

“Gotta have a chat with the lad, then.” He taunts, “Set some rules.”

“Good luck with that. He rarely listens.”

He hums fondly. It’s all he can give you, right now. 

He’s new to this, relationships have never been his forte. For the first time in his life, he’s having someone else guide him. It’s hard, he won’t deny it, having another set of hands grasp the wheel, instead of his own. But he’s letting you, however slowly. You’re understanding, and you’re allowing him to leave his foot on the brakes. You never push him, you go at his pace – even if it’s blatantly annoying, how sluggish his movements are. Yet you don’t seem to mind, and he’s eternally grateful for it.

“How…” You start. He can tell you’re unsure, whether or not you can ask these things. Whether or not he can answer them. “How are you?”

His eyes soften. 

“Good,” he reassures you. “’S hot.”

You hum. “North Africa.”

He clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Middle East?”

Eh.  “No.”

You gasp. 

“You’re throwing me off guard, aren’t you? You said it’s hot, but it actually isn’t.” You say cleverly, even if you’re aware it’s most likely untrue. “North America, then. Like - Canada.”

“Drop it, maybe.” He offers gently. “Making a fool o’ yourself.”

“Alaska.” 

“Love.”  He warns, but his voice is kind. “Wastin’ time.”

“Mh, the script has changed, I see.” You tease him, and he can tell you’re smiling, by the way your voice comes. “Thought you were gonna hit me with the classified.”

“Like to keep you on your toes.”

“Been on my toes for three months.”

His heart clenches a little. He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want you to live on the line like that. He wonders if you’ve ever felt like this, in the four years he’s lived with you without having anything tethering each other, if not a casual friendship. Were you ever afraid when he left for his deployments? Or is this new to you, like it is for him?

“Fixed the vacuum, by the way.” You tell him lightly, as if sensing the tense air your comment has instilled. 

He silently thanks you for breaking the silence when he couldn’t. A gentle huff of relief travels through the receiver. 

“What was the problem?” He asks, even if not really fussed about the state of the thing.

“Fuck if I know.” You shrug. “Gave it a few whacks and it started working again.”

He fails to keep in a huff of laughter. “Fucking hell, ‘s tha’ what you’ve been doing, then? Hitting appliances?”

“Fixing appliances.” You correct him. “And stress baking. Lots of it.”

“Work’s botherin’ ya?” 

“S’fine.” You sigh sweetly, as though that could give him some peace of mind. “Everything’s fine over here, you don’t have to worry.”

Selfless angel, you are. He would have to be daft not to realize that you’re probably leeching your heart dry at the thought that something might happen to him. He feels like a fool for not having contacted you sooner, even when he had only a minute to spare.

His pride be damned.

“’M sorry I didn’t call earlier.” He apologizes, because the least he can do is hope you forgive him for being like a baby deer on ice about all this. 

“You called.” Your voice is soft. “’S what matters.”

He knows what you mean. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’s faring good enough to chat with you, that’s what matters. He’s missing you as much as you’re longing for him, that’s what matters. 

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His offhand runs across his face and he has to rip his own head out of his arse before the thoughts overwhelm him. 

How can he put you through this?  He should’ve left three weeks in, four years ago; should’ve let you share your home with someone more reliable, one who didn’t have a blade oscillating above his neck.

And yet at the same time, he can't let go of you. 

You’re so good to him, you’re the drop of water in a life that’s always felt arid. You made his barren heart flourish without even trying – he didn’t think anyone could, he thought he was bound to be frozen soil, not a garden. But here you fucking are, with your tiny watering can, nourishing the earth and causing it to sprout.

He’s selfish. He is. There is no karmic balance in his reasons. The scale tips in his favor through and through, because he’s sure you’re not gaining anything from this relationship, if not a spike in anxiety and its hand around your neck.

“How long?” You ask, seemingly unable to bear the silence.

"Few weeks." He croaks and clears his throat when he notices how cracked his voice sounds. “Be back in three. Could be two, if things go to plan.”

The silence on your end is deafening. Unwittingly giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Countdown starts, then.” You reply with that sunshine in your voice. Sunbeams through ominous clouds. “Gonna tally the days on the wall with one of your can openers.”

He snorts. “Lotta money to fix.”

“We can put ugly wallpaper over it,” you propose. “So the next person to rent the place will remove it and a whole kidnapping slash ghost story will spread around the neighborhood.”

You’re crazy, he thinks, but not unkindly. His heart squeezes in his chest.

“Fucking numpty.”

“Fucking numpty, or fucking numpty, derogative?”

He smirks. “Former.”

“Wonderful.” You say with a pinch of a smile he can’t see, sounding all smug.

However, nothing nice can last forever, not in Simon Riley’s plane of existence. He spots his captain approaching him, fiddling with the boonie hat in his grasp while his other hand lazily dries droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Gotta go.” He mutters. Waits a bit. Shuffles through his thoughts and decides to swallow his pride, because you deserve at least that much. “Missed you. Still do.”

You're silent for a moment longer before you give him a last glimpse of your voice. The one he'll hold onto like a lifeline for the next three – hopefully two – weeks. 

“Miss you too.” You say gently. “Come home soon.”

And he’s back suddenly. 

Earlier than expected, at that – one week only. Price was all business, a few days after he caught him sneaking a phone call. Telling him things like “Need you at HQ. Work with Laswell, make sure classified intel stays classified”. And when he questioned why would he send his sniper and lieutenant to do a job an analyst should do, Price answered with a curt “Because I can trust you”.

Honestly, what could he have said to that? Even if it smelled fishy from afar, his reasoning sounded mostly reliable. Because you would send your most trusted to deal with sensitive information, right? And if Simon were a bit more daft and a bit less intuitive, he would've shrugged it off. 

But it was plain as day when his boot landed on British soil, duffel bag in hand. When his phone pinged after he turned off airplane mode, and a text popped up:

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off for the jet lag. 

That he realized the ploy his teammates had concocted. To be honest, he wasn’t as resentful as he thought he was going to be. There was lingering thankfulness – somewhere, deep below layers and layers of stoicism.

[You]: Time zones aren’t that different. 

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off to just rest, then. 

[You]: Not that tired. 

[Unknown number]: Never took you for one to question orders. 

[You]: Never took you for one to put personal life before our job. 

Simon waited patiently under the overhanging lip of the hangar. The Kevlar of his glove crinkled as his fingers curled around the hand of his duffle bag. The rain creates a gentle buzz against the metal.

It took a while for the other bubble to appear, as if the other person – most likely Price, judging by the vocabulary used in the texts – was thinking about the right thing to say.

And the right thing it was, when the words fluttered on Simon’s phone screen.

[Unknown number]: About time you put yours first, though. 

Simon, for once, agreed.

────────────

The keys slide into the keyhole with familiarity. He turns it three times, content to see you’ve locked the door all the way. When he steps in, the flat is quiet, but he isn’t expecting otherwise. It’s late at night, the hands of the clock that’s hanging above the telly mark somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s too dark to be sure. 

He's ever so gentle when he closes the door and gingerly sets the duffle bag at his feet. 

The first thought popping in his head it’s you. You’re not expecting him to be back so soon, and he has this trepidation in him that wants to command his feet to the door of your bedroom only to see how you’d react to his unexpected presence.

But he takes a moment to digest this new feeling. 

It's hard to realize that, finally, you're not dreading something. For the first time in an excruciatingly long while, Simon isn't afraid. While his brain is rigidly wired in a way that makes him refuse to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, the heart knows best.

And he is scared. He’s always been scared, ever since his mother granted him the possibility of walking this earth. Being excited to live has never been his strong suit, but he’s learning. He’s trying. 

Takes practice, to accept you’re worth your happiness.

So, as a novice learner, it’s a little jarring to realize that when his feet land on the hardwood floors of this house, there's no need for fear. He can tuck the dread away, stuff it in a pocket, and close the flap, all the while being sure no harm will come his way. Certainty that with you there’s no need for all that, for vigilance – he can unravel the knots, and simply feel what comes, because it's not going to hurt him. 

You could never.

Hooking a finger under the hem of the balaclava, he snatches it off his head and lays it on the shelf next to the doorway. It’s soaked in rain, but he’ll wash it tomorrow. And he’ll use your fabric softener, so it’ll smell like your sheets. 

The flat looks awfully dull with the lights off. The bright colors are mere shades of grey, and while he’ll never admit it out loud, he truly thinks the orange of the eastern wall brightens the room as you've told him. The thought itself baffles him – Simon Riley now knows a thing or two about home design. You’ve changed him in ways he never expected. 

However, the thing that shocks him even more than his newfound knowledge of home interior embellishments, is when the smell of baked goods bullies its way into his nose. His mouth waters in a Pavlovian response. 

Right.  

Stress baking. 

He kneels to unlace his boots, before toeing them off gently, making sure they won’t thud against the floor and disturb your sleep. Then, he practically floats to the kitchen, still unbelieving at the idea that he gets to come home and find delicacies as such ready to eat. Sometimes, in the span of life he decides to call the “Before you”, he’d snatch a few MREs from the stash in base and eat them once back in his flat. 

Easy, quick, and edible. Even if they taste like cardboard.

And now he gets to walk into a kitchen that smells like blueberries and buttercream and black tea. He gets to grab a lumpy muffin from the tray on the kitchen island and sink his teeth in its golden and blue fluff. The flavors erupt on his tongue, from the saccharine spongy cake to the sweet tang of the blueberry juice as the fruit bursts under his teeth.

He selfishly hopes your stress baking will last for a few more days.

Nevertheless, while he’d gladly eat the whole tray if it were up to him, there’s something he craves more than a full stomach. And you're currently waiting in the other room, probably tucked under the duvet because the British weather tonight is rigidly cold. 

He shrugs off his wind jacket and drapes it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He can’t afford to take any steps backward. The coat rack is just a few paces back from the kitchen, nailed to the wall near the entrance, but he really doesn’t care. That handful of seconds is too precious to waste.

The steps he takes through the dark hallway are measured and silent; years of special forces training have taught a man his size how to be what his callsign implies.

Discreetly, he turns the knob, trying to make sure he won’t wake you with a startle because the door has barged open. However, the one caught by surprise it’s him. Because you’re not asleep, even if it’s three in the morning. 

Oh, he wants to give you a proper earful – sure, he's not your father, and if you're so keen on staying awake up until this hour on a weekday, then it's your funeral. 

Does it help school the unruly necessity of keeping you as healthy as can be? Absolutely fucking not. You’re a heathen and he hates you for it. 

But now you’re resting your back against the headboard, cross-legged on the bed. Satin blue navy camisole paired with matching shorts, big headphones on your ears, and your laptop on the mattress. You’re typing away. He’s sure you’ve pushed back an assignment from work and now you’re running out of time.

The room is dark, the only light being the screen of your computer casting your silhouette against the wall behind you. It’s silent aside from the patter of rain on the windowpane – you haven’t closed the blinds because Simon knows you love the moon flooding your room with gentle light. However, tonight the clouds are dominating the night sky, but the lampposts across the street are doing what the moon can’t, and you seem to favor that over complete darkness.

It’s clear you haven’t noticed him yet, music blaring in your ears and eyes focused on the monitor. But he’s seen you all right. And your eyes are cast downward, your lashes like annoying curtains depriving him of what he's been missing for the past three months. 

In spite of how muffled his movements have been, you seem to notice a shift in the air. Something that makes your skin prickle, a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in the same room, nor in the same flat – not now, at least, when he should be mummified in Kevlar and breathable cotton somewhere in the desert. He's secretly proud of how easily you seem to feel fluctuations in the environment. Makes him take a breath of relief, that your reflexes aren't dull even when your senses are already busy.

You lift your head swiftly, and he helps you focus on him by flicking up the light switch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, but you blink it away and finally clock him at the door. 

And your eyes are the color of the sun, he thinks. How could he forget, that they’re the color of a bonfire when it's cold out. Of yellows, oranges, and those occasional sparkles of green when the wood is not dry, but still burns to keep him warm.

Realization paints your face with stunning colors: darkening cheeks, eyes shaped like crescent moons under the pressure of rising cheekbones. Mouth curving beautifully, and it seems to catch your teeth. The smile stretches your lips abruptly, morphing your face in spare seconds.

He sees it happen in slow motion. You rip your headphones and carelessly toss them on the bed, your laptop is skewed to the side so quickly that he instinctively reaches out a hand to prevent its fall. Thankfully, the stars are on your side tonight, and the balance tips it on the mattress, instead of the floor. 

You’re a little hurricane, scurrying off the bed and kicking off the sheets. Getting on your feet and almost slipping in the attempt to reach him in as little time as possible. A tornado of limbs envelops him in the blink of an eye. He barely has time to react that you’re already coiled around him like ivy– arms, legs, and all.

Luckily, the doorway is right behind him, and he manages to tumble back and lean against it. Your arms are vines around his neck. Your legs are roots encircling his waist. You seem to grow on him, supplying his wretched heart with the sap of life you carry – symbiotic. He feels like he can breathe again and has been doing it wrong all this time.

He helps your balance by keeping a firm hold around your waist with his arms, encapsulating you in his warmth. Lean fingers spread on your back, yearning to touch as much as he can reach.

“Easy,” he rumbles. His voice is hoarse because whatever reaction he'd imagined, all this fussing surely wasn’t it.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tug lightly at his scalp. He’s silently apologetic because it must be wet with both rain and sweat, and he's sure the smell wafting from him isn't exactly cologne-worthy. But you don't seem to care, because after you've thoroughly inspected the crook of his neck, your face comes back into view.

Your eyes are the color of joy.

“Welcome back.” You whisper, as if it’s a secret between you two. And you kiss him because surely you must want it as much as he does. A flutter of lashes brushes his cheekbone when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Nails scrape at his scalp in the gentlest of ways. 

Simon feels your smile before he sees it. “You taste like blueberries.”

And he exhales against your lips. “Found ‘em waiting for me in the kitchen. Baked for an army, y’ have.”

You peck his lips once more, as if you couldn’t fathom a second longer without having them on yours. “Figured you’d be hungry. MRIs can’t be that tasty.”

"MREs,” he corrects. “And you’re right. They ain’t.”

Simon is not sure he’s ever received such a warm welcome, or such warmth in general. He’s not going to complain, of course, but that doesn't mean it leaves him any less rattled each time.

He gently sets you down at the edge of the mattress, standing between your legs – which you’ve pliantly spread to make room for him.

You gesture with your hand from left to right, "Potato, Po-tah-to."

"One is food, the other is medical equipment," he deadpans.

You glare up at him, as if to ask what the hell he wants now – it's three in the morning. Can’t be arsed to correct vowels at three in the morning.

“Potato.” You enunciate it better now, and it steals a lazy grin from him. “Po-tah-to.”

After having flicked your forehead at your insistence, he reverently lays his hand on your cheek and spreads his fingers into your hair.

“Alright?” You ask him.

“Mhmh,” it’s his only reply.

If only to feel you more, he guides your face to his belly. You seem to appreciate the gesture because you're already nuzzling his shirt, fisting it at his back for good measure. Simon feels your back expand and deflate under his palm when you breathe. Feels the rhythmic thump thump of your heart at his fingertips.

You’re life in its purest form. 

Face first into his abdomen, your voice is obviously muffled, but he hears it clearly anyway. "You smell like a sewer, mate."

He snorts, and lightly tugs at your hair, enough to make your head tilt back. He squints his eyes at you. “Cry ‘bout it, mate.”

Simon bends at the waist as you chuckle. Places a kiss on the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter closed and so do his. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but you two. The world muffles its noise to favor the sound of your breaths. The rain patters against the windowpane. Your laptop has gone into standby mode so now the screen is dark. The mellow light on the ceiling, a pale yellow, is like your discreet personal spotlight. 

Then, he reluctantly pulls away, and you chase him for more, pouting when he doesn’t seem to come back. But when he starts to undress, your scowl is easily replaced by a lazy grin. To increase the dramatics of the moment, you lean back on your elbows and wiggle your brows at him, “Well, well.”

You’re not subtle at all with the way your eyes follow a trail down his back, how the muscles fold when his hand reaches to the collar of his shirt and pulls it off his head. Curves and muscles and the indent of his spine. Skin freckled with scars you never ask a thing about because you're kind and you’re giving him time to open up on his own.

He’s put on some weight ever since your relationship has transitioned into something more meaningful, including feelings he still doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge. His abs are not as defined as before, they’re tucked under a layer of fat he’s not really accepting as of lately. The scar running across his stomach and its other companions only add to his self-deprecating streak.

He eyes you briefly as he unbuckles his belt, searching for what he’s sure is going to be a grimace, but he's met instead with the stupidest look he’s ever witnessed. Slow blinking at his form the more he undresses himself. Lips parted as if you’ve tried and failed to catch your jaw.

And that gives him the right to take those thoughts and shove them into the fear pocket. Sew it shut. No need to fear a thing, if you look at him that way.

You bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. "Givin' me a show, lieutenant?"

The corner of Simon’s lips tugs upward and the sudden self-hatred sublimates under the warm adoration in your eyes.

“Cheeky little thing,” he rumbles, letting his khakis pool at his ankles. He steps out of them and shrugs them off when they catch his feet. 

One last step, and he’s already hooking a finger under the hem of your blue camisole, slowly lifting it up. There's an impish gleam in your eyes that promises trouble and he would love nothing more than to drown in whatever disaster you're planning.

He stands between your legs only in his underwear and after you’ve shut the laptop and placed it on your nightstand, your hands immediately come to rest on his stomach. Simon sighs at the touch.

“You’re a menace,” he says gently when you drum your fingers up to his chest.

Honestly, he hopes you don’t care if he smells like a cocktail of grime and sweat and rain, because, as much as he wishes for a hot shower, the sight of you melts whatever need away. 

Your eyes travel downward, taking a generous eyeful of him. However, he knows you’re not just ogling; you're searching him for wounds. 

Bandages. 

Sutures. 

Anything  that might tell you whether he's hurt or not. 

Obviously, Simon knows you want to ask. But you’re sensible when it comes to his job. In spite of the jabs about all the “Classified” he’s given you as answers, he knows you don’t hold a grudge against him. He also doesn't like to bring work at home, taking pains to leave his safe space untainted by it – instead, he lets you do the detective work yourself. 

A sweet sigh leaves your lips when you settle on the fact that he's unscathed, and you lift your arms up to help him take off your top.

"A menace?" You quip, feigning offense. "M’not the one looking naked and yummy."

“You’re about to.”

You don’t look away from his eyes when his fingers pull your top up and off. The camisole is gently removed past your head, the satin leaving your hair a little staticky. 

“A menace,” he murmurs once more, his tone softer now as he tosses the garment in a vague direction.

You wrap your arms around his waist, propping your chin on the hollow between his ribs, taking in his face as the sight that it is to your eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and just basks in the adoring attention and in the well-deserved skin-to-skin contact.

"How was it this time?" You ask gently.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, slowly stroking at your skin. A tender kiss to your hairline has you automatically sighing. You do it every time he kisses your head. He's mentally taken note of how his lips press a button of sorts that makes it all wash away, like suds under the jet of water.

“Same as always,” he murmurs, keeping his tone low and soft for your ears only. 

You hum in acknowledgment. "So?"

He smirks, a curve hidden in your hair. “Classified.”

You scoff and playfully slap his butt. He pulls back with a newfound glow in his eyes.

“Not Full Metal Jacket, if you’re wondering.” 

You hum, deciding to play along. “Spies involved?”

He snorts and tucks a rogue lock behind your ear. “Sure.”

You poke his chest as you make your definitive guess. “Three days of the condor!”

His eye twitches when, amongst the myriads of films you’ve ever watched in your life, you quote the one with the CIA involved. He has to flatten his face into something more neutral. Surely yours was a clear shot in the dark that somehow hit the right spot – even a broken clock is right, twice a day. Still, your blind guess doesn’t leave him any less distressed.

“Sorta.” He offers through gritted teeth.

And you don’t push any further, sluggishly resting your cheek on his belly.

"Were you more Robert Redford?” You mumble with half-closed eyes, "Or Faye Dunaway?”

Relief washes over him and he can’t help but huff. Plops a hand on top of your head and smooths down to the ends of your locks, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

“Faye Dunaway, love.” He rumbles. “No question.”

You playfully tighten the hold around his waist, and with a tug, he's pulled down onto the bed. Simon knows he could easily win whichever battle if you’re the opponent, but he’ll always pretend to struggle just to humor you. He’s careful though, so he props himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you with his bulk. 

Gently, you kiss his nose but he doesn’t pull away, instead allowing the kiss to be reciprocated on your cheek. He reaches out for the switch next to the headboard and turns off the lights. 

Your eyes are the color of a summer’s night. 

They’re dark but twinkle with starlight. Pupils blown and the glowing halo of your irises around them like an eclipsed sun. The light coming from outside seems to favor you, creating shapes around your face able to turn you into a dream made reality.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” You tell him, nose to nose. 

“Won't bother anyone, will it?” He asks mindfully, although he cares very little if your co-workers might get a little miffed about your last-minute call.

You shake your head softly, causing your noses to brush. “Nope, they’ll understand.”

And so, he unfolds, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. Your head is guided by a big hand to rest on his chest. He fits you perfectly into his side, making sure every piece of you adheres like glue to his skin.

“Y’need a shower?” You murmur in his skin, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers are tracing mindless patterns on his chest, skimming over hair and the odd scar here and there.

“Tomorrow,” he replies quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Alright,” you whisper. “Wake me up when you do, yeah?”

“Sure.” He says, looking down at the top of your head. He leaves a kiss in its ruffled mess.

“G’night, love.” He breathes. 

You murmur it back, and fall into your slumber.

────────────

Simon opens his eyes with his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and likely pegs it to mere habit. Three months stuck in hypervigilance will have your body unconsciously overreact at the most subtle of changes, even if there are none.

There’s too much light in the room for it to be night, and a single look at the window tells him the sun is just shy of rising. 

During the night, you must’ve moved around and he must have followed you, because now he has your back to his chest. An arm slung around your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck. 

He gently tugs the duvet a little higher, over your shoulder, and spends the next few minutes just looking at how peaceful you look.

Next to a killer. 

His stomach churns wildly. 

You’re home,  his heart says. You’re not a killer here. 

A shame, truly, that his brain doesn’t agree in the slightest. Two organs fighting like separate entities, and the whole brawl is happening inside of him, mercilessly tearing his flesh apart. 

But it’s already broken, isn’t it? What else is there to shred. 

Yet he’s home and you’re comfortable next to him. So how broken can he be, really?

Torn. Shredded. Lookin’ like you went through the grinder and barely came out of it alive. 

He forces his eyes shut and buries his face in your hair, nuzzling your nape. 

Pretty thing, she is. Who the fuck d’you think you are, mh? 

A sharp inhale. Breathing you in. You smell sweet enough for the sounds in his head to buzz out. Not silent yet, but quiet enough for him to have a breather.

You don’t know how long it takes for his body to expel the exorbitant amount of adrenaline produced in three months of deployment. How his back cracks when it hits the comfortable mattress of yours and his bedroom, after having spent way too much time packed like a sardine on sordid cots or much-too-small sleeping bags.

How he fucking hates it, when you feel so soft and untouched, while he has more scars than bloody years on his back. 

Not right. Ain’t fucking right to you. 

His hand snakes from your waist to follow the curve of your arm. He follows the bulge it makes under the comforter. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, allowing the sound of his skin brushing over yours and the shuffle of the blanket to echo in his ears.

He scoots impossibly closer, pressing your back against his chest hoping your skin would mold with his. Nose buried in the crook of your shoulder; kisses light as breeze following the length of it. 

You smell so good you disarm him. He sighs as if he’s been utterly defeated, lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting. 

His mind hushes, finally. His heart unwinds itself – springs let loose, pulse calm. 

There’s you. The way your breaths come. Your limbs stirring at the gooseflesh left by his kisses. The rising sun lapping at your skin. The rise and fall of your back. 

It’s calm.

Your head turns slightly, looking over your shoulder. You must only see his eyes, lazily glancing at you through pale lashes.

Yours are a dawning sun.

They’re soft and gentle, pale yellows and blues, peeking above the sheer horizon of sleep you’re trying to overcome. Idle, slow, but most welcome.

“Hey,” you croak, blinking the drowsiness away. “You okay?”

He hums a quiet yeah in your skin. Hasn’t even noticed his hand returning to your stomach and pulling you in, angling you against his lap. 

And fuck him, but he’s sporting the hard-on of a lifetime. 

He knows you’ll understand that he’s been deprived of such pleasures for three months, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed. A hand in his pants, while he hid somewhere more private in the middle of nowhere was a temporary fix that fixed very fucking little. Especially not after having been spoiled by you.

Simon doesn’t necessarily want to fuck you, now. Sure, his dick might have a head of its own, and he wouldn’t complain against it were it to happen, but he still has control of his actions. And now he just wants to feel you, whether inside or out doesn’t matter – as long as it’s you.

Nevertheless, he isn’t expecting you to have much different plans. Naturally, he isn’t going to protest.

Your ass tentatively presses against his length, the satin of your shorts sliding easily along the cotton of his boxers. You’re still so sleepy – he sees you digging a knuckle in your eye, nostrils flaring as you let out a big yawn. 

Were you aware of what you were doing, or were you being a goddamn minx?

“Well, good mornin’,” you murmur, a lick of a smile on your lips. “Brought me a souvenir from bumfuck nowhere?”

Minx it is. 

He snuffs out a chuckle by harshly pressing his lips against your shoulder, sewing his lips shut. Unfortunately, his chest rumbles against your back and you catch it before he manages to catch himself. 

Your hand goes to rest above his own on your stomach, fingers intertwining. 

Soft skin on both sides: palm to your belly, knuckles to your hand. He’s sandwiched in bliss. Three months away, barely any contact, and all he apparently needed to alleviate some wounds was just a handful of hours spent asleep in your presence.

His lips part slightly. Kisses turn wetter and teeth bite at your neck, his tongue darting out to subsequently soothe the ache. Your hand has already guided his own to your breast, and your mouth is breathing sounds he’s missed.

And he tells you, because why should he hide a thing from you.

“Missed ya,” he croaks, voice a little shaky for reasons unknown. He could look in his head (or his heart) and find them – surely, they’re there. But he figures the present feels much better than the jumbled mess inside.

Reasons can wait.

“Let me feel you, yeah?” 

Your head bending backward to his face is the answer you give him, back pressed flush against his chest. You guide his hand up and squeeze it around the fat of your breast to assert your approval. 

But he’s not satisfied with that. Needs your voice to tell him it’s alright, that you’re not under some sleep-induced spell. That you’re fine with having him feel you, and you’re not just offering yourself because he’s been away for so long and you want to give him some sort of reward.

Simply, that you want him as much as he wants you.

His voice is raspy and low, “Words, love.”

"Please," you whisper and vigorously grind your ass against his groin. “Touch me.”

He hisses and presses forward too, meeting your movements. 

He’s still a little out of it, senses overrun by the general fatigue clinging to his muscles as the aftermath of deployment, his bones weary and getting accustomed once more to the comfort of a bed instead of a cot. 

Mind absolutely quiet.

He flicks his thumb over your nipple. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Your shuddering breath prompts him to pull at it, and it causes you to arch your back off of him, pressing further against his painfully hard cock. 

He grunts against your shoulder, hand busy teasing your breasts and hips rutting against the plump flesh of your ass. You grind back against him, working in tandem to relieve at least some of that ache. 

Each movement is a languid stroke of fabric that gives him enough pleasure to cause his resolve to falter. When he turns your head sideways, leaving your tits to grasp your jaw, he loses it. Your flushed cheeks, lower lip trapped between your teeth, the whites of your eyes still a little red from sleep.

Lips on lips, slotting together like magnets. 

Too long. 

Too damn long. 

Sure, he kissed you when he came back, a bunch of hours before. But this is a whole other thing. The connection behind it, the pinch of your brows conveying the same desperation he has. Hands grabbing at flesh, bodies grinding against each other. Tongues dancing privately. Eyes closed to shut the world out. Moans and pants, dotted with the occasional curse slipping from his lips when the length of his cock catches the cleft of your ass.

His palm slides down and crosses the threshold marked by your shorts. He’s awfully delighted to find out you have nothing underneath them. Feels blessed when his middle finger slides down your cunt to find it impossibly wet. 

“Oh - Simon,” He hears you whimper, and he almost comes in his briefs then and there because he has no right to hear you say his sullied name with such devotion behind it. 

Seemingly feeling the need to respond in kind, your arm blindly reaches behind, and you slip it between your butt and his groin. Your hand is soft as it palms his cock, the cotton of his boxers an annoying barrier. 

The tip is leaking tremendously, and he should be embarrassed about the obvious wet spot he must be sporting on his briefs. However, he can’t even manage to concoct the thought that your fingers are already fumbling with the elastic band of his underwear and finding their way in.

Simon shudders when your warm hand curls around his shaft. 

You glide your hand up, collecting precum on your palm, before sliding back down again – velvet skin being pulled over the head to steer clear of overstimulation, and then down once more. Similarly, he crooks his finger to gather your wetness and uses it to roll idle circles around your clit. 

And it goes on, and on, and on, and on. It’s slow and drawn out, both of you wanting to reach that high but at the same time don’t – cutting off pleasure doesn’t seem fitting, when both of you have been starved of one another.

He bends the arm beneath your neck to pull your head back, next to his own, cheek to cheek. Simon’s hips jerk to blatantly fuck your fist, yours flow with the movement of his fingers circling your clit, stroking yourself against his hand.

He starts getting antsy, however, when he notices that he can’t properly reach you. Can’t have you unravel on his fingers like he’s done so many times before. Simon wants – needs – to see you unfold and squirm under the pressure of his hand. Needs to have you cream on his fingers – as simple as it’s primal.

He murmurs against the shell of your ear, “Need to stretch you out, love.”

And – goddamn you, you whine. Your hand doesn’t stop its languid movements, but it further slows down, as if you needed all of yourself to cooperate and form a single thought.

“Jus’ do it, I missed you.” You whimper, breathy and high-pitched. “Won’t hurt much, I promise.”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes because your voice has gone straight to his cock and he needs to disassociate for a second to recollect himself.

You’re a temptress, even in your loving, tender desperation. And how sweet it is to know that he isn’t the only one craving those intimate touches he can only give you. You’ve had your fair share of relationships and lovers, but has he? Some quick ones, enough to get rid of natural aches. Definitely not with a connection so deeply ingrained. 

And he tastes, then, the beauty of mutuality. Of giving and receiving. 

He retreats his hand and prompts you to do the same. Helps you take off your shorts and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He holds you still with one arm around your waist, palm flat against your lower belly to angle you better. 

Gingerly, he guides the tip to your slit, dragging it upward until it catches your clit and you hiss, and then down to your hole. Back and forth, happily realizing that he has, in fact, made you wet enough to make it hurt less. And while he tends to be open to many requests made under the bedsheets, anything that causes you pain is a huge, firm no in his book. 

Which is why he’s a bit hesitant now, pressing chaste kisses against your shoulder, trying to soften the ache that will inevitably come. A juxtaposition, really, to his cock dragging a raw, slow dance down your cunt.

It’s then that you turn your head in the pillow to groan against the fabric, and your legs clamp together and essentially choke him between the plush of your thighs.

The sensation is initially a sharp jolt that makes him spout a series of curses under his breath. But then the glisten of your cunt mixed with the precum you’ve diligently smeared all over him, with your folds and your plump thighs wrapped around him in a warm, wet hug – he sees the appeal. 

And thrusts. Shamelessly – once, twice, thrice. Snapping harshly, only to draw back slowly. Grunting to your skin. Chest vibrating against your back.

“F – fuck,” he manages to choke out, wringing his eyes closed to regain some control over his actions and failing spectacularly.

Your moans don’t help. They perfectly align with the slap of his hips against your ass, with the wet noises of your sodden cunt against his cock. It’s as filthy as it’s fucking wonderful, and he’s terribly afraid he’ll finish before he can even fit the head inside of you. 

The grip he has around your waist only tightens, leaving you breathless by the second. Simon has his mouth next to your ear, giving you the privilege of hearing even the smallest breaths he exhales. 

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers, panting from the effort. 

Curiously, he takes a peek over your shoulder as he fucks your thighs, catching the flushed head of his cock stroking your clit and appearing each time he thrusts in. It’s fucking debauched and he loves it to bits. So much that he groans and rolls his eyes, struggling not to paint your thighs with his spend.

“Need to fuck you,” he hurries, choking on the words. “Now, love.”

Rapidly (and reluctantly), he pulls out of the pillowy, snug space your thighs had inadvertently created for him, almost hissing when the cold air hits the sensitive skin of his cock, coated in yours and his arousal. 

“On your back, swee’heart,” he gently guides you down, adding a brisk yet tender “C’mon.”

And you comply, feeling almost like a ragdoll in his hands. Lips parted and slick as they form small Yes’s to convey the same ache he feels. It takes him less than a breath to place his mouth over yours again. 

As he hovers above you, thick arms on each side of your head and chapped lips crashing against your own, he slots his hips between your legs. The softer flesh of the inside of your thighs is still wet from when he’s buried his cock between them. He feels the fluids stick to the skin of his hips.

Taking his time, he lets a hand wander down your chest, flowing to your belly until his fingers reach your core – where you’re wet, and warm, and still pressing up against his cock, searching for friction.

He plunges a finger inside, making the movement of your hips stutter and your mouth gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“Gotta stretch you out," he repeats languidly, because he cannot - for the life of him - put words into sentences without thinking about the structure beforehand.

He’s aware he’s big. It used to chub up his ego when he was younger and brash, but now he can’t be arsed about it. Big or small, he’s learned that it’s how you use it – and to be frank, he hasn’t used it much before you.

But he knows it’s going to hurt if he just puts it in with little to no preparation. He hasn’t seen you in three months, and you can trust him when he says he’s as ravenous as you are and can’t bloody wait to be inside you where he’s warm and blessed – but causing you pain? When it can be avoided so easily (and he can make it feel good, too)?

Absolutely not. Categorical. 

He wants you to indulge in the blissful touches and the highs he can bring. Needs you to associate him to kindness and soft breaths and how much he hungers for you – he'll gladly eat you up, but only if you say so. 

“’S not gonna hurt,” you mumble again, sounding a little drunk in the effort to convince him. “Please.”

Your eyes flutter to him, and they’re this dark pool he can’t seem to navigate. Lust overflowing like fat, miry tears that can’t fit in the space of your sockets, and then something even darker – longing. You’re looking at him as if it's the first time you’re seeing him.

He gets it, then, how good you’ve been at hiding it so he wouldn’t hurt at the thought of hurting you. He must've unconsciously taught you a thing or two, by wearing stoicism, neutrality, and more tangible skull masks. 

You’ve missed him body and soul. 

You’re there, eyes heavy and full, begging for him to come back to you. 

How long have you been waiting for me like this? 

“Oh, love,”  he breathes and kisses you again.

A long finger inside, pushing against the place he knows makes your eyes water.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, thumb steadfast on your clit, as if he could apologize just by using his fingers because words tend to fail him when he needs them the most.

And so, he slides in his ring finger too, feeling the momentarily tight fit and the subsequent way you relax to welcome him. Your lips part to sharply breathe in, eyes scrunching close at the stretch. He can feel your hands stiffen against his back until they travel up his spine and tangle through shorn blond hair. 

You’re keeping him close, with your forehead pressed to his almost to the point of pain. Your noses are in the way of the onslaught you’re causing on his mouth. Strained, heavy pants brush his lips when you part from him to breathe, before lavishing him with attention again.

You’re always good with words. You always know what to say, and yet you’re being extremely quiet – it worries him more than the look you have in your eyes. 

“M’sorry.”

For being away. 

For not telling you where I was. 

For leaving you to wonder whether I’d come back, or not. 

For not calling. 

I’m sorry. 

“M’so sorry.”

My girl.  

His hand cradles the back of your head as if he could get you any closer, and he fucks you with his fingers.

“Don’t be,” you reply, your voice so faint and lost in the sounds of your bodies he has to perk his ears for it. “You’re home.”

My sweet, sweet girl. 

And he buries his face in your neck, leaving wanton kisses that have very little erotic power to them. He’s just trying to taste you, really. Trying to commit you to memory again, conveying fierce apologies to your skin. 

He can feel you clench around him, almost sucking him in, each time his fingers reach deep.

“Fuck, need to see you come.” He murmurs to the skin of your neck.

Thumb aching, he replaces it with the heel of his hand. A continuous and tortuous curl of his fingers inside of you, palm cupping your cunt and rolling against your clit. His cock aches when you whimper and stifle it by biting into his shoulder. A sharp exhale. Skin sweaty and pressed against his chest. Hands tugging at his hair. 

“Don’t-” You croak. “Just- just fuck me, Si.”

He groans because stop being stubborn, will ya?

“I’ll cum the moment I get in, swee’heart.” He tries to reason and almost loses it at the raunchy, squelching sounds caused by his fingers between your legs. "Lemme take care of you before tha'."

But it's like talking to a wall.

"'s fine, love. I don't care, yeah?" Your hips move against his hand, but at this point, he gathers it's just a natural body response to pleasure. “You’ll take care of me tomorrow, and the days after that.”

Just when he’s about to rebut, you sandwich an arm between your bodies and curl soft fingers around his cock. The simple act makes him stop his motions, and he feels you pulse and clench around his fingers.

“Please.” You whisper, voice like silk. 

He crumbles, then, at the sight of your eyes. Watery and glossy and wide – lust a long-forgotten thing. 

He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly. Doesn’t dare to avert his gaze from yours when he retrieves his hand and loves to catch how your brows pinch at the sudden emptiness inside. Sloppily, he coats his stiff cock with your wetness with a few weak pumps.

His eyes stay on you, as he goes in blindly, guided by touch only, and drives the tip to your hole. Tries to gauge your thoughts by the expressions on your face, and fails miserably, for once, at keeping his own concealed.

Barely aware and in control of what his face is conveying, he gathers you must appreciate it because you shift your palms to cradle his cheeks. He doesn’t know why you do it because there’s nothing on this godforsaken planet that could make his attention swerve to any thoughts but how beautiful you look when your lips stroke his own with featherlight pressure.

And he slides in, comfortably easy. Feels your puffy lips stretch to welcome him whole, inch by inch. Piece by piece of him, in every way you want to interpret it. 

His jaw is locked tight because as soon as your walls envelop the head of his cock, he already feels himself shutting down. His eyes close – he can’t afford to look at how you morph for him. How your pussy swallows the first inches of his cock, puffy clit begging to be touched and lavished. How your mouth parts against his own to yield soft moans and breathy whispers that encourage him to please, please, please go deeper. 

He can’t. Stubbornly thinking he must last long enough to give you some pleasure or it will all be worthless. And so, it’s a repetitive dance: an inch in, and a full pull out. Stop. Another inch, and pull out. 

It’s driving him fucking mental.

“Let go,” you say, tearing his head out of the gutter. “Look at me, and let go.”

He can’t exactly decide whether you’re being the devil on his shoulder, or an angel sent from heaven – either way, the aim is to ruin him. Yet it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes, and you look so beautiful his heart cracks, with a thin layer of sweat on your brow and the sheen of his spit on bitten lips. 

You don't have to tell him twice at this point, because the way your hands force his face steady so he keeps his eyes on you does most of the trick. His resolve crumbles at breakneck speed.

He bottoms out, pushing his pelvis flush against yours. Your eyes roll back at the same time, legs going stiff and tight around his hips. He does a tentative roll that causes the coarse hair on his groin to press against your bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you breathe, your voice cracking at the edges. He echoes it right after you, or at the same time – he's not sure, but in his defense, he's not confident about a single thing right now.

If not how absurdly scorching you are, all wrapped around him.

With that, he hooks one arm around your waist and tucks his other hand behind your head. He holds you close like you might slip away, and he’s sure as hell not taking any chances.

He fucks you slowly, deep thrusts that fill you up all the way, and greedy love bites on your neck. Open-mouthed kisses at your throat, sliding up to your jaw and cheeks, all the way to your lips. Truthfully, he’s both trying to get his senses chock full of you, and keep his mouth shut so no words spoken while in ecstasy escape.

The slap of his hips against yours drowns the taps of the morning drizzle against the windowpane. He’s got your face buried in the crook of his neck, and your pants echo in his ears like a fucking promise that threatens to unravel him.

Each thrust has him fully sheathed inside of you. It fills him with primal pride and fuels his pleasure, because you take him so fucking well he can't help but think he's modeled you in his perfect image. He grunts against you and tugs at your hair out of sheer desperation to hold on – just a little longer.

But you’re swearing in his ear. Breathless fuck’s whispered like a curse and a vow at the same time. You shift your hips to change the angle and that makes him hit even deeper and he swears he hears you whimper in that telltale way he knows well.

He lifts your hips up and hooks your legs over his shoulders.

And he absolutely rams into you.

“Christ I missed you.” He rumbles and his voice cracks while your moans rise in pitch and your nails scratch his back. “Fuckin’ thought of you," Thrust. "Every bleedin’ day.”

He’s rambling now, intoxicated on the feeling of you. His words are slurred and strained and, deep down, there’s a more sober version of Simon Riley cursing at himself for speaking his heart out.

Luckily, it’s drowned by the slap of flesh against flesh and the wet sounds of your cunt milking him dry. 

Finally, he thinks, he's using his strength not to wield a heavy M4 or to ram against hostiles, but to fuck you on his cock – knee-deep in the mattress for leverage.

He lets go, like you asked.

He murmurs in your ear (Fuckin’ beautiful), words alternated with heavy pants (An’ all mine) and the animalistic grunts of a man cocooned in bliss (All fuckin’ mine).

His hips stutter and he knows he’s close, but you’re not even nearby, in spite of how he can feel you clench around him, sucking him in. And God, the guilt that fills him almost makes him stop even if he has that sweet, sweet release just around the bend.

But you won’t have that, naturally. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, clammy and sticking out weirdly because he’s sweaty and hot. He feels his head being shifted to the side, so you can look into his eyes.

And oh, how can you look at him like that? How is he even deserving of it – fuck you and your relentless ways to crawl under his skin and make him feel like he’s worth a damn, with your eyes glossy and hooded. A thick veil of admiration, fondness, and you. 

You, you, you. 

Where have you been all his life, with this color in your eyes?

“Come inside.” You plead tenderly, breathless and raspy, as he pounds you into your own bed. Your fingers smooth back rogue strands that are sticking to his forehead. “Please come inside.”

And you crush his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. One that marks his demise. He’s falling hard into your embrace, figuratively and literally, too.

He uses whatever shreds of strength he has left to ram into you as if his life depended on it, punching gasp after heaving gasp out of your beautiful lips into his hungry mouth.

It works like a spell because he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his cock. Syrupy hot warmth runs down his legs to the tips of his toes. Tingling. Tightening. Burning so good he thinks he's melting within you.

Suddenly, his head spins, and he groans in your parted lips as he ruts into you one last time – until he has you filled to the brim. His eyes slam shut as he spills inside of you – cock pulsating and hot. 

His high takes its sweet time, canceling out all background noises and only leaving your sweet breaths to fill in his ears, and the pounding of his heart. 

Simon unceremoniously drops on you like dead weight, allowing your legs to return around his waist. His lips slide off yours until his head is tucked in the crook of your neck. He’s absolutely spent, but there isn’t enough fatigue in this world that could keep him away from you. You’re sweaty and he’s worse, but he doesn’t see why, in the haze of his orgasm, he shouldn’t have his lips reach every inch of skin he can.

His kisses are lazy – a stark contrast from the desperation he’s displayed until now. 

He feels safe. He feels at home, still buried deep inside of you, feeling the come that couldn’t fit inside ooze out and onto the bedsheets. A bummer to clean, he’ll realize when he’ll get his sanity back.

And he wants to tell you so many things when he feels your hands skimming down his back in a soothing dance. Wants to tell you how you’ve flipped his life, with the ease of tossing a coin – heads and tails. Opposites so striking you should be deemed a witch. 

He was in deep fucking shit before you offered your smile. Inching closer and closer to dead-ended alleys and dark, murky thoughts that could only lead to dreadful places.

You gave him something to yearn for, something to miss when he's away, and something to cherish when he's here. 

There’s nothing he can do to return the favor but love you in equal measure. 

It’s not the first time the word love has come up in his head when his mind was lost in memories of you. And while he’d rather not dwell on it now, while you hold him to your chest as he comes back to his senses, he knows the time will eventually come.

Yet he doesn’t dread it. Not one bit.

Fear pocket sewn shut. Finally. 

He lifts his head to look up at you and finds you doing the same – he’s sure he’s thoroughly fucked in the best way imaginable. 

“I’ll take care of everything later,” you say, reading his thoughts. “You okay?”

It takes him a while to respond. Mental gymnastics to reawaken the parts of his brain that are still tingling in the afterglow. 

“Never better, love.” 

“Sleep?” You offer, as if he isn’t still buried inside of you and effectively crushing you under his weight. 

You don’t seem to mind, and so he trusts you and doesn’t either.

His eyes are half closed as he slides down to rest his head in the valley of your breasts. "Y' didn't cum," he mumbles, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the fat of your tits.

Your fingers brush through his hair to keep him close, and when your nails scrape at his scalp he feels gooseflesh rise along his arms. 

"'S fine," you whisper gently, and he's struck by the earnestness in your tone. But then you quip, "I'll have ya on your knees tomorrow."

And he scoffs. "Makin' it sound like a punishment."

You purse your lips and land a kiss on the crown of his head. "Then stop complaining."

He grunts something he himself can't even discern. 

“Y’need to piss first.” He grumbles mindlessly, as if the thought of you standing up annoys him but he knows a UTI is even more aggravating.

You snort. “Charming."

And he responds in kind. "Chivalry's dead anyway."

There's a few seconds of silence only broken by your quiet chuckle. "I’ll wait for you to fall asleep, then ‘m off to the loo. Deal?”

He grunts in agreement, liking the compromise you’re offering. “Deal.” 

And his head stays quiet. Sleazy hands and raging voices cease, silenced under the thunder of your heartbeat.

“I missed you.” He thinks he hears you whisper, your voice thick and wet. He closes his eyes with his head on your chest. “’M so happy you’re home.”

────────────

Simon wakes up with shy sunbeams peeking through the blinds and brushing his brow. You must’ve closed them when you woke up, to shield him from the sun.

He blinks idly, momentarily lost in that phase between sleep and waking life, still unsure of where he is. His mouth is pasty, and his eyes struggle against sunlight. The duvet is up to his chin, and it smells of grapefruit-scented softener, and of you. The pillow is a little wet, and he embarrassingly notices that it’s because he’s drooled on it – he smacks his lips once, twice, but his tongue might as well be a dried-up cinderblock.

It has been a long time since he’s slept like this. Since his mind has shut down and left him alone. Since his night has gone smoothly, sleep comatose and dreamless – nightmare-less.

And you’re not there, but that’s okay.

Because he hears your music from the kitchen, kept at a low volume so you won’t wake him up. The clanking of utensils frames the beat, pans and pots being moved around as you hum to yourself following the melody. The smell of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh veggies – a full English. Wafts of that disgusting coffee you drink in the morning intertwined with the softer notes of the tea you’re brewing for him.

You were right: he is home.

And he can’t see your eyes, but that’s okay too.

He guesses he’ll never remember their exact shade, Simon’s fine with it. No better thing than to discover you once more, each time he gets to come home.

They change with you, following the flow of whatever you allow to show, and of what he’s learned to read. They’re the color of that life he’s unwittingly always looked for. That life promising a pocket of peace for himself. Chock full of love and nice things he’s always been deprived of.

A balm to both his ancient and newest wounds.

He has never shared a single story about his past, never told you why his body is like a tattered book whose tale is as horrific as it looks. But you don’t mind, and he doesn’t know why because he’s firmly set on the idea that you must know someone inside out to be sure you care.

And it’s then that it hits him, that you do know him – better than anyone. You know the man he is. You want the man he is now, the man he will be one day – as mental as it sounds to him. His present, and his future. And sure, his past might have made this man you know, but he’s not the same Simon under his father's thumb or the one felled by Roba’s tortures.

Although he’s not sure he can reopen certain sutures without the wounds bleeding all over the floor, he'll try. He’ll clean up, if he must, knowing that you’ll help him have each injury scab over again. 

What baffles him is that you’re not saying he has to. You’re saying he can. And this choice you’re giving him is a privilege he’s never had the chance to bear.

He can tell you everything, and you’ll listen. He can keep it to himself, and you’ll stay, accepting that there will be places of him you’ll never venture – and to you, that is fine.

As long as he stays, too.

There are no words he can use to express his gratitude. He can only love you – and it might take him a while to acknowledge that he’s capable, but he already does love you.

You appear at the door as he’s lost in his own head, still tucked under the duvet. Strips of sunlight cross your form, curving around the beautiful shape of you.

“Good morning, you.” You say, with a smile that reminds him of the sun.

Lazily, he offers one of his own to you. It’s lopsided and he thinks not quite as beautiful. 

He hopes you forgive him for it: takes practice to be happy, and he’s still learning.

And so, he smiles, and looks at you like you're the most tangible form of joy he's ever witnessed. 

His voice is raspy from sleep, and soft from you.

“Mornin’, love.”

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 1

summary: following in the footsteps of a girl you once knew, you decide to up and leave home one morning without looking back. when you find yourself to be tired, hungry, and alone in the middle of nowhere, you're thankful when a kind stranger offers you a ride, a warm meal, and a place to sleep for the night. he only tells you about himself in bits and pieces, but he seems trustworthy enough, and what you don't know can't hurt you, right?

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, talk of death/murder and blood, mommy & daddy issues, brief talk of domestic violence, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, f-receiving non-con somnophilia (no sex, but groping, fingering, dry humping, kissing, and choking), degrading language toward victims, pet names (baby, darlin', sweetheart), some joel pov, no ellie/sarah but tommy has an unnamed daughter, somewhat inspired by "strangers" by ethel cain, takes place in illinois/ohio/indiana, vaguely set in the 70s/80s, this part is mostly introduction/storytelling/yapping, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 9.8k

a/n: i started this as a oneshot way back in november, and then it sat abandoned for a very long time. thank you to my lovely friends @polaroidpascal and @chippedowlmug for encouraging me to finish it, and also bestie kiers who never hesitates to match my freak. also thank you to the many writers who made me feel inspired to write something dark and not give a fuck what people think about it. i hope you enjoy this joel he's a freak and i love him and if you say anything mean about him i'll send him after you <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

part 2

Ruby Carpenter.

You had spent all day trying to remember her name without really knowing why. Maybe it’s because as the sun sets on what would be the first day of your junior year at the nearby state school, you wonder if she ever made it to one of the fancy ivy leagues she had always aspired to attend. You wonder if she’s even still alive.

Ruby had disappeared a few years ago now, the summer after your senior year of high school. For nearly a year afterwards, her missing posters remained stapled onto every telephone pole and stuck onto every store window around town, until the paper began to disintegrate and the ink began to fade. In that time, you couldn’t even make a quick run to the grocery store without being confronted by dozens of replicas of her yearbook photo printed onto the sides of all the milk cartons. Despite all of the efforts to find her, including several search parties and a decent amount of statewide media coverage, everyone had just stopped looking for her, eventually. Even the police. Even her parents.

It was decided that she had probably just run away, and you can’t entirely blame her, but you can’t imagine why she would, either. You remember her perfect head of blonde ringlet curls that shone a yellow gold in the sun, and her bright blue eyes that turned fiery in her more passionate moments during classroom debates. She had every boy in your grade wrapped around her finger, was the teacher’s pet in every class, and it wasn’t even a question whether she would win prom queen your senior year. She was always sweet to you, always complimented your outfits or your makeup or your art projects with a genuine lilt in her voice and a kind smile, so you could never bring yourself to hate her even though it would’ve been so easy to. You figured she was going to cure cancer or become the president after you had all graduated, which is why you never really stopped wondering whatever happened to her that summer. She was beautiful, with boundless potential and a bright future ahead of her, why would she have just given it all up?

Everyone around town knew Ruby, or at least it seemed that way. But maybe nobody ever really knew her as well as they thought. Maybe she’d had a secret boyfriend all that time who whisked her away that summer, maybe she had decided to try drugs and fell down a rabbit hole that she couldn’t claw her way out of, maybe she had finally figured out that the only thing this town would ever be good for is holding people back. Maybe she did just wake up one day and decide to run without ever looking behind her.

Maybe you should do the same.

With your dad long gone now and your step-father doing a piss poor job of filling in the hole he left, following in Ruby’s footsteps has sounded like a better idea with each passing day. Rob isn’t even really your step-father, anyway, just your mom’s sorry fucking excuse for a boyfriend. The guy’s already been married upwards of three times before, why try for another one? He’s a lazy son of a bitch who can’t hold down a job at a fast food joint for more than a couple of weeks at a time, who sleeps every second of the day that he’s not chugging through a six pack, and who leaves marks on your mother uglier than his fucking face. 

She doesn’t deserve to be treated that way, of course, but it’s not like she’s winning the “mom of the year” award any time soon, either. She’s never even been nominated. She’s forgotten just about every one of your birthdays, been the reason you’ve never had any friends come over, and in her most recent offense, blew all the savings you had put away for your last two years of college. Which is why you’re not spending tonight celebrating being one year closer to at least having an official-looking piece of paper to show for yourself. Instead, you’re using the rattling of your bedroom window unit and the booming bass of your radio to drown out yet another drunken screaming match between your mother and the guy she lets live in your house now, watching the world outside pass you by and knowing that if you don’t do anything about it now, you’ll never make it out of here. You’re thinking about Ruby Carpenter, hoping she found somewhere greener and more promising and was able to make something of herself, far away from here. And you’re thinking that this rusted orange sunset is the last one you’ll ever see from your bedroom window.

It’s decided, then. You’re leaving, first thing tomorrow.

—

You’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep by the time your alarm clock chimes to life at five o’clock on the dot. You’re quick to silence the shrill beeping with a swift swat of your hand, careful not to wake anyone else in the house. The sun has just barely begun to stream in through the blinds of your bedroom window, but it illuminates the room just enough for your eyes to land on the backpack you had stuffed full of a few changes of clothes last night, waiting for you by the door. 

You don’t waste any time stripping off your pajamas and pulling on just about the only clothes left in your room that aren’t in your bag. You’ve got your teeth brushed, face washed, and hair tamed in all of about ten minutes, too anxious to spend even one more unnecessary second in this house. You swing your backpack over your shoulder, pull your bedroom door open at just the right speed so that the hinges don’t squeak too loud, and tiptoe delicately down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards that you know like the back of your hand—the one three steps from the top, the one at the landing about halfway down, and the very bottom one.

You land softly when you leap over that tattletale bottom step, successful in the most difficult part of your escape plan so far. Rob is passed out on the living room couch in typical fashion, his mouth full of crooked teeth hanging open as his grating snores permeate the calm morning air. He’s still got a death grip around an empty beer can, even in his sleep, and your mother will likely be the one to toss it into the trash for him, useless fucker that he is. You aren’t going to miss either of them, and you imagine they’ll just skip trying to replicate the first half of the aftermath of Ruby’s disappearance altogether—no posters, no search parties, no police. You’ll just be gone, one less mouth for your mother to feed. Though, you’d been mostly feeding yourself since you were tall enough to slide a couple of bills across the counter at the corner store down the street, anyway. You’re ready to disappear, the same as candle wax when it burns, the same as the end of a rainbow, the same as Ruby Carpenter.

You don’t bother looking back when you shut the door behind you, content to leave it all behind just as the sun begins to rise and set the sky ablaze. By the time it sets again tonight, you hope to be in a different county, in a different state, anywhere that isn’t here. The rest, you’ll just have to figure out when you get there, wherever “there” may be.

—

You had only realized about an hour ago that you’d forgotten your cheap digital watch in the drawer of your bedside table, where it’s laid unused for the past couple of months, because who needs to tell time during the summer? You never had anywhere to be, never had to get to class or turn in a paper by a certain time, so it’s just been collecting dust since you had unclipped it from your wrist on the last day of spring semester. It sure would have come in handy right about now, when you have no fucking clue what time it is. The sun had disappeared behind the hills several mile markers back, so it must be… eight o’clock? Ten o’clock? Fucking midnight? You have no idea. What you do know is that you’re exhausted, hungry, and your feet hurt like hell. You aren’t really sure what you expected, the reality only just now setting in that you don’t even have ten bucks to your name anymore, thanks to your narcissist of a mother. The crumpled up bills you do have in your pocket are hardly enough for a goddamn sandwich, let alone a motel room. The cool night breeze raises goosebumps on your skin, and you swear you can see your fucking breath, even in the middle of August. You wrap your arms around yourself just as tears begin to prick at your waterlines, and you let them fall as you collapse onto the scratchy patch of dead grass on the side of the freeway, not a park bench or a bus stop or even a gas station in sight for God knows how many more miles.

You sit cross-legged, elbows propped up on your knees so that your hands can support your weary head, the skin of your palms becoming slippery with salty tears as your crying just doesn’t seem to stop. The road you’ve found yourself on seems relatively low-trafficked, the heaving sounds of your sobs accompanied by more cricket chirps and rustling wheat than rumbling tires. But a few high beams do streak across your vision every once in a while, coloring the backs of your eyelids a flaming scarlet.

After several minutes, your tears seem to dry up on their own, your body likely too dehydrated now to produce any more. You wipe the moisture from under your eyes with the back of your hand, sniffling as you gnaw at the skin of your bottom lip and debate if you should just turn back now, give up on your stupid little plan (or lack thereof) and just call the whole thing a loss, pretend it never even happened. Your mother and Rob won’t have even noticed you’d left.

Just as you pull yourself back up to your feet, set on at least finding somewhere that isn’t the hard ground to sleep on tonight before you make your way back home tomorrow, the warm headlights of an old pickup truck are shining bright in your eyes. You put your arm up to block them as the truck slowly squeals to a halt in front of where you’re standing, and you squint your eyes at the driver as your vision adjusts.

“You need a ride, sweetheart?” A man asks in a gravelly voice, and you can still hardly make out what he looks like. Based on the southern accent you pick up on, he doesn’t sound like he’s from around here. 

“N-no, thank you. I’m okay,” you respond shakily, taking a nervous step back from the stranger and his rusted pickup.

“You sure? Looked like you were cryin’ over here, like you might be lost or somethin’.”

“‘M not lost, I know where I’m going.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s that?”

Shit. 

You take a guess.

“Um… the motel down the road,” you reply, tilting your head in the direction you had been walking in.

“There ain’t a motel down there, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ in either direction for miles, ‘s all just farmland out here. Reckon you’ve already figured that out, though.”

You pause, unsure of what your next move should be. He knows you’re lying, knows you’re alone with no fucking idea where you are or where you’re going. You could run, but even that shitty truck of his could catch up to you in a matter of seconds. You take another step back, swiveling your head around to look up and down the road as you try to figure your best way out of this.

“Just lemme give you a ride somewhere, darlin’. There’s a diner just off the exit, ‘bout twenty miles up ahead. Could take you that far, at least, get you somethin’ to eat,” he offers. A warm meal does sound pretty good right now, and you suppose you aren’t exactly in a position to refuse his help.

You think on it for a second. “What’s it called? The diner.”

The stranger huffs. “Moody’s.”

“What do they have?” you challenge.

He sighs. “It’s a fuckin’ diner off the side of the freeway, darlin’. They got greasy food and black coffee, ‘s about all you need.”

You don’t say anything.

Then, after a beat—“They got some kinda sloppy mess they call the Thunder Burger. ‘S got onion rings and shit on it. Ain’t half bad.”

You have to admit, he’s passing your pop quiz with flying colors. His answers have been too quick, too specific for him to be lying to you. There’s a pretty solid chance this diner does exist, and that he’s been there before. The man hasn’t said anything that’s indicated he wants more to do with you than to offer you a ride and some dinner. He’s probably just somebody’s harmless grandfather, anyway, judging by his motheaten flannel and gray-stricken beard you can see now that you’ve approached his truck a few paces closer.

“Okay,” you concede, your stomach growling loudly as the man leans over the bench seat to pop open the passenger side door for you. You shrug off your backpack and climb into the cabin, clicking your seatbelt into place as you situate yourself on the cracked leather seat. 

“All set?” the stranger asks.

“Mhm,” you hum, finally getting a better look at the man you might just owe the rest of your life to after tonight. For being somebody’s grandfather, he’s… kinda handsome. Really fucking handsome, actually, in a rugged sort of way. He’s got warm amber eyes that sparkle even in the dark of night, a kind smile that completely disarms you in an instant, and a splintering scar across the bridge of his nose that somehow only adds to his good looks. You try to suppress your own grin as you look away from him quickly, opting to focus on fidgeting with one of the fraying edges of your denim shorts instead. Even in your peripheral vision, you don’t miss how his eyes shift from your own to the exposed skin of your thighs. He doesn’t say anything, just clears his throat as he shifts gears and steers his truck back onto the road again. 

He lets the next few minutes pass in comfortable silence before asking, “You got a name, sweetheart?”

You tell him, and he flashes another charming smile at you. “I like that, ‘s pretty… Well, I’m Joel. Sure you were wonderin’. Now you ain’t gettin’ a ride from a stranger no more, are ya?”

“Yeah, I guess I’m not,” you giggle, and you’re surprised at how comfortable you feel with him. “So… you’ve been to Moody’s before?”

“Handful of times, yeah. When I’m passin’ through.”

You nod. “So you come up here, like… for work or somethin’?”

Joel chuckles. “Or somethin’. You never even heard of the damn place, so… reckon you don’t find yourself out here very often, do ya?”

“No… ‘M not even really sure where ‘here’ is, to be honest. I just kinda… started walking.”

“Ah… a runaway, then, are ya?” Joel asks, with an appreciated amount of understanding in his tone rather than judgment. “‘M sure your folks are missin’ ya right about now, must have your boyfriend worried sick.”

You scoff at that. “Fuck no. They probably don’t even know I’m gone, won’t even bother trying to come look for me. And I don’t have a boyfriend, so…”

“Damn shame. ‘M sorry about that, sweetheart,” Joel comforts, placing a large calloused hand on your thigh. It makes your breath hitch, but his touch isn’t entirely unwelcome. You let him squeeze once at the plush of your leg before he replaces his hand on the wheel, and your cunt spasms out a little fluttering pulse against the seam of your shorts, despite yourself.

The rest of the drive to Moody’s is relatively quiet, save for the gentle crooning of an old country singer emanating from the cassette player on the dash. The soft singing and steady strumming of a banjo combined with the muffled chugging of the truck’s engine is enough to lull you to sleep, especially after the day you’ve had. You know that just about every mental alarm bell you have should be screaming at you to jump out of the car, to run, that sleeping alone in the dirt would’ve been a better decision than getting into this strange man’s—Joel’s—truck, but you’re too tired to hear them. He smells good, like woodsmoke and pine and cinnamon, and if he wanted to do something awful to you, he probably would’ve done it by now. So you trust him, for now at least, and let your lashes fan out against your cheeks as your head falls back against the cushioned headrest, coaxed into sleep by the lullaby of tires against pavement and fingertips against guitar strings.

—

You only rouse when you feel the truck come to a stop about half an hour or so later, slowly blinking your eyes open against the bright neon sign that reads “MOODY’S” in bold capital letters. Your jaw stretches wide as a yawn overtakes the muscles, and you hear Joel’s southern drawl replace the one from the cassette as he shuts the engine off.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead. Not too tired to eat somethin’ now, are ya?”

Another unpleasant-sounding rumble from your empty stomach answers for you, loud enough for both of you to hear this time. The air puffing out of the diner’s kitchen smells strongly of fatty bacon and rich coffee, just like Joel had promised you the place would offer. Although the digital clock on the dash read just after 10:30 before you fell asleep, you’ve never craved breakfast quite like you do right now. You absentmindedly lick your lips as you imagine the sweet and savory—and more importantly free—meal that could be waiting for you beyond that blinding beacon of a sign.

“Well, alright then. Let’s get some food in ya before you keel over, hm?” Joel says as he exits the truck, landing on his feet in the dirt parking lot with a soft groan. He waits by the hood for you to meet up with him, and you walk up the couple of steps to the entrance together. He holds the door open for you, and you offer him a shy ‘thank you’, to which he responds with a soft spoken ‘welcome, sweetheart’. You stand shyly behind his broad form as he asks the hostess for a table for two, and she leads you to a green leather booth tucked into the corner of the diner. She hands each of you a sticky laminated menu, the pages a charming mess of clashing colors and faded pictures and retro-looking fonts, then departs with a promise that your waitress will bring the two of you some water as you take your time deciding on what you might like. 

You light up upon reading that Moody’s serves breakfast all day, and that they can make you exactly what you were hoping for—a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with sides of bacon and hashbrowns. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you wiggle in your seat, excitedly anticipating the waitress to come back around so you can order.

“Whatcha so excited about over there?” Joel asks, eyeing you from across the table as he glances up from his own menu.

“Nothin’, I was just hoping I could get some pancakes, and they have ‘em on the menu,” you explain giddily. “I’ll probably get some coffee, too, really complete the whole ‘breakfast for dinner’ thing.”

Joel huffs through his nose. “Decaf, I hope. ‘S the middle of the goddamn night, sweetheart. Gonna be bouncin’ off the walls in the room later, hardly get any sleep.”

He’s right, you suppose. But wait—“What room?”

Joel shrugs casually. “There’s a decent motel another exit or two down, figured they could probably get us a couple o’ beds for the night. But, ‘m sorry, shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No! No, it’s okay.”

Is it? You only met the man less than an hour ago, and you already agreed to let him give you a ride before you even knew his name. You suppose you hadn’t really thought about what would happen after he bought you dinner, but not thinking ahead seems to have been a theme today, hasn’t it? You remind yourself that he’s only been kind and respectful to you so far, save for that placement of his hand on your upper thigh soon after he picked you up. But that could’ve just been a friendly, paternal gesture, right? And he said a couple of beds, when he mentioned the motel, which seemed to imply that he plans on the two of you sleeping in separate beds, maybe even separate rooms. You’ve found yourself having to make yet another somewhat reckless decision tonight, but one that would be in your best interest to say ‘yes’ to, at this point. What other option would you have if you declined his offer?

“Don’t really have anywhere else to go, so… yeah, okay. Motel sounds good. And decaf it is, I guess.”

Joel’s apologetic expression quickly morphs into a satisfied smirk. “Good girl,” he praises. You like how the words sound coated in his thick drawl, even though you probably shouldn’t. You shift where you sit as that familiar fluttering sensation returns to the seat of your panties, just for a moment. You’re grateful that the waitress arrives at the booth not a second later, cheerily introducing herself as she sets down a glass of water for each of you. When she asks if you’re ready to order, Joel gestures to you as if to say ‘ladies first’, and you politely prattle off your request. You make sure to emphasize that you’d like your coffee decaf, and ask if she could please bring some more of the little cups of vanilla creamer to the table. “Not a problem, honey,” she replies, and Joel winks at you as she asks what she can get for him. He orders the Thunder Burger he had told you about earlier, and a black coffee, which he doesn’t request to be decaf. The waitress leaves the two of you alone again with an ‘I’ll have that right out for ya,’ and you let your eyes follow the calming baby blue color of her dress as she glides her way back to the kitchen. When she disappears around the corner of the bar, you take the opportunity to study Moody’s other patrons. There isn’t another young person in sight, mostly just men around Joel’s age with similarly heavy bags under their eyes, likely truck drivers indulging in their first hot meal of the day within the diner’s comforting wood-paneled walls. You wonder if that’s how Joel knows about this place, because he “passes through” this area on long hauls across the midwest. You open your mouth to ask him if your assumption is correct, but he cuts you off before you can say anything.

“I gotta admit, sweetheart, I’m curious… The hell was a pretty thing like you doin’ out in the middle of goddamn nowhere tonight? I mean, I know you’re a runaway ‘n all, but… shouldn’t you be one o’ those college party girls or somethin’? ‘M sure you got plenty of friends wonderin’ where you are.”

You sigh, shaking your head as you distractedly pick at a splintered piece of wood at the edge of the table.

“I was in college. Was supposed to be going back again this year, but… my mom spent all the fucking savings I had left for the rest of it on fixing up her dumb boyfriend’s car. It’s just been sitting in the fucking lawn all summer, sure as hell not being used for something useful like going to the job he doesn’t have. That bastard…” You say the last part under your breath through gritted teeth.

“Shit… Tha’s a tough deal, baby, ‘m real sorry to hear that,” Joel comforts. “But y’know, everybody’s got mommy ‘n daddy issues, don’t mean you just up and start walkin’ all by your lonesome, not even have any idea where you’re goin’.”

“Well, it wasn’t just that. There was… nevermind, it’s stupid.” You slump into the cushioned booth, silently cursing yourself for even bringing it up.

“What is it?” Joel pushes, sitting up straighter to show you that he wants to listen, wants to get to know you. And God dammit, he might be the first person you’ve met in a long time who actually seems to care about what you have to say, as strange as it is. You flick your eyes up to his face, and he’s wearing a sincere gaze that convinces you to continue.

“There was this girl I went to high school with. She disappeared a couple of years ago, nobody ever found out what happened to her. People figured she probably just ran away, and I thought… I dunno. That maybe she had the right idea, leaving that place behind. I always held onto this hope that maybe she was still out there somewhere actually doing something with her life, that maybe she just changed her name or something and disappeared on purpose.” You pause. “I guess I just thought I might be able to do the same, if I left.”

“I see…” Joel muses sympathetically. “Maybe I oughta give you a lil’ more credit, then. Must’a been tough losin’ a friend like that, not knowin’ where she ended up.”

“I mean, Ruby wasn’t really my friend. She just—”

“Hang on. Ruby, you said?” Joel interrupts, his eyes suddenly looking a little wild.

“...Yeah. Her name was Ruby. Ruby Carpenter.”

—

Fuck.

Joel has to adjust himself under the table, his dick now hardening uncomfortably in his jeans at just the mention of her name. He remembers Ruby, remembers chuckling to himself when he realized the irony of her name matching the color of her blood, remembers watching the news coverage of her disappearance in this very same diner, those handful of years ago. She was a sweet thing, he remembers this, too. It was a shame she had ended up being such a fighter, that she had to get put down the way she did. But she shouldn’t have thrown that fucking rock at his face, called him a sick fuck and a freak as she made her pitiful little escape attempt. Joel is lucky that all he came away from it with is that ugly little scar that mars the bridge of his nose. He can’t say the same for her.

“Why? You heard her name before?” You ask him, an unfortunate little twinkle of hope in your eyes.

“Maybe.” Yes. “Sounds a lil’ familiar, might remember hearin’ about it on the news or somethin’.”

That goddamn news coverage sure as hell taught him a lesson. Joel had spent months trying to keep the cops off his fucking tail after he had dumped her body on some forgettable patch of land behind an old decaying barn. He had even gotten pulled in for a fucking interview at the station in what he now presumes to be your hometown, where they had questioned him for an hour or so about her disappearance. He still isn’t sure how he talked his way out of that one. Ruby might not have been good for much else, other than pissing him the hell off with all of her pathetic crying and begging to just please, please let me go back home, but she did help him perfect his craft, he can give her that much. It’s because of her that Joel makes certain now that any girl he picks up doesn’t have anybody who will miss her or plaster her face on every local channel or send out goddamn search parties to find her. Girls like you.

You’re just so perfect, it would be so fucking easy for him to make you disappear for good, it’s almost comical. It had hardly taken any convincing at all to get you to climb into his truck, had taken even less to get you to agree to go to some seedy ass motel with him that might not even exist, for all you know. It does, but you didn’t even try to test him about it this time, just put all of your trust in him like a stray puppy would to the first person to pick it up off the street. That is just about what you are, he supposes. So far, you seem like the perfect candidate to become his little captive pet. If you keep it up, maybe you won’t meet the same fate as the rest of them. He’d told himself he’d be done after the last one, anyway, his body too old and achy and slow now to chase after the ones who put up a little more fight, like she had. She’d nearly escaped, made it a decent way through the woods and almost reached the main road before tripping on an exposed root and snapping her ankle. He remembers how weak and scared she’d looked before he’d used his knife to put her out of her misery, and it makes his dick twitch. Joel doesn’t plan on snuffing you out, not right now at least, since you haven’t given him a reason to. But his fingers still twitch where they rest on the table, moving out of instinct as he can’t help but imagine what they’d look like wrapped so tightly around your little throat. Would you cry? Would you beg? Would you pray? Would he have to glide his blade across your vocal chords just to get you to stop screaming so fucking loud? He wonders.

“Oh… Was that one of the times you were just ‘passin’ through’ for whatever reason you haven’t told me yet?”

Joel hadn’t realized that his eyes had been unfocused for so long, or that he’d been holding his breath, or that his hand had been squeezing his glass of water so hard he’s glad it hadn’t shattered. The airy sound of your voice brings him back to reality, and he huffs a light chuckle as he fixes his face into a more pleasant expression. 

“Yeah, ‘spose it was.” 

You roll your eyes at him playfully. “Come on, Joel. I just told you, like, my whole sob story. I feel like I deserve to know at least one thing about you now.”

You have a point.

He gives in. “Fine. I got a brother, used to come through this area when I’d pay him a visit. That good enough for ya?”

You cross your arms. “No. What’s his name?”

“Tommy.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Like me. Little younger. Little uglier.”

You laugh at that.

It makes Joel smile.

Maybe you could be the one he’s been looking for all this time. Too bad he had to waste so many others before he finally got to you.

—

The waitress comes back to your table soon after that, with your steaming plates of delicious-smelling food and hot mugs of coffee balanced expertly on a large plastic tray. She sets them down in front of the pair of you with a cheery smile, and you thank her happily when she doesn’t forget the extra sickeningly sweet cups of creamer you had requested. Joel doesn’t take his eyes off you once during the interaction, not even to feast his eyes upon the monstrous burger now sitting before him, not even as he thanks the waitress for delivering it to him. His lingering gaze makes you feel a little warm, but it could just be from the heat radiating off of your plates.

“What? You’re not getting a bite of mine, if that’s why you’re looking at me,” you tease, already getting to work putting the sugary creamer to good use.

Joel just shakes his head, his caramel colored eyes still never leaving you as your coffee begins to resemble their hue. “No, ‘s not why.”

“Whatever,” you reply through a giggle, making a poor attempt to hide your girlish grin behind the lip of your white ceramic mug. 

The two of you eat your meals in relative silence, mostly enjoying each other’s company and basking in the relaxing ambience created by silverware tapping against porcelain, hushed conversations, and the local country station playing through the old radio sitting on the counter. The reception is a little spotty way out here in wherever the hell you are, so you can’t quite tell what song it is. But Joel seems to know, judging by the rhythmic bouncing of his knee under the table that creates little circular ripples in your coffee. Maybe you’ll ask him what it is later, how he knows it, if you can listen to it again in the truck together. He doesn’t seem to be as much of an open book as you’ve already given yourself away to be, and you respect that about him. It doesn’t make you any less curious, but you resign yourself to getting to know him better in the small doses he’s willing to offer you. 

You decide to begin a mental list of all the things you want to ask him later, knowing that by the time you make it to the motel tonight, you’ll be far too exhausted to do anything more than just collapse onto the springy mattress and sleep until you get kicked out of the room the next morning. You almost wish you hadn’t listened to Joel’s request for you to take your coffee decaffeinated tonight, and you still aren’t quite sure why you did. It just feels so strangely easy to give into him, to trust him, to let him make decisions for you. You suppose that’s what you’ve been needing all this time, someone to guide you and understand you and at least pretend like they care about you. Joel has shown you more concern and care and protection in the last hour or so than either of your parents have pretty much your whole life. And he’s good at this, making you feel wanted, making you feel like somebody, even in subtle ways, just by looking at you.

“A’right, why don’t you finish up, darlin’, ‘n we’ll hit the road again. Practically usin’ your pancakes as a pillow over there.”

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize sleepily, waking yourself up enough to make quick work finishing off your plate and your last few sips of coffee. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout, sweetheart. Lord knows you need some rest, won’t be too much longer now,” Joel assures, fishing a few tens out of his faded leather wallet and placing them on the table. He slides to the edge of the booth and stands himself up with only a few pained noises as he straightens out his back, then offers his hand for you to take. You use it as leverage to pull yourself upright, and your hands linger in each other’s hold for a few seconds longer than they need to. The hostess thanks the two of you for stopping in when you pass her by, and Joel opens the door for you again as you leave Moody’s. He opens the truck door for you, too, and promises you that the motel is just another couple of minutes down the freeway. You make an effort to stay awake in your seat this time as Joel begins the drive, opting to gaze out the window and focus on trying to make out the sparkling constellations above the treeline. You smile privately at the moon when you find that she’s following closely behind you just as she always does, bright and full. 

She doesn’t leave your side until you reach the unassuming little roadside motel, which to your gratitude, proudly displays their vacancy on the flickering sign in the parking lot. It doesn’t look like a five star joint by any means, but you know it will serve its purpose just fine. Joel instructs you to stay in the truck while he goes about getting a room for the two of you, and you don’t object. He’d insisted that you didn’t need to be on your feet any longer than you already had been today, and you were too tired to argue with him even if you wanted to. When he returns, he taps lightly on the passenger side window so as not to startle you from the half-asleep, half-awake state you’ve found yourself in, and swings your backpack over his shoulder as he helps you out of the truck. He leads you to the room at the end of the row, and the door takes some finessing of the key and a shove of his shoulder to open. Joel flicks on the light, and you let out a disappointed-sounding ‘oh…’ when it reveals your accommodations.

There aren’t two beds like you had assumed Joel was going to request. There’s only one.

Joel catches your reaction. “‘S this gonna be alright? I know it ain’t the Ritz Carlton, but—”

“No, the room’s fine, it’s not that. I just thought… I just assumed that… I didn’t know it was gonna be, like… just the one bed.” You try to explain your discomfort as gently as possible, without seeming ungrateful for everything Joel has done for you tonight.

He looks at you sympathetically. “I know, I ain’t tryin’ anythin’, I swear. Guy told me it was the last room they had, jus’ figured it was better than nothin’.” 

You offer him a soft smile, but your eyes must still look a little wide as you begin to nervously pick at your fingernails. Joel continues, “I can take the chair if you want, darlin’. Get the bed all to yourself, how’s that sound?”

You visibly relax at that, your shoulders deflating as your smile becomes a little more genuine. “Okay, that’s good. Thank you.”

“‘Course, sweetheart. How’s about you take a nice hot shower, rinse off some o’ that dirt you picked up from walkin’ all day… Don’t suppose you got some suitable clothes in here for sleepin’ in?” Joel asks, handing your backpack off to you.

You shake your head. “Just some jeans and t-shirts, and another pair of shoes. And… y’know, some underwear, and stuff.”

Joel pinches the bridge of his nose, then rubs his fingers across his forehead exasperatedly. “I swear… it’s like you didn’t think there’d be a tomorrow or somethin’, girl. Christ.” Joel looks out the window to his truck parked just outside. “Tell you what, think I got somethin’ in the truck you can wear. Why don’t you see if they got anythin’ on the TV tha’s worth a damn, ‘n I’ll be back, alright?”

You nod, “Okay,” then set your backpack down on the drab carpet in favor of picking up the remote perched in front of the small square television. You sit yourself down on the edge of the bed as Joel leaves the room, and begin to flick through the few channels that aren’t just a screen full of snowy static.

Local news. Commercial. Game show. Commercial. Documentary. Commercial. 

Eventually, you land on what seems to be one of those old black-and-white western shows that you can never remember the name of. You only know that the reruns used to play on Sundays around lunchtime, because Rob would always be half paying attention to it with a beer in his hand when you and your mom would get home from church. For how adamant she was that you attend every weekend, she sure never called him a harlot and a sinner for not wanting to go with her. You’re not sure she had ever even tried to get him to go, but he probably didn’t own anything decent enough to wear, anyway. Whatever, fuck them. The show seems like the kind of thing Joel would like, so you let it keep playing. 

He comes back a moment later with a small stack of folded up clothes, tossing them over to where you sit on the bed. You unfold what he’s given you and examine them—a pair of simple pink cotton shorts, and a white tank top with a ditsy floral pattern scattered across the fabric. The clothing is a little more revealing than you’d like, but you figure you’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable wearing them to sleep than the denim shorts you have on now.

“These are… great. Thank you, Joel. But…” you snicker. “Should I be concerned that you have a very convenient supply of girls’ clothes in your truck?” Joel scoffs. “‘S for when I got Tommy’s kid with me, smartass. He’s got a daughter, few years younger ‘n you.”

“Okay, well, I dunno how I was supposed to know that, but… as long as you don’t have a girlfriend who’s gonna come after me for wearing her clothes.”

Joel only chuckles in response, his attention suddenly pulled to the TV.

“Gunsmoke, huh? ‘S a good choice, definitely what I’d classify as ‘worth a damn’.”

You smile to yourself, and his approval makes that warm fluttery feeling return to your belly. “I didn’t even know what it was called, just seemed like something you’d like.”

He turns back to you. “That obvious, huh? ‘S just ‘cause I’m old and southern, ain’t it?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, making a pinching gesture with your hand.

Joel nods as he makes his way over to the armchair on the corner of the room, collapsing onto it with a groan. “Well, why don’t you go ‘n get yourself all changed and cleaned up, ‘n if you’re quick enough maybe we can finish the episode together and then get some shuteye, hm?”

You swiftly unzip your backpack to retrieve one of your clean pairs of underwear, then bound over to the small bathroom with them and your new change of clothes in hand. It’s not the most spotless one you’ve ever had to use, but you’ve honestly seen much worse. You rinse off quickly in the steaming shower, using the scratchy motel-provided washcloth to scrub the dirt from your legs, stuck to you with the sweat you worked up from God knows how many miles of walking today. 

Today. You can hardly believe it hasn’t even been a full 24 hours since you left home yet. It seems like you’ve already known Joel for days, maybe even years, as silly as it sounds. You wonder if he might just take you in after this, or if he’ll have had enough of providing for you after just one night. He seems like a man of limited means, and he’s already given you so much. If you’re brave enough, maybe you’ll ask him tomorrow, when you get to the ‘so… what now?’ part of your time together.

For now, you step out of the shower and dry yourself off with an impossibly scratchier towel, then pull on your panties and the tank top and shorts Joel provided you with.

Jesus, how much younger is Tommy’s daughter?

The shorts just barely cover your ass, and there’s a sizable gap between their waistband and the bottom hem of your top. The thin, white material of the shirt only serves to accentuate the way your nipples poke through the fabric, but you suppose there isn’t anything you can do about that.

You quietly crack open the bathroom door, and are somewhat relieved to find that Joel’s already fallen asleep in the chair. You do wish you could’ve finished the episode of Gunsmoke with him, but the end credits seem to be rolling already anyway, and you’d rather avoid being seen in your very ill-fitting pajamas. Although, you do wonder if he’d say anything, or if he’d just let his hungry gaze linger in silence again, holding himself back from touching you beyond a comforting pat on the thigh.

You pick the remote up off the bed and use it to make the TV screen sizzle to black, then tip toe over to the lightswitch by the door and turn it off, the room now completely shrouded in darkness. Joel snores softly from the chair as you blindly feel your way back over to the bed, pulling the covers back and nestling yourself underneath them. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, considering, and it doesn’t take long for your exhaustion to catch up with you. Your thoughts become slower and slower along with your breathing, and you’re asleep not even five minutes after your head hits the pillow.

—

The last room they had, yeah, right. You’re just the most pathetic little thing, aren’t you? You’ll believe just about anything that comes out of his mouth if he turns up the ‘southern charm’ dial a few ticks, throws in a feigned apologetic-looking expression for good measure. It’s sad, really. For you, anyway.

Joel fakes his snoring for another thirty minutes or so, until he’s certain you’re sound asleep. He had heard your breath even out almost immediately after you had tucked yourself in, but he had chosen to lay in wait for a little while longer, just to make sure you wouldn’t put up too much of a fight when he made his move. You don’t seem like the type, considering how you’d hardly argued with him at all tonight, like when he had convinced you to forgo the caffeine with your dinner. There’s a reason he wanted you sleepy and subdued tonight, but you didn’t know that. Joel likes how well you listen to him, how easily you do as he asks.

He also likes how warm you are, how small your body is compared to his own, the difference in size especially prominent now that he’s laying snugly against you, his front pressing firmly into the back of you. You don’t wake from his lumbering movement, only coming to slightly when you feel his arm slide underneath your body, his warm hand snaking its way beneath your tiny shirt to squeeze at your plush tits. 

You mumble out a little “Hm?”, which he’s quick to quiet with, “Sorry, darlin’. Chair was too hard on my damn back. Just go back to sleep, ‘kay?” That chair felt like laying on a goddamn cloud compared to some of the other surfaces he’s found himself having to sleep on before, but again, you don’t know that, and what you don’t know won’t hurt you. You probably won’t even remember this in the morning, how his hard cock is slotted so perfectly against your ass, especially without the confines of his thick jeans holding him back. They’re discarded onto the floor now in front of the armchair, along with his flannel shirt and jacket. Joel holds you tightly against his bare, hairy chest as he circles a roughened pad of his finger around one of your nipples, smirking to himself at how quickly the bud hardens from his touch. He knew you wanted this, and the wet spot that the fingers of his other hand are teasing in the gusset of your panties is proof of it. How long have you been leaking for him like this? Had you been soaking the seat of his truck earlier today? Filthy thing.

You still don’t rouse when he pulls your panties aside and slips a finger inside your slick cunt, or when his grip on your tit loosens in favor of sliding up higher under your tank top, his hand coming to a rest around the base of your throat as he pumps his finger in and out of your tight heat. It would be so fucking easy…

But he can’t, he won’t, because you’re not like the others. You want to get to know him, you let him take care of you, you seem to like his company, and you don’t leap out of bed and call him a fucking perv and a dirty old man for what he’s doing to you. That’s what the others would have done. It’s what they have done. And they faced the consequences.

But you’re different. You’re not like them. You’re like him. A lost soul, that’s what you are. Nowhere to call home, no one who misses you or loves you or gives a damn what happens to you. Joel’s mouth had tasted bitter when he had told you about Tommy, or rather, lied about him. Joel hasn’t seen the fucker in years, certainly doesn’t pay him any visits or watch his brat, not since Tommy had learned the truth. You better not show your goddamn face around here ever again, you understand me? Tommy had spat at him. You’re fuckin’ sick. Only reason I don’t turn your ass in myself is ‘cause you’re my goddamn brother. But if I ever fuckin’ see you again, I won’t hesitate. Better make yourself pretty fuckin’ scarce ‘fore I change my mind. That might’ve been about the only time Joel had ever taken orders from his little brother. 

That bitter flavor is cut by the sweet tang of you that he tastes on his finger now, so young and eager and fresh. The hand around your throat squeezes a little tighter, and Joel’s hips begin to move against your ass as he allows himself to suck wet kisses onto the skin under the hinge of your jaw. Softly, gently, so as not to wake you. He could come just like this, using your pliant body in your sleep, rutting himself against your still form with the taste of your pussy on his tongue and his fingers pressed against your pulse points.

He’s close when you stir again, making broken hiccuping sounds as you choke on your breath.

“Shh, shh,” Joel soothes. “You’re alright, sweetheart. ‘S just me. Just—fuck—hold still, go back to sleep, baby.” You let out a quiet whimper, squirming against him just a little bit, but return to your unmoving and silent state a second later. Joel finishes himself off quickly with another couple of shallow thrusts against you, his large hand still gripped around the column of your neck, trying to stifle his groans as he spills into his briefs. He removes his suffocating hand and keeps you pressed tightly against him for a while after that, tanned arms wrapped around your waist and breathing in your scent as he waits for you to settle back down. 

When he’s sure he won’t disturb you again, Joel releases you from his hold and pads quietly back over to the armchair, redressing himself and resuming the position you had left him in. In the morning, if you do remember any of it, you’ll just chalk it up to a very strange dream, one fueled by the desire he knows you’ve felt towards him since he picked you up. You’ll be left with a strange assuredness that he feels the same way about you, without really knowing why. 

But Joel will always know.

—

The digital clock on the nightstand only reads around 8:00 when you’re awoken by a beam of sunlight shining brightly against the backs of your eyelids, streaming in from the window’s lopsided blinds. You had gone to sleep with your back to Joel, but you find yourself facing him now. He looks kind of peaceful when he’s asleep, that permanent furrow etched between his brows finally smoothed out as he dozes. A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips, but they fall quickly when you adjust your legs and feel the cool dampness against your core, the sensation bringing back the memory of the dream you’d had last night. 

It had felt so real, but it couldn’t have been, could it? There’s no evidence that Joel had really laid next to you last night, that he’d really touched you like that, that you’d wanted him to keep going. It must just be some kind of strange side effect of the affection you feel toward the man who had rescued you, more or less. You’ll likely just part ways after today, anyway, so it’s probably best to just try and forget about the whole thing, put on a fresh pair of underwear and pretend it never happened. 

Joel is awake by the time you’re done freshening up in the bathroom, and he greets you with a raspy ‘Mornin’, sweetheart’ as you retrieve your backpack from next to the bed and shove your ruined underwear into the bottom of it. “You get some good sleep last night?” He asks, rubbing a hand over his eye.

“Mhm, the bed was nice, more comfortable than the one I had at home, honestly.” You finish zipping your backpack closed and sit back down on the bed, pulling on some socks and the lace up sneakers you had been wearing yesterday. “I hope the chair was okay, like, for your back and everything.”

“What makes you say that, baby?”

You pause in the middle of tying one of your shoelaces, turning to look at him with a confused pout. “Didn’t you…? I thought you had told me something about how the chair would be hard on your back. Like, last night.”

Joel frowns, shaking his head. “Don’t think so, darlin’. Chair was just fine.”

“Oh… Well, that’s good.”

Maybe it had just been a dream, then.

Joel hands you a few bills from his wallet, and tasks you with getting the two of you some breakfast from the gas station across the street while he cleans himself up. He tells you that he doesn’t eat much in the mornings, but that you can get yourself whatever you want, as long as you bring him back a carton of cigarettes and a black coffee. You obey eagerly, retrieving what he asked for and getting a pack of miniature powdered donuts and an equally as sugary coffee for yourself.

He’s just stepped out of the bathroom when you return to the room, and your face feels hot when you see him with his dark hair slicked back and wet from the shower. The few strands that fall onto his forehead as he laces up his boots almost make him look a little boyish, despite his whitened temples. 

“Such a good girl, thank you,” Joel praises when you hand him his items. 

You respond with a shy ‘You’re welcome’, but he doesn’t miss how you seem to light up at his words. You plop yourself down onto the worn-in chair that Joel had used as a bed last night, happily munching on your gas station donuts and sipping on your coffee. It all makes you feel warm from the inside out.

But you figure you should find out what the rest of today might look like before you let yourself enjoy the beginnings of it too much.

“So, um… We’re just gonna check out this morning and then… what?” 

“Whaddya mean, baby?”

“I mean… are you just gonna, like… take me to the nearest bus station or something?”

Joel’s confusion is written all over his face, embedded deep into those lines between his brows. You could swear he almost looks a little hurt. “Why would I do that? ‘S that what you want?” He asks softly.

You try to backpedal a little, afraid you might’ve offended him or seemed ungrateful in your question. “I just thought it might be what you want. That you probably have somewhere else you need to be, like Tommy’s or—”

“No, I don’t,” Joel says definitively.

You pause. “Okay, so—”

“You ever been to California?”

His question stumps you for a moment, seeming so random in its nature. “No.”

“You want to?”

You shrug. “I mean… sure. Maybe someday—”

“Why don’t you come with me then, baby?”

You let out an awkward giggle. “...Come with you where?”

“To California. Come with me.” Joel’s tone is genuine but firm.

“Like, today? Are you sure?”

“I mean, we ain’t gettin’ there today, darlin’. But yeah, I’m sure. We both got nowhere else to be, do we? So let’s just go, we’ll see it together.”

You beam up at him, realizing that he’s being serious. Joel does want you, wants you to be his companion, maybe even something more that you’ll discover on familiar-looking back roads and in cities you’ve only ever seen pictures of. 

“Okay,” you agree excitedly. 

Joel nods. “Okay, then. Lemme go check us out ‘n we’ll get back on the road again. Burnin’ daylight already,” he jokes. He carries your backpack out to the truck for you, setting it down between your feet after he opens the door and helps you inside with a stable hand. It only takes a few minutes for Joel to hand in the room key and pay for the night, and then he’s back at your side. You begin to feel like that’s where you always want him to stay. 

“So, where to first, baby? California ain’t goin’ anywhere, can take as long to get there as we wanna. We’ll go wherever you like, take your pick.” Joel leans across your body to dig a folded up map out of the glove compartment, handing it to you. 

You examine it, your eyes darting across the dozens of dots with the names of cities next to them, some you’ve never even heard of. You point to one that you have heard of, but have never been to, because you’ve never even left the state you grew up in before.

“Um… how about Detroit? I’ve heard it’s nice, I think.”

Joel belly laughs at that. “It ain’t, but sure. You wanna go to Detroit, that’s where we’ll go. Buckle up, baby,” he instructs, patting your thigh. You oblige, and it feels good to finally know where you’re going, and that you’re going there with someone who cares about you, who feels safe, who wants you around. You also feel a little hopeful that maybe you were right about Ruby, after all. That you didn’t start walking for nothing, that you weren’t following some childish delusion, that if something as good as Joel had happened to you when you left, that maybe she had found herself on a similar path, ran into somebody good who took her wherever she wanted to go and helped her find someplace she belonged. Maybe she found her way out to California, eventually. What you are certain of is that neither of you ever have to go back to that town ever again, and that feels good, too.

And if it feels good, then it can’t be bad.

tag list: tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @zliteraturehoe @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @alex-does-art-things @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @k1l4ni @joelsdagger (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

[suhkusa]

A SECRET ALLIANCE - A HAIKYUU SMAU

pairing. sakusa kiyoomi x reader

smau warnings. college au!, angst, fluff, subjective/questionable humor, ooc probably, strangers-to-lovers, slight enemies-to-lovers (if you squint), some written content

status. COMPLETE!

synopsis. Your love life has never been too interesting— or good. But after downloading an app that allowed you to talk to strangers online, you find yourself entangled with anonymous user IMOAsukas. The catch? He’s part of your college’s volleyball team.

INTRO.

1. THEWURLDISMINE

2. JANE THE VIRGIN

3. EMBARRASSING

4. GOOD NIGHT

5. HELP ME!!!

6. MISSION K.M.S

7. ABOUT TIME

8. #REAL

9. BREATHE [📝]

10. BIGGER (SAKUSA KIYOOMI)

11. LIKABLE PERSONALITY

12. SILLY GIRLY FANTASY

13. SICK AND TWISTED

14. SPOILER WARNING [📝]

15. SKY DADDY

16. COINCIDENCE

17. DICK APPOINTMENT

18. LIGHTLY SHAT

19. SEVERELY DRUNK

20. MESSY

21. CRASHING OUT [📝]

22. I’M MARRIED!!!!!! [📝]

23. HAPPY WIFE HAPPY LIFE

END.

specific warnings will be specified each chapter

© all writings belongs to suhkusa 2024. do not repost or change.

[nanaminokanojo]

ACCIDENTALLY IN LOVE | Sukuna X You | CHAPTER INDEX I /PROLOGUE (Part 1-68)

-meet cute? a cheesy musical number? forget it! love makes itself known to you through a minor car accident, a broken arm, and a treacherously charming temporary chauffeur

CHARACTERS: sukuna x you/reader | jjk characters (uraume, gojo, geto, shoko, nanami, choso, maki, nobara, mei-mei, etc.)

GENRE: full-length smau + prose | bad boy x good girl | college au | a lot of firsts | aged-up characters | strangers to lovers | smut | fluff | angst | ooc depictions - soft sukuna ftw

TW/CW: strong/mature language | adult content so mdni on some parts | mentions of alcohol and/or smoking | mentions of injury, promiscuity and bullying | pet names because they're cute with 2D men | toxic behavior | will add more if something arises

AKI’S NOTES: Reblogs and likes are very much appreciated, and I actively respond to comments as well as Asks. Also, if you’re interested, I will include you in the tag list. Just message me through whatever avenue you’re most comfortable with. Happy reading!

MASTERLIST

A/N: Yup. Intrigue and a video right off the bat.

CHAPTERS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30

31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45

46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60

61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | CHAPTER INDEX II

ADDITIONAL NOTES: i will be using pics and other media which would fit situations and make the smau-ness of this piece a little more realistic and entertaining when i believe it’s appropriate/fitting to the plot (as i've done with my other smau). having said that, with regard to inclusivity, i just want to put it out there that they will not necessarily be aimed as the exact descriptions to fit a supposedly generic reader nor will they be representative of a specific race or color. it’s all for the simple fact of media availability, for funsies and the fact that i don’t exclusively write in consideration of those aspects when using reader-insert characters unless i specify it. thank you for understanding.

TAG LIST: CLOSED

PLEASE READ: If you wanna be included in the tag list, please make sure that your “Exclude __(tumblr username)__ from Tumblr search and recommendations” setting is OFF so I can actually tag you guys and you'll get notifs when I update. Thank you very much.

Here's a reference for the instructions from domainofmarie. Thank you very much, my friend. This is very helpful.

A/N: I have another version of this story somewhere on the internet with different characters, and I thought, why not make it a Sukuna smau. So excited for this! This'll probably come out this weekend lol or the next if push comes to shove.

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI’S “JUJUTSU KAISEN”. [20240514]

PHOTOS/IMAGES/GIF/FANART/ANY MEDIA CREDITS GO TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[naughtyneganjdm]

Man for Hire - Chapter 2

Summary: The rest of the night continues after losing your virginity to Negan with the time you still have with him. (PART 1)

Characters: Negan & the reader (OC, second person)

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55642924/chapters/145590163

Warnings: 18+, Swearing, Smut, Daddy Kink, Unprotected P in V, Oral, No Use of Y/N, breeding kink, dirty talk, etc.

Notes: I decided to write a part two to this just because my brain felt like there needed to be more. I hope you enjoy! (gif credit: @jdmorganz)

It was amazing how good you felt. There was an ache that lingered inside of you, but you expected so much worse. After seeing how big Negan actually was beneath the belt, you thought by his size that you were going to hurt so much more than you actually did. You felt like you got lucky with the decision that you made. Negan knew how to take care of you and he did it well. You were surprised with how easily he could calm you. Even now, you were at a relaxed state with the sounds of his heavy breaths at the back of your neck. Having his arm laid across your waist almost in a dominant, possessive grasp didn’t make you feel like you were having a one-night stand with a stranger. It made you feel like you belonged to him and that you were his. Maybe it should have bothered you, but it didn’t.

Looking over your shoulder, you let out a long exhale knowing that you were feeling things for this man that you shouldn’t have. Hell, you barely knew him, but you felt like you were hooked on him and that was probably a bad thing. With him sleeping comfortably behind you, you knew that you could get used to this whole thing. And that worried you.

Shifting underneath Negan’s arm, you went to get up hearing his breathing change as you pulled yourself to the edge of the bed, “Where are you going?”

“I have too much energy to sleep,” you explained, looking back over your shoulder in time to see him rolling onto his back to rub at his eyes. The sheet pulled at his hips lowering just enough for you to see the base of his cock where the dark curls of hair surrounded his body that you had gotten used to today. Even though that website you looked at was filled with men that had the bodies of gym rats, you were more drawn to a body like Negan’s. Slender with a small patch of soft flesh beneath his bellybutton. His Adonis belt was more than enough to kickstart your heart in your chest again when you reached out to sweep your fingers over the lines at his hips. It made him faintly smile, his hand lowering down to caress his fingers in over your pulse point. Even tired, his dimples drew attention to that certain charm that he carried.

“I’ll order something from room service for us,” you offered and he gave you a firm nod. “I didn’t really eat today.”

“Sounds good,” he gave you a wink and you could tell that he was trying to wake himself up. Bringing your wrist up, he placed a delicate kiss over the inside of your wrist. It had your breath catching in your throat and you knew that he was aware of what he was doing to you.

Pulling yourself up from the bed after he released your wrist, you headed toward the bathroom to grab one of the robes that they had hanging there. Pulling it on, you walked into the sitting area hearing the sound of movement behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you felt a breath catch in your throat at the sight of him. He had gotten up from the bed and was stretching out his long, slender body. Tipping his head back had the corner of his jaw flexing and there was a slight curve to his back with the way he stretched out his arms. Yawning, he brought his fingers up to stroke them through his now messy hair. Watching him had you smiling involuntarily. Everything about him was breathtaking. There he was standing naked at the middle of your hotel room and you couldn’t believe that was the man you lost your virginity to. He was such a beautiful specimen of a man and you felt like you lucked out.

“You’re staring,” his raspy voice finally pulled your attention away from nearly gawking at him. Your heart skipped a beat, but he seemed to be enamored with the way you were looking at him. A smirk tugged at his lips and he gave you a wink. “I’ll be back.”

Giving him his space, you watched long enough to see him get into the bathroom before going back to order something for the two of you to eat and drink.

“How are you feeling?” Negan’s voice surprised you as he moved into the room with you, pulling together the tie of the robe that he had grabbed for himself to wear. You were almost charmed with the smile that was over his face when he stared down at you. Sliding to the middle of the couch, you gave him room to sit and he dropped down beside you. Wiggling his fingers, he urged you toward him and you did it without question. Bracing his back against the arm of the couch, Negan helped you sit in his lap with both of your legs stretched out on the couch while he wrapped you up in his arms from behind. Nuzzling his nose against the side of your neck, Negan hummed when your fingers hooked with his.

“Better now that I’m in your arms,” you muttered with him snickering against your flesh. It was a ridiculous line, but it was truthful. Together the two of you were facing the large glass panel of the windows in the hotel suite and the lights from the city were still bright drawing your attention.

“Well my arms like having you in them,” Negan nipped at your jawline with a slur. The simple motion drew chills down your spine. You didn’t mean to, but the exhale that you released obviously showed that you were upset hearing that. “What’s wrong?”

“I know you don’t mean that,” you pointed out, sweeping your fingers over the back of his hand when he squeezed you in closer to him. “You are so good at your job, it almost feels real.”

“What about tonight hasn’t been real?” Negan inquired, the warmth of his breath sending chills throughout your body with how close he was to you. It was what you wanted to hear, but you also knew he should have been honest with you. “The two of us shared a very intimate moment together with you having sex for the first time. I very much enjoyed it. And I do like spending time with you. No bullshitting.”

“You don’t know me and I know nothing about you,” you reminded him, tipping your head back finding yourself in awe with the way his long eyelashes fluttered with him looking at you. “Other than the fact you are super charming and incredibly hot.”  

“I think you and I know more about each other than you think,” Negan grumbled under his breath and you rolled your eyes. “The two of us have connected in a way you never have with anyone else. I think that’s a pretty big deal.”

“You know what I mean,” you suggested, tipping your head back enough to notice the amusement in his eyes when he stared down at you.

“Some people you don’t have to know completely to connect with them. Sometimes you just fucking click,” Negan responded which made you smirk. You would have loved for that to have been the case.

“You’re still being paid to be here,” you frowned letting out a tight breath when he started pressing tiny kisses over your jawline. “I have to remind myself of that.”

“Sometimes with my job it helps introduce me to people that I may have never been able to meet. There are those rare cases where you meet someone that you appreciate having a moment with and you’re one of those people for me,” he informed you and you were still unsure with his response. “I don’t think you realize, I’ve put a lot of faith and comfort into this whole thing with you.”

“How so?” you wondered, getting more comfortable in his arms realizing just how at ease you actually were.

“I told you I don’t have unprotected sex with people. It was kind of a big deal. I had to put my trust in you, just like you did me,” Negan explained, peppering faint kisses over your jawline. “Fuck. That’s intimate as hell. I don’t care how much people beg or offer me extra money. I’m not gonna do that. But I did it with you. That alone makes us have a bond.”

“You’re good,” you hummed enjoying the kisses that he was pampering you with over your jawline. It had you turning your head slightly so he could bring your lips together for another kiss that drew chills down your spine. When he pulled away, it took your breath away when he nudged your nose with his in almost an affectionate moment.

“What do you wanna know about me? I’ll be honest with you about everything. Anything you wanna know.”

Turning in his arms, you braced yourself over his waist and Negan tipped his head back to rest it against the arm of the couch. His hands caressed up over your hips toward your lower back in a soothing motion. The top of the robe that he was wearing parted revealing a large part of his chest and the dark curls of hair that were there. Loosely hooking your arms around his shoulders, your eyes narrowed and you tried to think of something to say.

“Are you dating someone?” you wondered, a smirk tugging at Negan’s lips when he lowered his stare. “That’s a yes.”

“That’s a no,” Negan corrected you, his head tipping to the side when he returned his gaze to yours. His Adam’s apple bounced in his throat when he gave a simple shrug of his shoulders. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“Are you married?” you questioned with Negan’s eyebrows arching up, drawing a sigh from deep within him. Hooking your fingers loosely around the necklace that he wore around his neck drew his eyes to the rings that were over his chest. “I kind of picked up on it when you first fell asleep.”

“I’m not married,” Negan shook his head. Your face twisted with disbelief and he sighed loudly. “I’m a widower. My wife died a few years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you immediately apologized feeling like an asshole, your face flushing over with a warmth. You went to apologize, but Negan’s fingertips covered your lips and he shook his head. When he finally lowered his fingers, he swept his thumb in over your shoulder and you frowned. “That was rude of me.”

“You didn’t know,” Negan refused to let you feel bad about the whole thing. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What happened?” you knew that it was none of your business, but you reached out to stroke over the side of Negan’s face. There was definitely a change to his features once he brought up his late wife and you felt guilty for assuming.

“Cancer,” Negan’s answer was short with his eyes coming to a tight close, leaning into your touch like he cherished it.

“Was this your job when you were with her?” your curiosity had him laughing out, his dimples becoming more prominent when he gave you a shake of his head.

“She was gone a few years before I started this,” Negan answered you with a bit of amusement in his features. “She would have never been okay with me doing this when she was around. And rightfully so. You see…before all this,” Negan paused as if to consider what he was telling you. “I was a gym teacher.”

“Come on,” you chuckled with him nodding his head. “You were a gym teacher.”

“I was Coach Negan,” he almost seemed proud as he continued to tell you about his past. “But I have a temper and I ended up losing my job. I beat the hell out of one of the student’s fathers at a bar one day after he called my wife some very distasteful names. It makes me feel bad because we lived really poorly when my wife was alive. When she died, she had a lot of life insurance plans that I didn’t know about and I ended up inheriting a lump sum of money that she deserved to experience while she was alive.”

“So you don’t need this job then,” you concluded, your eyebrow raising in curiosity.

“No,” Negan confessed with a tip of his head. “I also enjoy the companionship because I was lonely. Plus, I’m good at this. So…”

“Do you have to sleep with everyone?” you pushed, sliding your hands down over his chest, playing with the dark hair that covered it.

“Technically, I’m an escort. Legally, all my job requires of me is giving people companionship. The only way I end up having sex with someone is if we both mutually agree to it,” the tone of his voice changed seeing the way that you smirked and he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t have to sleep with people if I don’t want to. As long as I give them what they paid for, then I’m fine. Your situation was a bit different than what I’m used to. I think Michonne made an exception for you. My dates vary. There is the romantic dates where people are allowed to touch me, usually those kind of dates people expect something more if I’m comfortable. There are people who just want me to go to special events with them. Some people just want someone to give them company while they are in town. It really depends.”

“So you’ve turned away people with sex?” you inquired hearing him snicker. “I’m sorry for all the questions, I’m just curious. I know you’re what I assume is a high-end escort so you never know with the things that you hear.”

“I think people hear escort and think certain things naturally. I’m allowed to turn sex down. There is no promise of it when I show up,” Negan explained to you, his fingertips caressing up and over the planes of your back toward your neck. “I haven’t had too many crazy experiences though thank God.”

“Too many?” you teased him and he bit at his bottom lip. Leaning in, you pressed a kiss at the side of his neck where the visible vein was. “Let me guess. People get addicted to you. They get jealous. And they stalked you.”

“Something like that,” Negan grunted, tipping his head to the side so you had better access to kiss down over the side of his neck. “Not many people with the name Negan, you know?”

Nodding your head, you continued your kisses over his collarbone pushing the robe that was there aside. Noticing the freckles on his shoulder made you smile when you started peppering feather like kisses over his flesh.

“I’m lucky though because Michonne’s husband is a cop,” Negan explained with his fingers squeezing tighter at your body. Your kisses were doing something to him because his breathing started to grow broken. “He helped me take care of some things. Life is strange.”

Giving a nod, you didn’t want to pry too much since you thought you already overstepped your boundaries with the information about his wife.

“What about you?” Negan breathed, his palms lowering down to squeeze in over your full bottom making you exhale loudly. “How come you waited this long to lose your virginity? There had to be boys and men that were interested.”

“Sure, but you hold out for so long and then it just feels weird anytime you try to bring it up. I dated a few people, some that I thought I would give it up to but…” you paused, your head tipping back knowing that it would be stupid to probably go off about your woes. “Let’s just say I didn’t have the best luck with guys.”

“Why? There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” Negan insisted dragging his fingers to the tie in your robe. Loosening it, he was careful in the way he pulled apart the material allowing it to fall to your sides. Grasping tightly to your bare hips, he palmed at your flesh before lifting his hands up to cup at your breasts to give them a firm squeeze.

“There is this woman that is in my friend group that kept stealing all my boyfriends. I don’t know why, but every time I started to really like someone she would swoop in and steal them away,” you explained with Negan wrinkling his nose in response. “All of the ones I thought I cared about, she swooped in and she used her charm.”

“Let me repeat what I think I just heard,” Negan began with a frown, biting at his bottom lip when he got more comfortable underneath you. “Your friends group? Why the fuck is that woman your friend and why would your friends be okay with that?”

“It’s something I’ve tried to understand my whole life. I guess some people are just really drawn to her,” you retorted with a frown hating that this was getting sad. “I just stopped trying to lose it after a while. One day I’d like to date someone, but I just kind of wanted this out of the way.”

“I see,” Negan scoffed, his thumb sweeping in over the swell of your breast toward your nipple. “Honey, I think you need to learn to separate yourself from a toxic crowd. It sounds like this woman has done it multiple times. Which is fucked up. We gotta work on your confidence and get you to be a bigger bitch.”

“Is that so?” you were amused with the way his nose wrinkled and he snorted before his thumb circled around your nipple. Dropping your head back, you released a long breath appreciating the way that he touched you.

“Very much so, yes,” Negan grunted from underneath you, lifting up to start pressing hot, wet kisses between the valley of your breasts. When his mouth covered your breast, the warmth of his tongue twisted around your nipple and it had you bracing your hands firmly over his chest. With a disappointed breath, Negan pulled away when he heard the sound of a knock on the door. “Room service.”

“Room service,” you pouted with a smirk, shakily getting up from Negan’s lap to pull together your robe. “I’m sorry.”

“What did you even get?” Negan wondered, his eyebrow arching in curiosity when you moved for the door.

“Oh, you know. Strawberries, whipped cream and champagne,” you answered, stopping to see his reaction. It kind of looked like he was disappointed and you found amusement in that.

“Oh, that’s…” Negan began, biting down on his bottom lip.

“Boring? Typical?” you stressed noticing the confusion in his eyes when you went for the door. Opening up, you accepted the pizza box that the man was holding and grabbed the soda that he brought up with it. Tipping him, you closed the door behind you and noticed that there was a smirk tugging at his lips. “You read like the type of guy who likes pizza.”

“My kinda girl,” Negan chuckled when you sat the pizza box down on the coffee table in front of him along with the soda. Going for the cups you had earlier, you placed one in front of Negan and one down for you. “Not that I would have had a problem with those things.”

“They’re a little too romantic for me,�� you confessed taking a seat down next to Negan after he pulled himself up into a seated position. “I’m sure pizza is incredibly sexy to eat and you’ll want to fool around afterwards.”

“Listen, while I would love to eat whipped cream and strawberries off your body, the fact that you got pizza turns me on so much more,” Negan admitted to you with a big cheesy smile causing your heart to flutter when he flipped open the box to grab himself a piece. Taking a big bite of the piece of pizza, he gave you a wink and swallowed down hard.

“The pizza place downstairs stays open all night on the weekends and it’s supposed to be one of the best,” you pointed out, grabbing a piece for yourself and getting comfortable beside him. Negan was in a relaxed position beside you while he took another big bite of the pizza you had gotten. “I’m glad you’re not being one of those people who snubs your nose at real food.”

“Me?” Negan spoke with a mouthful of pizza causing you to smile. “Have you looked at me? I should be saying that about you.”

“You’re the escort,” you reminded him with him dramatically rolling his eyes and shifting on the couch. “Do you have a lot of repeat clients?”

“I do,” Negan nodded his head. Turning slightly so he could face you while you spoke to him.

“Did you ever date one of your clients?” you knew your curiosity could be pushing it, but you didn’t care. This might be the only time you saw Negan, although you highly doubted it. You were liking him way too much for that.

“You mean not for work?” Negan confirmed and you nodded your head. “It’s frowned upon. I don’t think Michonne would like that. It would probably give people the wrong kind of idea. Plus, I don’t think any significant other would be okay with me doing this.”

“Fair enough,” you watched him finish off his piece of pizza and reach for a napkin. He wiped his fingers off and looked at the box that was sitting before him. Waiting to see how long he debated getting a second piece made you smirk. “You can eat another one Negan.”

Bobbing his head about, Negan grabbed another piece and this time the cheese pull was so big that he was ridiculous in the way he was trying to get it into his mouth. It made you laugh and you almost felt like he was being silly just to get a reaction out of you.

“You’re an interesting person,” you stated after swallowing down your bite of pizza. “You’re suave, sophisticated, charismatic, charming, sexy…”

“Keep going,” Negan waved his hand about in the air, a snicker falling from his lips while he continued to eat his pizza. “This goes great for my ego. It’s big already, but I enjoy hearing this kind of stuff.”

“But you’re also silly, laid back and sweet,” you commented on what you had seen from him since he had been here. “You’re incredible at sex, but your real talent is making people feel good about themselves and feel seen. You don’t have to hide the real you from me you know. If you want to eat multiple pieces of pizza, I’m not going to care. I’m not going to find you suddenly unappealing because you eat.”

Shifting on the couch beside you, there was a muscle that twitched in his jaw and he sighed loudly, “The expensive suite and the really nice hotel made me think one thing before showing up here, but you’re really nothing like I expected you to be.”

“I hope that’s a good thing?” you returned back and it made him smile, but also quickly nod. “Maybe I wanted to impress you in some sort of way while also trying to make my first time as magical as it could be. As cheesy as that sounds.”

“You have impressed me. For your first time, that was really good,” Negan assured you with a nod of your head, his smile growing bigger when you rolled your eyes. “One of my favorites really.”

“And now you’re back to lying and doing your job,” you reached out to pat him on the thigh causing him to snort in amusement.

“I’m not,” Negan huffed after swallowing down hard. “I really enjoyed it. And I hope you did too.”

“I think you know I did,” you finished up, wiping your hands off to get them clean. “The only problem is starting with you because it can only go down from there. I’ll expect too much from other people because of how good you are.”

“I’m not lying to you when I tell you that you’re one of my favorites. Not just because of the sex,” Negan insisted again, his eyebrows bouncing up when he spoke. “Not many people ask about me. They have this fantasy and they want to be focused on. You’re one of the only people that actually wanted to learn about me and know me.”

With a weak smile, you outstretched your hand and brushed your fingers into Negan’s dark hair. It had his long eyelashes fluttering to a close and he seemed to enjoy your touch. Caressing at his scalp in a tender sweep, you leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss at Negan’s temple. When you pulled back, his hazel eyes were staring out at you with an expression you hadn’t quite seen from him yet.

There was something that felt different between the two of you while Negan finished off the last piece of his pizza, “You’re being serious about the whole not having unprotected sex with your clients thing?”  

“Why would I lie about that?” Negan responded with a long sigh. “My wife was the last time I did that.”

You both went silent for a minute and you didn’t really know what to say. It got to the point where you thought about Negan leaving in the morning. You’d really enjoyed his company, but at the end of the day it was just a business transaction between the two of you. A dream scenario that you handpicked for yourself. You’d never be able to tell anyone about it other than your best friend, but it was something that you knew you’d never forget.

Sliding forward, you brushed your fingers against the side of Negan’s face and it had his eyes connecting with yours. The way you touched him had him leaning in closer to you, “I’m glad I did this Negan. I may have never been able to meet you otherwise and you are not someone I think I’ll ever forget. You’re perfect.”

Negan’s eyes closed when you traced over his masculine features. Your fingers etched over the scar at the side of his face and you tipped forward to press a kiss over his cheek. Pulling away had him exhaling loudly as you stood up from the couch.

“I’m going to go brush my teeth so I don’t have pizza breath all night,” you declared, pointing toward the bathroom. “I think they have a brand-new toothbrush you can use if you like.”

It didn’t take long for Negan to join you in the bathroom before you were both in front of the mirror brushing your teeth together. It seemed like Negan was paying close attention to you and it felt like the mood changed slightly after what you said.

A moment later, Negan playfully nudged you with his hip and you rolled your eyes. It still got a smile out of you though. Once you were both done, you were cleaning up a bit before you felt Negan moving in behind you. Grasping onto your hips, Negan lowered down allowing the warmth of his breath to hover over your neck. It had a breath catching in your throat and you leaned back closer to him when his lips faintly pressed in over your flesh. Each kiss grew in strength with him pampering your neck with wet kisses that had chills flooding throughout your veins.

Having the mirror to watch his reflection in enhanced the sensation so much more. Not only did it feel incredible, but getting to see him do it? Well that was an extra added bonus. Nipping at your flesh, his finger grasped a hold of the material of your robe to push it away from your shoulder. Trailing his lips down over your neck and toward your shoulder had you tipping your head to the side, enjoying the way it felt with him leaving tiny bites at your flesh before kissing over it. Purring out, you felt the sensation of his fingers curling around your throat. In most cases you didn’t know if you would trust other people grasping your throat like he was, but the way he did it left you hotter than you could begin to imagine. Lifting his eyes, Negan stole a quick look at you in the mirror with a wicked smirk tugging at his handsome lips. Outstretching his fingers, he grasped a tight hold of your jaw and growled when he nuzzled his nose in against the side of your neck.

Dropping his free hand down, Negan’s fingers started loosening the knot in your robe to get it apart. Once the material started to separate, it took no time for him to push it from your body helping it to drop down to pool around your ankles. Every part of you felt like it was on fire with the way that his eyes ate every inch of your body alive in the reflection of the mirror.

Gasping out, you felt his free arm curling around your waist to pull you flush against him. The hold he had on you was possessive with his palm caressing up over your abdomen drawing lines over your flesh. As the warmth of his palm etched under your breasts, it had you exhaling loudly causing him to smile. Cupping one of your breasts, he tested the flesh in his grasp. An extended sigh fell from your parted lips with his fingertips circling over your nipple turning it to a hardened peak. It was obvious by the way he was that Negan liked to be in control of things, but you liked it.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Negan slurred with his kisses pressing over your ear, nipping at your earlobe when you braced your hands over the bathroom counter. Turning your head slightly, you met his lips in a drawn-out kiss that took your breath away. You wondered if there was something this man wasn’t good at because so far? He was doing a hell of a job making you swoon over every aspect of him. Breaking away, Negan slid his hands down over your body to grab a tight hold of your hips. His right hand slid in over the small of your back, tracing up over the planes of it toward your shoulders. Putting a small amount of pressure there, he got you to lean forward bracing your hands on the counter. Staring at his expressions in the mirror, you felt a lump growing in your throat when his palms squeezed over your fleshy bottom. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you,” you purred catching the smirk that tugged at his handsome features when his eyes lifted to meet your stare in the mirror. Biting down on your bottom lip, you moaned when he lowered down to start pressing kisses down your back. A breath caught in your throat when Negan lowered down behind you, his hands squeezing firmly at your thighs. Urging you to spread your legs, a growl fell from his throat when your body was fully exposed to him.

“You have such a pretty little pussy,” Negan rumbled, the warmth of his breath lingering over your flesh. Dropping your head forward, you enjoyed the way that Negan’s hands caressed over your body before pressing in over your cheeks to spread your flesh to get better access to your tight hole. Leaning in, Negan teased the tip of his tongue over your entrance enticing you with the idea of him pleasuring you and it had you mewling out. Faint kisses followed with your eyes closing tightly making it easy for you to focus on what he was doing. Each movement of his mouth over your body grew wetter, his slurping causing a whimper to fall from your throat. Grasping tighter to the counter, your heart hammered in your chest with the way he was focusing on your entrance with his tongue delving inside of you delivering you some of the most extreme, unexpected pleasure of the night. Whining out when he pulled his head back had him snickering. His rough fingertips replaced his mouth, teasing long lines up and over your sensitive folds. “Fuck, you are driving me crazy.”

“Negan,” you panted his name when he circled his fingers over your entrance before pushing his middle finger unhurriedly into the depths of your warmth.

A pleased sound escaped him in a deep rumble of a groan. The pull back and push forward of his long slender digit inside of you had you biting down firmly on your bottom lip. When he inserted another finger, you whined out enjoying the ways in which he had already learned your body after one time with him. Rhythmically his fingers moved inside of you, leaving your thighs tremoring with the motions. Balancing your weight better over the counter, you heard Negan humming to himself which was followed by him nipping at your bottom.

“I think you’re ready for me,” Negan declared pulling his fingers from your body when he carefully raised up from the ground. Your body was so eager for an orgasm that he had worked up inside of you, but it almost felt like when he got you just about there, he stopped on purpose. Behind heavy eyelids, you watched in the mirror as Negan very slowly undid the knot in his robe. You’d seen him naked before, but you didn’t want to miss it as the material parted. Shimmying out of the robe, Negan let it slide down his arms and drop at his feet allowing you to see his naked form in the reflection. Lifting his fingers up to his lips, Negan licked at the tips before lowering his palm back down to curl his fingers around his solid manhood. “Y’know, you turned out to be quite the surprise.”

“In a good way I hope,” you gazed back over your shoulder to steal a look at his straining erection while he unhurriedly stroked over his body. Stepping in behind you, Negan released his cock letting it bob with his movement. Gasping, you dropped your head back down when Negan’s grasp over your hips moved you where he needed you. Watching Negan in the mirror now, you could see his jaw flexing when he squeezed at your bottom.

“In the best of ways,” Negan retorted with a growl, the weight of his cock resting over your bottom drawing your hips back closer to him. It had him smiling with how eager you were, but he just curled his fingers around the base of his erection, tapping it against your flesh. “Most virgins, they act shy and scared. But not you. You didn’t even flinch when you saw me naked.”

“Because I knew I wanted you more than anything,” you admitted, licking your lips feeling your pulse jumping in your throat when Negan’s eyes lifted. An amused expression filled Negan’s features with what you said. Taking one step back, Negan teased the tip of his cock over the length of your sex collecting your arousal over it. Repeatedly he teased himself up over your body before down again. “Please.”

“You are something else,” Negan snickered, bending his knees slightly to smack his cock up against your clit which had you whimpering out. After a few repeated movements, Negan pulled back and smirked. Lining his body up with yours, he pushed his hips forward. Moaning out in unison, you kept your eyes locked on his when he took his time filling you again. “Good girl.”

Pushing his hands up your sides, Negan caressed over the lengths of your body when he bottomed out inside of you. Curling his hands around the front, his rough fingertips drew lines over your abdomen before meeting your breasts to cup them in a tender squeeze. Staring down, Negan licked his lips when he pulled his hips back drawing his cock almost completely out of you before thrusting forward sinking almost completely into you again.

“You take daddy’s big cock so well. And you want every inch of it,” Negan slurred, biting down on his bottom lip when he started a slow pace between you. Every smack forward of his hips drew forth a loud sound that echoed, but got you loved it. “You like me being balls deep inside of you. You just shake in euphoria. I can see in your eyes…”

“I’ve never felt anything like it,” you cooed, bracing your right hand better on the counter before reaching back with your left hand to grasp at his hips. “Harder.”

With a deep rumble of a growl, Negan stepped in closer to you having you gasp out. His right hand covered yours, hooking his fingers with yours and then his left hand braced on the counter. Giving you what you asked, his hips thrusts grew stronger with his lower abdomen smacking up against your bottom.

“God, you are so fucking perfect,” Negan rumbled, his left hand lifting to curl around your jaw. Using a bit of force had him pulling you back close to him with him kissing down over your jawline. Nipping at your flesh had you wincing, but you liked the way he made you feel like you belonged to him. “Your hot, tight little pussy feels so good around my big cock. You know that?”

“Negan,” you panted his name, fighting to keep your eyes open with the way he was smacking up against you. Your hips were pressed against the counter and you were up on your tip toes. The deep plunges of his body felt absolutely incredible like this, but you were having a hard time staying on your feet. “Fuck…”

Letting go of your fingers, Negan’s right hand dropped between your thighs. His rough fingertips finding your sensitive bundle of nerves while he caressed over it in unison with his thrusts. Your moans grew louder and by the expression over his face he was pleased.

“Take a good look at yourself. You should be proud,” Negan kissed at your jawline again, nipping at your earlobe afterwards. “You knew what you wanted and you took it. You took it like a fucking boss and no one can ever take that from you.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest. The wet sounds his body was making inside of you was driving you crazy. Negan stretched you, filled you in ways that you could never imagine and he made sure you were focused so you could feel every ounce of it.

“Look at how fucking beautiful you are,” Negan palmed down over your chest, grasping firmly to your breast while he fucked you. “You are so fucking perfect.”

Whining out, you dropped your head back against his shoulder when your thighs started to tremble, your hips rocking back against his movements. Negan bit at your neck, peppering kisses afterwards in a soothing fashion. He was going to leave a mark, but you didn’t care. Your breathing grew louder, the sounds of your heart pulsating in your head letting you know he was bringing you right to the edge. A few more sharp thrusts forward had you crying out, a liquid rush of warmth flooding your entire body when he snickered against your flesh.

“Good girl,” Negan praised you, stopping his movements to experience your orgasm as your body flexed around his. Licking his lips in a drawn-out fashion, Negan pulled his cock from your body, but his movements were fast when he hooked his arm around your waist to turn you and set you down on top of the counter. Pulling you to the edge of it, Negan led his manhood back to your ready entrance. Sinking back into you with ease, the vein at the side of Negan’s neck bulged and it had you bracing your hands back on the counter. “Watch my big cock fucking you…”

Doing as you were told, you dropped your head down seeing every pull back and push forward of his girthy length as it moved inside of you, “Who does your tight little pussy belong to?”

“It belongs to you,” you panted, hissing out when you felt Negan’s fingers curling around your throat. Meeting his stare, Negan stepped closer to you causing you to whine with him filling you completely again. Capturing your lips with his, Negan demanded you to kiss him. It was powerful, it was wet and it was everything you wanted in that moment. You wanted to be made his and it felt like he was claiming that ownership on you. Brushing his tongue against yours had you purring out, your arms clinging around his shoulders with his thrusts now growing faster. With a wet sound, your mouths separated and Negan smiled. “It’s all yours.”

“Yes, it is,” Negan agreed with a wickedly sexy smile tugging at his features. His hair had grown slightly damp with sweat, clinging to his flesh. “I could just fuck you all day and night. You know that? You feel so fucking good.”

“Negan,” your nails bit into his shoulders and you wondered if it was bad that you did that, but it was involuntary. You didn’t mean to, but he didn’t seem to care when his lips tampered off over the side of your neck. Palming up over the back of his neck, you sank your fingers into his hair and panted in his ear. “Your big cock feels so good inside of me.”

With an amused rumble, Negan hooked his arm around your body picking you up with his strength. Grasping tightly to him, you were surprised with his strength when he carried you out of the bathroom and to the living room. Dropping down with you over the couch, Negan urged your legs around his waist. Adjusting his positioning, Negan hovered his lips over yours and braced himself. The dark curls of hair from his chest teased against your nipples with the skin-to-skin contact. His hips started to roll over yours keeping himself pretty deeply inside of you to start.

“I never want to leave your fucking pussy,” Negan rumbled bringing your lips together in multiple sloppy kisses that had you sucking at his tongue. The sound of Negan’s moan was one of your favorite things so far. Knowing that you could draw that out from him made you feel so good about yourself. As each thrust grew harder, you felt his testicles smacking up against your flesh and you were thankful to have him filling you like this. It ached being stretched by his impressive cock, but you liked the way it felt. You were desperate for more of it.

“I never want you to leave,” you drew your tongue over his lips and he hummed in approval. Nipping at his bottom lip, you gave it a tug and the sound that fell from his throat was so delicious. Your heels dug into the flesh at his thighs with him smacking up against you. Outstretching his left arm, Negan grasped a hold of the arm of the couch to help him slow down his movements but make them harder. Smack. Smack. Each thrust was loud with your flesh hitting his. A smirk tugged at his lips, his head throwing back with a moan falling from his parted lips. His lower abdomen flexed, his throat tensing up with the way he was moving. “Do you like that pussy?”

“I fucking love that pussy,” Negan slurred with a nod, a line of sweat sliding down from his temple. “It feels so fucking good.”

“Pound my pussy. Please,” you begged and it had Negan snicker before nodding his head. You whined when he pulled his cock from your body with a wet sound. Pouting, it didn’t last long before he turned you onto your stomach. Lowering in over you, Negan curled his arm around your waist bracing himself with his left arm. He was back inside of you in seconds, his thrusts starting off immediately fast. Your cries were louder. In this position, his legs were surrounding yours, the warmth of his body radiant over your back making you feel trapped, but in the best of ways. “Oh my god…”

Negan’s lips kissed at your jawline, his moans matching yours. You were definitely going to be feeling this one later. You asked, he was delivering. Turning your head just enough, you begged for him to kiss you and he obliged. His tongue colliding with yours when you parted your lips just enough for him. His moans vibrated against your flesh and you purred out.

“Don’t stop,” you whined, keeping your lips pressed against his. You were growing incredibly sensitive, your hips pulling up, but his movements followed yours not allowing you to get away from him. Grasping tightly to the arm of the couch, you cried out when your body violently shook and an amused sound fell from Negan. Your head ached, your heart hammering when you felt the wetness at the back of your thighs.

“There is no bigger compliment than that of a woman squirting all over you,” Negan spanked at your ass, while you still trembled before him. Before you could even consider what was happening, Negan was back inside of you pounding away at your already sensitive body drawing you closer to the edge of the couch with your coos and cries. It wasn’t long before you were smacking at his thigh again having him pull back just in time for another wet sound to fill the room with Negan’s fingers caressing over your clit to enhance the extraordinary amounts of pleasure that followed. It left you breathless when Negan crawled in behind you to cuddle his face in against yours. “You are so much fun.”

“You’re going to kill me,” you announced with a tired breath and Negan snickered.

“Death by sex is a good way to go,” he retorted, nipping at your jawline again. “I’m so fucking glad I took this call tonight. You have easily become my favorite.”

Drawing kisses down over your shoulders and over the length of your back had you purring out. You were too worn out to move in that moment, but you enjoyed the way he cherished your body. The warmth of his lips over your spine made you take in a sharp breath before he squeezed at the flesh of your ass. When he nipped at your cheek it had you hissing out before looking over your shoulder at him.

“Sit,” you breathed out wondering if you had it in you to continue. With a smirk, Negan nodded and got into a seated position. His cock twitched and he growled out when you started to move on the couch. Stroking his fingers over his girthy length brought attention to the swollen tip. Moving carefully over him, you allowed him to lead his cock back into your wet hole and you whined. God, you were so fucking sensitive at this point. Reaching for Negan’s hands, you forced them against the back of the couch and he smiled a big wolfish type of smile.

Taking your time to get used to the control, you carefully lowered your hips down over him before lifting them up. It took a while for you to get used to it before you started a steady pace between the two of you.

“That cock is all yours sweetheart,” Negan muttered, his dimples prominent when you leaned in closer to hover your lips over his. “It’s all yours.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” you dropped your hips down, taking all of him in which had him groaning out, his head dropping back against the couch. You shook over him, your fingers squeezing tighter to his. Circling your hips over his had his cock drawing slightly in and out of you with each movement you made. “I want you to come inside me. Fill my pussy with your cum.”

“Yes ma’am,” Negan started bouncing his hips up toward yours over and over again. Loud fleshy smacks surrounded the both of you with your jaw resting over Negan’s shoulder. You tried to keep up, but you let go of his hands allowing them to grasp your hips while he bounced you over his length. “You like the feeling of daddy filling you with his seed?”

“Yes,” you panted, trying to hold in your cries, but you couldn’t. “So much.”

“Daddy is gonna pump you so full of his cum that it’s going to be dripping down your thighs,” Negan promised with a smirk, forcing you forward. Gasping out, you were surprised with his quickness. Laying you out across the coffee table, Negan got on his knees keeping your hips right at the edge. “You’d make such a perfect little breeder wouldn’t you?”

“Yes daddy,” you felt his hands hooking with yours again while his hips bounced up into yours.

“With your perfect little wet pussy,” Negan hummed, the lines in his forehead growing while he had his way with you. “Just begging to have me come inside of you again and again…”

“Please,” you panted biting down on your bottom lip, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts.

“Fuck,” Negan dropped his stare looking down between the two of you, his thrusts growing stronger. “I’m gonna fill you up so good. Paint the walls of your pretty little pussy with my cum.”

“Yes daddy,” you gasped when you felt the first twitch of his cock inside of you. The sound of Negan’s moans and the slowing of his hips alerted you to his release. Crying out, you felt the table tipping having you both land on the floor with a thud. Taking advantage you rolled Negan onto his back and slowly rocked your hips over his still pulsating cock. “I want every…last…drop.”

Each moan you drew out of Negan delighted you and you loved the way the warmth of him filled you. He wasn’t wrong, you felt his cum starting to seep out of you dripping down your thighs and you liked it. It felt good. You felt like you were his and you couldn’t get enough of it.

Laying in over his chest, you didn’t pull your body away. He was still very much inside of you and Negan was left panting beneath you. Kissing at his chest, you teased your tongue over his nipple before sucking faintly at it. Lowering your head down, you listened to his heart pounding inside of his chest. Surprise filled your body when Negan wrapped you up in his arms and held you tightly to him.

“I uh…” Negan slurred, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat when you lifted your head from his chest to look up at him. “I don’t think I want you to belong to anyone else.”

“What do you mean?” you wondered, confused where he was heading with this.

“I mean, I want your pussy to be solely mine,” Negan confessed, his jaw flexing when he firmly smacked over your bottom making you arch forward, only slightly drawing his softening cock out of you. Dropping your hips back down had the most delicious groan falling from him. “I want to be the only man that can fill you with my cum. I want to be the man making you squirt…I want you to belong to me.”

“I can probably only afford this once or twice more,” you alerted him with a frown, starting to press faint kisses over his lips. “I wish I could. More than anything, I would love to be yours. But it’s a fantasy you’re selling and you sell it well. Trust me, I will pay for another date.”

“No,” Negan grumbled, rolling you over onto your back which had you whimpering out arching your hips up. His lips parted and he pulled his hips back. Finally allowing his softening cock to leave the warmth of your body. Staring down, Negan watched his cum pouring out of you before he got settled between your thighs. Unhurriedly, he collected some of his cum that spilled from your body. Pushing his fingers back inside of you, he made sure to rub his fingertips against the walls of your pussy. “I don’t want another man having you. I want you to be mine.”

“I want to be yours too,” you purred, arching your hips up seeing him smirk when he pulled his long slender digits from your body. Reaching for his hand, you wrapped your lips around his fingers to clean the taste of your bodies from them. It had him groaning out and he lowered down to steal kiss after kiss from you. Enjoying the taste of his release on your tongue.

The conversation almost felt forgotten with the two of you laying together on the floor. It was a while before you gathered yourselves enough to make it back to the bedroom. Being wrapped up in Negan’s arms felt incredible. Neither one of you really slept. You just laid there together. After the sun had started to rise, Negan had crawled in over you again. What was surprising was this time, it actually felt more romantic. Sensual. His thrusts were slow, his kisses more focused. The eye contact was incredible and it was more so about the two of you being connected. By the time his winces started to fill the air, you curled your fingers around the back of his neck and allowed him to nuzzle his nose against the side of your neck when his orgasm hit him. Your cries vibrated against his ear, while he moaned against your flesh.

Laying over you, you both seemed incredibly comfortable while you stroked your fingers through his hair. Looking to the clock, you felt a bit of disappointment when you saw the time, “Our time is up.”

“Just a little while longer,” Negan stammered against your flesh and you held him close. Pressing kisses over his freckle covered shoulders. When he did start to move, you felt miserable. It was a perfect dream that he sold during the night, but it wasn’t real. You always knew that. Negan threw his legs over the side of the bed, sitting on the edge of it for a few minutes. It looked like he was deep in thought while you pulled the blankets in closer to your body. “This really was amazing.”

“Yeah,” you nodded your head, a weak smile tugging at your lips. “I really liked spending the time with you. You’re phenomenal.”

“Right,” Negan chuckled, reaching out to squeeze over your exposed thigh that was out from the blanket. “You know, if we would have met another way…I would have loved…”

“Don’t say that,” you stopped him, feeling your chest aching at the thought. “You told me yourself you don’t date people. It’s against the rules. You like this job. And I’m just a job…”

“It’s against the rules to have unprotected sex with a client,” Negan reminded you, his jaw flexing as if he was contemplating his next thought. Well, there you couldn’t call him out because he had been very honest with you. “We did it several times. Which brings me to my next point, I don’t usually sleep with my clients that much. Nor do I still want to stay when my time is up.”

“I almost believe you with that last point,” you reached for his hand, bringing it to you so you could deposit a kiss against the center of his palm. “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of clients that you liked just as much and didn’t want to leave in the morning.”

Frowning, Negan swallowed down hard and stood up from the bed. Going for his pants, Negan pulled them on slowly and stood by the side of the bed looking down at you.

“I’ll be sure to let Michonne know how amazing this was. How professional you were,” you stressed and it had Negan’s right eyebrow arching up. “Job well done, Negan. You’ll have a return customer. Just maybe only one or two more times.”

“Yeah,” Negan bit down on his bottom lip, something in his hazel eyes making the moment feel awkward. “I mean it when I say if things were different, I really would want you to be mine. I meant what I said when we were together in the living room. It’s just with my job, I know that I would get fired and…”

“I paid you to take my virginity Negan,” you reminded him, pulling the blanket in closer to you realizing how pathetic that actually sounded. “You didn’t come here because you wanted a date with me. You had a job, you did your job and you did it well. You don’t have to keep selling me on the romance because I know I’m just a job. I know I wouldn’t be your type. In the real world, this would have never happened. But thank you for allowing me that fantasy.”

Caressing his hand over the side of his face, Negan dragged his fingers out through his short beard and shrugged his shoulders, “You’re not like the other ones.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you breathed out knowing like hell that you wanted to be the one special person to make Negan want to break all the rules, but it didn’t logically make any sense. You were just some virgin. There was nothing you brought to the table for a man like that. “So you’re telling me you’ve never told another one of your clients that if things were different you would have no problem dating them?”

Silence followed. Negan’s head tipped to the side, his lips parted and he looked like he wanted to say something. Instead he lowered his head and a loud exhale fell from his throat, “That’s what I thought. I’m not the first person you used that line on.”

“You’re the first person I meant it with,” Negan suggested almost in a whisper, but you had a hard time letting that protective wall down. It was an amazing thought, but he was still telling you that it could never happen.

“I don’t know why you’re saying this to me when at the end of the day, it’s never going to happen anyways. It’s only going to hurt me hearing this shit. You don’t have to keep selling your feelings on me. Like you said, you can’t do it and you’ll lose your job. It’s not happening,” you stressed what he said and you slid up in the bed resting your back against the headframe. “I just don’t want to hear the bullshit. You don’t mean it. You sold me on you. I’d rather you be honest. This was a great fantasy you sold. I don’t need you to tell me that you wish you could date me. I’m not going to get my lines crossed. I know this was a business transaction. One that I will be feeling for a while. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Negan swallowed down hard, taking a moment to stand there before nodding his head. “You really are the only one I’ve had unprotected sex with.”

“I believe that,” you stammered looking to the time feeling like this was just getting more and more awkward with him trying to make you feel special.

“No one ever tried to learn about the real me either,” Negan informed you, his fingers clenched together in fists at his side. “The rest of them just want to talk about themselves. No one ever cares about the real me. What I’m about. About my late wife…”

“And that’s unfortunate because I think you’re a very likable guy that deserves real love Negan,” you declared with a bounce of your eyebrows. An expression flooded his features that you couldn’t quite read, but it didn’t last long before he nodded. Heading off throughout the room, Negan collected his clothes and put them on haphazardly. Keeping his jacket in his hand at his side, Negan pointed toward where you were laying on the bed. “Yeah?”

“Are you staying?” Negan questioned and you shrugged.

“I paid for the room until noon, I might as well stay and enjoy the view,” you explained pointing toward the window having Negan dramatically nod his head. “Thank you again.”

Negan shifted on his feet looking between you and the door. Then his eyes fell on the clock. It was quite some time after he was supposed to leave. Motioning him to wait, you reached for something from the top drawer of the nightstand that was beside the bed. Pulling something out had his eyes looking down to see that you had more money that was there.

“Here, take this as a tip,” you outstretched your hand, trying to hand him over the money. Shaking his head, Negan refused and you sighed. “You said you slept with me more than you did most people. Tipping you is allowed, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Negan breathed out still refusing to reach for the money. “I don’t want your money.”

“That’s a little ironic, isn’t it?” you dropped your hand seeing Negan shrug his shoulders and make a dramatic expression.

“I did it because I wanted to. Not because you forced me to,” Negan stressed once more hearing his phone buzzing in his pocket. Frowning, Negan pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at who it was before swiping it away. Pushing it back into his pocket, Negan bit down on his bottom lip and frowned. “Keep your money.”

“Was that Michonne?” you were curious. With one nod of his head it made you smirk. “She’s probably checking in to see how things went.”

“Yeah,” Negan was short with his answer, biting down on his bottom lip before backstepping toward the door. “I guess I should go.”

Instead of saying anything, you sighed and put your money back since Negan refused to take it.

“Do you want a kiss?” Negan offered, throwing his hand up and you laughed, giving him a strange look. “What?”

“No more bullshit,” you repeated what you had said earlier and he frowned. “You don’t want to kiss me. It’s okay. You can leave. I promise you I’m happy with what you did.”

“Okay,” Negan huffed rubbing at the back of his neck again before heading back toward the door. Opening it up, you felt a sudden rush of depression knowing that this whole incredible night was just something that was made up. Closing your eyes, you dropped your head back and wanted the world to swallow you whole. The sound of the door opening was heard, but you never heard it close. A moment later you felt the bed dip, the sensation of lips claiming yours kissing you over and over again before pulling unhurriedly away. “I do want to kiss you goodbye. No bullshit.”

Slowly, your eyes fluttered to an open with Negan sweeping his thumb over your bottom lip to collect the wetness that was over them. Gradually moving back, Negan gave you a wink before heading for the door. Once he left, you knew that you would never tell anyone about this moment in full. It was too incredible. Too personal and you just knew that you couldn’t think too much into it.

When it hit noon, you had the hotel room cleaned up, you were dressed in your casual clothes and you were headed down to the first floor to check out. The dream was over and you were going to feel it for a while. Once you stepped out of the line, you went to head for the door until you heard someone calling out to you.

“Excuse me, miss…” a familiar raspy voice called out to you and you turned on your heel to see that Negan was sitting in the waiting area at the front of the hotel. Getting up from his seat, he moved before you and offered a weak smile. “I know this is bold, but I just saw you walking by and I just had to say hello. My name is Negan…”

“What are you doing?” you laughed looking down at his hand. Bouncing his eyebrows, Negan nodded toward his hand and you accepted the gesture. “You’re not on the clock anymore Negan.”

“No, you see, I was just sitting here after a long night,” Negan pointed back over toward where he was waiting and he shrugged his shoulders. “And then I saw you…and I just realized that I had to take my shot. I was wondering if maybe you weren’t busy you would want to get some coffee or maybe some lunch with me today?”

“Like a date?” you whispered, confusion flooding your veins. Your question made him smile and he nodded slowly.

“Like a date,” he repeated, his fingers curling around yours tightly. “You see, I’m not working today and I am just completely enchanted by you.”

“Negan…” you stammered his name when he stepped forward and the warmth of his body sent a rush of excitement throughout your veins just having him near you since you didn’t know when you’d ever see him again. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to do anything. In fact, I run away from the idea of something like this because I’ve never made that kind of connection with someone in a long time. But I want to get to know you,” Negan reasoned with you, his free hand lifting to brush his thumb over your jaw. “But this is something that I want to do. That is…if you’ll have me that is.”

“Absolutely,” you smirked, your heart hammering in your chest with the way he was staring down at you. “What about the rules? The possibility of losing your job?”

“Michonne doesn’t have to know every aspect of my life,” Negan insisted, his dimples becoming more prominent as he spoke. “You’re worth the risk.”

“So I keep hearing,” you were enamored by how he kept saying that toward you. Considering he waited for you that whole time made you swoon. It was hard to deny him after that and the way he approached you. “I do have to warn you though Negan. I’m a little hard to get.”

“Good, me too,” Negan teased with a wrinkle of his nose which had the both of you laughing. “You ready to go?”

“With you?” you muttered and it had him nodding. “I’ll go anywhere.”

----

Tags: @slutlanna976​ @fuckthis-and-fuckthat @jennydehavilland @pixelb4rbie @ibelongtonegan

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[sso-maev]

PUTTING JORVIK ON THE MAP: SIZE AND LOCATION

WHERE IS JORVIK?

Finding Jorvik’s exact location is actually pretty easy.

”Jorvik, located somewhere between Norway, Iceland, and the British Isles, of which it was once part, is a nexus of worlds.” - Jorvik Calling, Prologue.

This is still a pretty large area, but one that’s significantly narrowed down by reading Four Stories from Jorvik. Anne’s segment Midnight Sun establishes that Jorvik is at the very least partly above the arctic circle, to the point where Anne can see it while riding by Jorvik Stables in the middle of the night. This also puts Jorvik pretty close to the tectonic rift between the European and American continental plates, which handily explains why Jorvik is a volcanic Island.

HOW BIG IS JORVIK?

Jorvik’s size requires a bit more speculation, and I’m relying on two book sources.

1: Jorvik stables is a bus trip from Jorvik city.

Anne lives in Jorvik City but goes to school with the other soul riders in Jarlaheim, and has her horse at Jorvik stables. We know that she goes there by bus, so the distance between Jarlaheim and Jorvik City shouldn’t be too large; I’m capping the max length of the bus ride to about an hour.

2: Valedale is less than a day’s ride from the wineyard.

In The Legend Awakens, Elizabeth and the soul riders are heading to Pi’s Swamp and sleep over at the Wineyard. The soul riders wake up late and leave after having eaten breakfast and lunch. The sun is ”at its highest point in the sky” when they leave, so probably around 1-2PM. It’s twilight when they arrive, and the Baroness comments that they showed up in time for the evening feeding of the horses. Since the days are shorter in late October/early November, which is when this chapter takes place, we can guess that they arrived at around 5-6 PM.

Mapping out the most likely routes for these two trips, the route to the Wineyard is about a third of the bus route from Jorvik City to Jarlaheim. Additionally, the bus would drive on average ~70 km/h because of Jorvik’s smaller roads. The average walking speed of a horse is 6 km/h.

Now, the Valedale-Wineyard trip could take anywhere between 3-5 hours, but I’m inclined to believe that it’s on the lower end of that scale to keep Anne’s commute as short as possible. That leaves us with a 18 km long ride, and a 54 km long bus tour that takes 46 minutes. Pretty reasonable!

RESULTS

With these new measurements, we can figure out the actual distance between different places on Jorvik. Most importantly, we can measure the absolute width from Jorviks westernmost to easternmost point: 92 km, or ~57 miles!

Having figured out an estimate of the island’s size and location, we can now put Jorvik on the map!

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism (lmk if i forgot anything!) murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, some power play, oral sex, thigh riding, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here

chapter: 1/? (chapter 2 here)

MASTERLIST

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

A/N: this is what happens when i let my brain loose to do whatever tf it wants (title is from attention by doja cat as is the general theme)

Show you how to touch it Hold it like it's precious It don't need your lovin' It just needs attention

You were getting tired of this charade.

Snow was courting you, or so it would seem. In truth, it was all for show. He was seen with you on his arm at public events, just enough to make it look like you were together. Marriage was probably further down the line, but Snow was in no rush for that to happen. For now, he was pleased with the positive attention he received for appearing like a reliable, loving, doting partner.

“There’s a science behind it,” Cordelia, Snow’s preferred public relations manager - and one of the Capitol’s best - had told you in a meeting between the three of you, discussing strategy, coordinating events, and how best to make the relationship seem authentic. “The more the public see you as grounded, committed, and warm, the more respect they hold for you. The more open they are to your ideas, and any changes you make as president.”

You’d concealed your smirk well enough for it to go unnoticed upon hearing that.

Snow was a lot of things, but he was never warm. The name itself decreed it. He was cold, calculating, sharp witted, manipulative. Power hungry.

You were fine with the arrangement at first. It suited your thirst for power; despite coming from one of the richest families in the capital, Snow’s power was of a different breed. You wanted in, and so when your social circles crossed over and the proposition was made, you’d risen to the occasion.

The reality was this: it was a good arrangement. Coriolanus was adored and admired by any outsider with a pair of eyes, and you got anything you wanted. You got to live in the manor house Coriolanus occupied, eating good food while being waited on hand and foot. You got to network with powerful people in the highest of society. Even if you wanted someone executed, it would be carried out in turn, without question. Name it, and it was yours. Snow was a generous host and ally to you.

It was everything you wanted.

Almost.

Somehow, despite it all, all the custom gowns shipped in from the expensive designers, the buffet spreads and the silk sheets, the way that people had begun to stare in respect as soon as you walked into a room, there was just one thing that itched at you, one thing you knew wasn’t part of the plan.

It was Snow.

Somewhere, between the light kisses in front of expectant eyes, the gentle hand on yours at dinner, that was hurriedly removed once you were behind closed doors again, you’d grown a gnawing, incessant want towards the man that had given you almost everything you could ever hope for.

Eight months, this had been going on. Eight months since Snow suggested this business proposal. Sex was never a part of the deal. And of course, you couldn’t sleep with anyone you pleased; that would be catastrophic for both of your reputations. And so it had been eight months since anybody had touched you other than yourself, biting your pillow so nobody could hear Snow’s name on your lips as you gripped the sheets. Even if you wanted to sleep with other people, you couldn’t. Truth is though, you’d developed rather expensive taste. A taste for only him. Even if you had the choice, nobody else would do.

You wondered if he ever thought of you while he touched himself. That thought slipped into your head every so often, when your hand was between your thighs. Then it became a more frequent occurrence. Then it became a nightly one, and by then, you were pretty sure you’d started going crazy.

You weren’t a romantic - this arrangement would never have worked if you were. You were like him; power hungry, relentless, impatient. And most of all, when you wanted something, you got it. And you wanted to seduce Coriolanus Snow.

So you’d started leaving breadcrumbs. Put an extra glint in your eyes when you glanced over at him, in public, first, and then in private more and more. You’d thrown out dozens of your more conservative dresses, keeping only the shortest ones that hugged your hips and dropped tantalisingly low on the neckline. Started wearing them more around the house, pretending to drop things just so you could bend down in front of him.

You estimated this act would last for a good week or two before Snow folded.

You were wrong.

If anything, it seemed to render Snow even more indifferent to you than he’d been before you started playing your little games. And each time he ignored you, glanced unimpressed at your outfit then looked away, or full-on walked right past you out the room, you started to simmer even more.

A normal girl in a normal situation would take a hint, cut her losses. But you were no normal girl, and this was no ordinary situation.

You had to be in the same boat, surely. Snow was still just a man, after all. A man with similarly limited options, and you knew he must’ve at least found you a little attractive, else he wouldn’t have chosen you to parade around on his arm in public, in pretty dresses and expensive jewellery.

Snow’s indifference only fuelled your fire. Sure, an ordinary girl would just give up. But eight months of this torture and you were at your breaking point. Besides, it was either him, or nobody. You weren’t giving up. Not in this lifetime.

So you got more obvious. Started taking breakfast in your nightgown each morning instead of getting dressed, sitting opposite Coriolanus with several feet of the mahogany table between you, biting into grapes from the fruit bowl and letting the juice trail down your chin, wiping it off then sucking your fingers clean, humming with your digits in your mouth, glancing at him with full-blown bedroom eyes when he’d look over at you from behind his paper.

It was no use. Nearly a month had passed and he’d barely even looked at you for more than a second at a time. Your conversations were short, lacklustre and strictly business related. You’d even tried playing on his heartstrings, asking about his day and work and his family. You were lucky if you got more than blunt, one-worded answers every time.

You’d exhausted yourself with all these failed attempts, until one Thursday night you heard footsteps walking past your bedroom door. This wasn’t abnormal - Snow kept extensive household staff - except for the sound of these were different. You recognised the faint clicking of heels against the hardwood, a sound you heard all the time at galas and balls, but never in these halls, when an event was nowhere on the radar. And this was one such night.

Your curiosity led you off your bed and to the door, gently opening it to glance outside. Whoever it was had turned the corner, the clicking fading down the hallway. You carefully closed the door behind you and began to follow the sound. A chill ran up the backs of your legs as you walked; it was getting slightly colder as winter closed in, and your bedroom attire wasn’t exactly fit for the weather, given that you picked out the laciest, most impractical slips to sleep in, ready for your performance the next morning at breakfast.

You paced down the corridor, winding past the door to each room, a study, a small library (the larger one was downstairs), Snow’s office, and then finally, at the end, the door to Snow’s bedroom.

Oh.

This room was always enigmatic to you, as you’d never been inside. Your obsession with Snow had led you to wonder, day in and day out, what lay behind that door. The color of his bedsheets, what sat on his dresser, the contents of his closet, what aftershave he wore that had caused you to develop a practically pavlovian reaction anytime he got close to you.

You paused, a few feet away from the door, fearing Snow’s response if you crossed that line, if he were to walk out and find you hovering between his office and his room, clearly attempting to eavesdrop.

You heard shifting, then voices inside as you focused all your attention onto listening, trying hard to pick up on the conversation. You took another tentative step forward, practicing in your head what you would say if he stepped outside. I just wanted to ask what you wanted me to wear on Monday’s gala, I was thinking the white dress with the gold detailing. It wasn’t too late in the evening for that to be a viable excuse, if you could make it sound convincing enough.

But as you got closer you noticed something. There was a soft light spilling out from behind the door, which was in fact, just slightly ajar.

Snow usually kept the door locked at all times, you knew that from testing the handle - admittedly more than a few times - when he had been out of the house, and you were certain he wouldn’t be home for hours. This was something different. This felt dangerous, like walking a tightrope that was about to get cut, but the thrill of adrenaline pushed you forward.

You’d stopped hearing voices by then. You snuck ever closer, ears starting to ring as you found yourself drawn to the open door, taking silent steps towards it until there was no going back, and your body was practically flush to it. Holding your breath, you peeked through, pushing it ever so gently, praying that it wouldn’t creak. You had to crane your neck slightly to see any movement in the room, but it didn’t take long to see it, and when you did, you certainly didn’t feel cold anymore. Any curious whims on the color of his furniture and walls were long pushed to the side, because you couldn’t have focused on anything else in the room if you tried.

Snow was sat on a deep red velvet ottoman at the foot of his bed, shirt buttons undone and pushed behind him, leaving you with a full view of his chest. Your eyes panned down to see his usually pristine dress pants rolled carelessly down, pooling around his ankles. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows in a similarly rushed manner. One hand was behind him, propping himself up, and the other was tightly gripping a handful of blonde hair, belonging to a girl that knelt at his feet in nothing but black underwear and stiletto heels - the culprit of the footsteps - moving her head up and down as Snow roughly guided her, lips parted, head tipped back, eyes firmly shut, breathing roughly. A few strands of damp blonde hair had fallen to his temples, just enough to make him look disheveled, yet somehow still regal, like a greek god.

You stood there, frozen. A million emotions battling for dominance in your head, anger, panic, fear, raging jealousy. Desire.

That was the one that stuck with you in the moment. It was a good thing Snow’s eyes were closed and the girl’s back was facing you, because your feet were firmly planted on the ground, watching this scene unfold, and you wouldn’t be able to go anywhere even if you tried. Watching as Snow’s breathing got heavier, as his grip on the girl’s hair got tighter and more forceful. Watching as her one arm gripped his thigh, and the other moved to where her mouth was, out of your eyeshot, and the obscenity of this was made somehow worse by the fact that you couldn’t see exactly what was happening.

Firstly, because it allowed your brain to fill in the blanks as Snow hissed through his teeth and dropped his head back. Secondly, because from this angle, you couldn’t see the girl’s face, and you were able to picture yourself in her place, wet mouth wrapped around him, being the cause of his undoing.

Come to think of it, there was another reason you were glad you couldn’t see her face, and it was purely for her sake. Because if you could’ve seen her, you would’ve had no excuse not to kill the bitch then and there.

You could hear, though. You could hear her soft moans and the lewd wetness of her mouth as her head moved even faster, before Snow took full control as his hips started to jerk, holding her head in place. There was a fire in the pit of your stomach and your lips were parted, staring. Knowing that if even for a second, Snow opened his eyes just for a glance, he’d see you immediately. You’d be hanged, probably. Or worse. And yet you didn’t run; you couldn’t. Nothing on God’s earth could’ve caused your feet to turn you around and leave the room. It was like you were suspended in some dream-like state, hearing going fuzzy, head spinning.

Then Snow started groaning, breath hitching in his throat as he got closer to the edge, you could hear it. Your brain began melting, and you didn’t have time to think through what would happen after he was finished and he saw you. If you were going to be hanged for this, it would be worth it, you thought, as his hips started to jerk even faster and his groans turned into strained whispers. Fuck and that’s it and good girl, and finally, as his eyes squeezed shut even tighter, and he came into her mouth with a strangled cry, you heard a name.

Yours.

[kingkat12]

chasing sleep (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, morning sex, attempting-to-stay-quiet sex, Roman loves tits (oops), reader on top, dub-con elements, needle-gate is back lol, dark!Roman returns, fluff, angst, and reader is fucking brainwashed cause girl stand up for yourself wdym

summary: everything seems to be going perfect for you-- you've got the guy, after all. however, you're still haunted by the life you gave away to be with him, and specifically, the girl you left behind. will Roman ever fully trust that you won't leave him?

word count: 11,308 (merry christmas tihi)

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11

a/n: celebrating 700 followers AND christmas with this monster of a chapter!! I love all of you, thank you once again for your amazing support, I LOVE YOU!! this fanfic is nearing the end now, so... hold on tight for what's about to come;) ENJOY, MWAH<3

"You didn't say goodbye, and now a part of me believes that means you're coming back,"  

Over and over again, those words echoed in my ears. I had read it in a passage somewhere, probably in the new romance novel I had picked up a few days ago, and now it truly haunted me. Latched onto my guilt, my love, my very being-- I wasn't sure whether I was capable of letting it all go, despite how happy Roman made me. 

Was that maybe why I ended up right here, right now?

"Do you think it could work again?" Letha echoed, turning to me. Her legs were dangling off my roof as we sat by the edge. A soft breeze moved her long, blonde hair away from her shoulders, and just like that, I was reminded of how truly beautiful she was. It must be a genetic thing for all the Godfreys to be breathtaking. However, the look in Letha's green eyes told me something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was almost as though I was looking back at her with a grey-ish filter, like my vision was making it seem like we were sitting in a cloud of fog. None of this looked real. 

"What could?" I asked, turning to check my surroundings-- yeah, this was definitely my roof. Why were we here?

"Us," Letha's gaze awaited me as I faced her again, and it was heartbreakingly sad. "You and I. Our friendship."

It felt like I had dipped the tips of my fingers in cold water. "Letha... Come on," I reached for her hand, placing mine above hers with a sigh; "This ended a long time ago. I don't think we can salvage this--"

"But what if we could?" Letha's voice was so painfully sweet, so insistent. "Do you think it could work again?"

"What could?"

"Us," she breathed, turning her hand to intertwine our fingers with an unusually hard grip. It didn't feel so sweet anymore. "You and I. Our friendship."

The red lights in my mind went off like police sirens-- something was off. With my next glance at her hair, it was no longer that same warm shade of blonde. Now, I could argue it was actively turning white before my eyes. 

This wasn't real. "Letha?"

"Yes?"

"... Am I dreaming?"

Letha's eyes softened as the green in them dulled down, bordering a bleak color of grey. "Yes," she said. "I'm looping it until you're honest."

"What do you mean?--"

"You'll wake up when you tell me the truth. If you want to help your subconscious let go of the guilt, you should do it,"

My heart was actively breaking. Looking into Letha's blank eyes, I realized it reminded me of the look she had on her face when I first told her about Roman and me. "Ask, then,"

I could see her emotions clutching her soul like an unforgiving fist despite this only being a dream. My head didn't have any problems conjuring the image of her as a kicked, wounded puppy. She spoke; "Do you think it could work again?"

I indulged with a soft sigh; "What could, Letha?"

"Us," she said, allowing tears to well in her eyes. "You and I. Our friendship."

I felt it truly, brutally, that I didn't know what to say. I didn't know if it would break me to be honest. "I can't leave Roman for you," I breathed. "I won't. So I doubt you and I could be friends again as long as I'm still with him."

Letha nodded, turning away to look up at the full moon above us. The hand she had in mine was starting to turn cold. "Do you think it could work again?"

Oh, she was asking again-- was my answer maybe not the truth? Not the right answer? Did my sleeping subconscious know? "What could?" I echoed, growing tired of the loop we were caught in.

"Us," Letha closed her eyes as her chest raised and fell with her shallow breaths. "You and I. Our friendship."

I decided to give it less thought-- that was the key, sometimes. Roman had taught me that. Could it? Could it truly? "Honestly?"

"Honestly,"

It didn't take long before I realized tears were threatening to spill from my eyes too. I had missed the smell of Letha's sweet perfume. It smelled like home and a comforting hug hello. "Yeah. I think it could work," It was weird to hear me say it out loud; "I was always in love with Roman, but you... You taught me how to love in the first place. If we could both forgive each other, I think we'd have a chance. Yet... I don't think I ever can. Fully."

Letha didn't open her eyes, barely moved an inch. She opted for a short, melancholic nod as her lower lip gave in to a tremble. "I'm afraid I'll miss you forever," she whispered, mostly to herself. 

And suddenly, I couldn't feel the weight of her hand in mine. My gaze darted down to what was previously our union, only to find that she wasn't there anymore. I looked up to find a slow line of evaporating smoke, similar to a trail coming from Roman's cinnamon cigarettes. 

With my next heave of air accompanied by a lonely tear rolling down my cheek, I allowed my hand to reach out to touch the fog. It was thick, and it prickled the tips of my fingers to the likes of a cactus-- my sorrow clouded my instincts, and I didn't retract my hand. I hadn't allowed myself to feel any of this, after all. I had been so wrapped up in Roman, so wrapped up in the new feelings that washed over my body, that I had buried all the old ones. 

However, Letha kept her promise-- I was released.

Released from the loop, but with one foot remaining in the quicksand of guilt.

And as I awoke, it felt like I had been thrown into a cold pond. With a quick breath, I arched off the bed, gasping; "Roman!"  

Frantic beyond words, I heaved for air, blinking rapidly to wake myself up. The morning sun shone through Roman's curtains with soft rays, and I was hit with the smell of a burnt candle. Still hyperventilating, I put a hand on my chest as I tried to turn around, but to no avail.

Why couldn't I move? Was I maybe still stuck in the dream? 

Oh, wait-- It was at this moment that I realized I had a heavy arm around me, keeping me still with my back pressed up against human warmth. 

I let out a shaky breath, a relieved smile spreading across my lips-- Roman. 

My panic gradually subsided, washing away with calm waves as I turned my head to look at him. The sun did him good. Roman's hair was a very specific shade of brown, but in the sun, it had twinges of orange and golden hues. If I were to ever bring it up to him, I know he'd protest and say he was nowhere near ginger. He wasn't, and I was aware of that; as usual, he wouldn't get the point.

After some careful maneuvering, I managed to turn in Roman's heavy embrace, facing him. His plush lips were gently parted, and his long, brown lashes weighed over his eyes-- he also had a rather hefty case of bedhead which I couldn't help but find beyond endearing. Up close like this, completely still, I could see the nearly invisible freckles painting the apples of his cheeks, study the curve of his upper lip, and the scar-like indent on his right cheek. I dared to trace my thumb over it, feeling the softness of Roman's skin against the pad of my finger-- this was beauty unmatched.

He was so beautiful. 

And he was mine.

With the gentlest of pressures, I leaned forward, barely brushing my lips across Roman's. I didn't dare to fully kiss him. I wouldn't dare to wake him up. If only we could lay like this forever, undisturbed and alone.

Forever.

Memories of last night swarmed my brain, pushing out all the memories of Letha's sad, green eyes. I smiled as I realized the ache between my legs hadn't subsided-- the sting remained. It had actually happened. I hadn't made it all up. And I would've stayed engulfed in my cloud of complete and utter awe if Roman hadn't nearly scared the living crap out of me with the following.

His voice was raw with sleep as his eyes remained closed; "It's rude to stare,"

I practically arched right off the bed again. Had Roman not had his arms around me in a deadweight hold, I was sure I'd have flown right down to the floor. "Christ!" I hissed, shocked. How had he known? "Sorry... Did I wake you?"

Roman seemed too sleepy to grant me a proper answer, and he settled for a short grunt; "Sleep," 

"It's already morning!--"

"Don't care. Sleep," With his next breath, he pulled me even closer, until the tips of our noses were touching.

I was almost glad Roman's eyes were closed. At least he didn't see the hefty blush creeping up my cheeks. It dawned on me that he maybe had a point-- we had never had the pleasure of having nowhere to be, with no one to wake us up, or school to go to. 

There was one thing I wanted to say, but I was scared he'd get upset at my use of words-- no, fuck it; "You're so pretty," I whispered, reaching up to brush my fingers over the tips of his long, long lashes. "You can't expect me not to stare when you look like this."

Roman's brows drew together, yet he allowed me to do as I pleased in his sleepy state. "I'm not pretty,"

Knew it. "Yeah, you are,"

"Just go to sleep,"

"You're unbelievably pretty,"

"... Please just sleep,"

I was aware that I was annoying him, but something about the way his voice got all harsh in the morning made me want to hear him more. Roman's breath fanned over the skin at the tip of my nose with the gentlest breeze as I sighed against his lips; God, how I loved him. "I don't want to sleep... but I can lay here with you, if you want,"

Roman hummed, the dark rumble in his chest nearly vibrating the bed in the process. "Just don't go anywhere,"

"I won't,"

"Ever,"

"I won't,"

With Roman's next breath, I knew he finally believed me-- finally. It hit him for the first time last night that I wasn't lying when I said I wasn't going anywhere, and it hit him again now. Forever was a dead serious plan of mine, and I was intent on making him understand that no matter what. "You're prettier," he eventually said, nudging my nose with his. "You're like the first pleasant sip of water after you've recovered from a sore throat."

"... Specific,"

Roman let out a short, annoyed groan; "Sleep,"

I didn't want to sleep. I didn't want to possibly face Letha again. With my palms against Roman's soft cheeks, I placed a loving kiss against his parted lips, feeling him sigh into me. "Good morning, Rome,"

He smiled, fulfilled, as though he couldn't hold it back anymore; "Good morning, baby,"

"Did you at least sleep well?--"

"Sleep!"

"... But I really don't want to,"

With another sigh, Roman stirred, pulling me closer to press a lazy kiss to my jaw. "Either you go back to sleep, or we fuck. You gotta give me something to work with, here,"

I stilled. "That's... not a bad idea,"

Roman's classic smirk illuminated my morning. "Turn around, then,"

"Huh?--"

"Trust me,"

Sometimes, when I was lonely, before everything with Roman, I used to kiss the skin between my knuckles and imagine someone else was kissing me. The small sounds, and the tingling sensation pooling in my stomach, would distract me from the unbearable feeling of loneliness. The reality of it.

Which is why, when Roman brought my hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to my knuckles before turning me around, I knew I wasn't alone.

Actually, it wasn't just that that showed me I wasn't-- the repeated strokes of Roman's cock filling me was certainly reminder enough.

It was that sort of lazy morning sex I had only read about in those odd novels my mom would hide around the house, or heard about from my friends which I no longer had. This was a different type of sex from yesterday's, which had been so highly connected and emotional-- and this was not to say that this right now wasn't both connected and emotional, but it was... comforting. Like we were taking joy in being able to do just this. To enjoy one another in a sleepy, slow form.

Roman's grip around my throat wasn't hard or choking-- it was more of a hold to keep me in place as he let out a breathy grunt against my shoulder, sinking into me with slow, lazy strokes from behind. "We should do this more often," Roman murmured against my ear, listening to my small whimpers. "Isn't this fun?"

I could hear his stupidly pretty smile. Fucking Romy Schneider. "What, sex?" Obviously?

Roman's deep laugh against my ear nearly had me shuddering; "In the morning," he purred.

"That's gonna be-- hard," My last words were cut off by the hitch of my breath. This felt too good. "Parents and-- and all." It was true, though. How were we supposed to do this with our parents in the house? I doubted Roman's mom was out on business trips all the time, anyway.

With a small huff, I was pulled even tighter to his chest, almost as a reprimand-- I had no idea why it made my cheeks burn. "You'll learn to be quiet," Roman breathed, kissing up the shell of my ear. "Right?"

"I--"

"You'll be a good little girl for me and be quiet, hm?"

And just as I was about to protest, to remind him it was probably a little rude to have sex with other people in the house (I had no idea actually, was there no etiquette to it?), the hand Roman had around my waist slid between my legs, coaxing them further apart. All my thoughts of having a proper conversation went out the window the second he pressed two fingers to my clit, circling it as his kisses moved to the skin between my ear and my jaw.

It was impossible not to give in to the feeling; Roman was intoxicating. I whimpered with the next brush of his cock against my sweet spot, the different sensations dulling my brain with every thrust-- "Yeah,"

Roman let out a hum of approval; "Just for me?"

"Only-- Only you,"

I could practically feel him melt against me. "That's my girl,"

It was an oddity how much Roman enjoyed the sound of it. How much he enjoyed knowing he finally had a companion in the world. I could feel his cock twitch inside of me with the reminder, with the need to become one.

Because at the end of the day, that's what we were now.

We were one. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The next day at school was the easiest day to handle in a while. It didn't matter that people were staring, that my reputation was still tarnished, because I finally felt the stream of love floating my way that I had been craving my whole life.

"You need to start zipping this up," Roman huffed, reaching for the zipper of my jacket. He pulled me closer to the railing he was sitting on by the school entrance, shaking his head. "It's getting cold. Don't be stupid." This was a new level of intimacy. The quiet moments, the small, shared moments of care. He was almost annoyed that I hadn't done it myself, that I hadn't thought to take care of myself, thoughtless little girl. 

I loved it when he got protective like this. Absolutely adored it. It only reminded me of how much I loved him, and consequently, how I couldn't tell him. 

I glanced at Peter, who sat next to Roman, and held back a snicker. I could bet about a hundred dollars that he had never seen his best friend so ridiculously protective before. "She's not twelve," he tried, nudging Roman's shoulder, earning a displeased grunt. 

Oh, of course Peter didn't get it. Roman Godfrey, sweetly zipping up my jacket-- the simplest of all things. Nonetheless, it brought a twinge of scarlet to my cheeks as I spotted a group of cheerleaders passing us on the way to the school entrance; the looks of seething jealousy in their eyes only brought me joy. A part of me wanted the sight of Roman being sweet to leave them with a feeling of pure agony. I wanted them all to suffer. Always. For their heads to be bashed in like Jasmine nearly did to herself into her locker; I wished it upon them. On them all. 

... I needed to snap out of this.

Roman had been right-- it was getting chilly in Hemlock Grove. I shivered when he finished buttoning my buttons, smiling down at him where he sat with Peter, glad none of them could read my thoughts. I wondered whether Roman would be horrified or... comforted by the fact that I was capable of wishing cruelty upon others, just like him.

It didn't matter. None of it did. Especially not now that he was looking up at me with those big, green eyes of his with his hands tucked into his jacket, looking handsome as ever. From this angle, Roman's shoulders were almost broader, and the more I thought about his physique, the more I thought about last night when he was completely undressed.

Completely undressed, on top of me, loving me. 

... Loving me. 

If only he did.

Fuck-- I couldn't think about that right now. The need to draw him in and have him all over again would overcome me soon, and I needed to push it down. It would be quite unfortunate if I started acting like a cat in heat every time I saw him from now on. "I need to get to class," I said, keeping my hands to myself despite how much I wanted to run them through Roman's hair. 

His eyes softened as he scanned me, jacket fully zipped up and all. "What do you have now?" he asked, now toying with the fabric of my pockets. 

"Math, sadly,"

Peter looked like he couldn't wait to escape the tension that ensued the two of us being in such close proximity. "Oh, right," Peter muttered, clicking his tongue against his palate as he sat back on the banister. "Math, second period... With Letha, right?"

The name was enough to make me freeze, and just for a second, it felt like the air got colder. I was sure I might've even flinched. The image of Letha in my dreams, white as though drained of blood, clouded my vision as my heart started to thump painfully. Why was I reacting like this? 

Also, Roman looked like he had been greatly offended by something. With furrowed brows, he sat back and sent Peter a look of what the fuck. "How do you even know that?" he muttered, reaching one arm forward to drag me closer by my waist, his eyes not leaving Peter's to scan his every minuscule reaction.

I was relieved by Roman's touch-- my fingers dipped into the short hair at the nape of his neck, unsure what was happening. 

On the other hand, Peter seemed to have a hard time recovering from what I could only guess was a slip-up. "I don't know," he said, shrugging as his eyes shied away. "I just remember it, I guess."

Roman snapped; "Why?"

Okay-- I didn't want to be here for this conversation. I couldn't hear more about Letha, not after my cryptic dream. It didn't make matters any better that Peter was right, and that I would see her in my next class. I stopped playing with Roman's hair, placing a short kiss to the top of his head; "I'm heading off," I mumbled, nodding shortly to Peter before excusing myself. 

Having got a quick whiff of Roman's heavy, intoxicating perfume, I closed my eyes and clutched my books tightly to my chest as I walked to class. The sheer smell of him, the softness of his hair, the kindness of his gestures-- it all made my head wander back to last night. The way it felt to have him inside me, how he took care of me, and how good it all felt. Allowing the memories to float back into my mind, I didn't realize I was walking around with a bright smile on my face until I sat down in math class and got a few odd looks from the other students around my seat. I wasn't usually this cheery, I suppose. 

Life felt good. When I thought about Roman, everything felt great. I made myself comfortable behind my desk, feeling my tummy tingle with my reminiscing of last night; I wanted him more than ever. Now that I knew we could be together like that, I wasn't sure how I was supposed to be able to detach from him. And just as I thought I was about to explode into a burst of butterflies, I stuck my hand in my coat to reach for my phone, only to find what felt like crumbled-up paper. 

Confused, I unfolded it;

i miss the look on your face when you cum. miss you miss you miss you. let's find a quiet place somewhere and get very very noisy after school, what do you think about that? do tell. i want to know your every thought, actually. what makes you tick, and so forth. know that i'm probably thinking about you right now. always. 

- your favorite (hopefully)

Oh, Roman and his notes. When had he managed to put it in there? A few minutes ago, when he toying with my pockets? Sneaky. I was dead sure my cheeks had turned a peculiar shade of pink by the time I felt someone put down their bag in the empty seat next to me, and I was too drunk on the euphoria to glance at my partner for today's class. How I loved Roman-- I loved him to the point where the tips of my fingers burned when I thought about him. And knowing he was probably in class now as well, thinking about me too... no, it was almost too much to bear.

However, when something much harder to face suddenly sat down next to me, I would've loved to get sucked right back into my tingling cave of Roman-comfort. 

Letha. 

Letha was here. 

Letha was sitting next to me, gazing back at me with those trademark green Godfrey eyes. 

Fuck. I immediately crumbled up the note, stuffing it down my pocket to hide the content of it from her. Knowing Letha, she'd probably barf at the sight of the first sentence. "What are you doing?" I hissed, glancing around to scour the classroom for empty seats. "There's a free table two rows down--"

"I like sitting here," Letha's face remained free of strong emotion, and she turned away to unpack her supplies. "It's close to the window, and I need the natural sunlight. It helps the headache I get from the lamps in here, don't you remember?"

She said it so matter-of-factly, and for a second, it felt as though I had been teleported back to two months ago. I didn't know how to act around Letha anymore. "Sure," I mumbled. Just my luck. 

As class started, I would glance over at Letha every once in a while. She seemed so peaceful, undisturbed by my presence, and I wasn't sure why that annoyed me to this extent. Was it perhaps the fact that she sought out forgiveness from me when she refused to give me any in return? That she was seeking acceptance about the situation only when it suited her? 

It was odd to look at Letha and see her in colours. After my dream last night, I could only see her in her undead form, dead to me.  

To my dismay, Letha leaned over to my side of the table a little later that class; "Do you have a pencil?" she whispered.

A Godfrey asking to borrow my pencil? It usually led to no good. Still, I handed her one--

"Thank you,"

"No problem,"

This was so weird. It felt too normal, yet it was agony to act that it was. However, the situation only worsened when the teacher asked us to work in pairs and solve an equation on the board. I held my breath, daring to glance at Letha; she was already looking at me. "You have no clue how to solve this stuff, do you?"

I shrugged. She knew me too well. "You've probably already solved it in your head,"

Letha's smile was kind, genuine. "Want me to show you how to do it?"

"Nah," 

"Do you even do your homework anymore?"

I knew her question was coming from a good place. I could feel it. After all, I barely managed to do my homework when Letha and I had regular study sessions at her place. Just thinking about it made me remember the sweet smell of her sheets, which never mixed well with the incense she was always burning for 'good karma'. "Roman has a guy that does them for him, and I write my answers off of his," I mumbled.

I expected the mention of him to put her off-- yet Letha simply nodded, raising her brows in a conniving look. "He's corrupted you,"

"I've let him,"

"I know," Letha's green eyes shimmered with words untold as she echoed; "I know."

It was odd to face her like this. For her to know my feelings for Roman, and not walk off this time. This was the first conversation we'd had in months where we weren't at each other's throats. And suddenly, Letha took the leap I wasn't allowed to take-- she leaned in closer as she dared to whisper the forbidden words; "I miss you,"

Oh no. "Letha--"

"You never said goodbye, and now a part of me believes you're coming back,"

I let out a shaky breath as I moved my chair further away from hers. What she said had been too close to the words in my dream last night. It was chilling. "Of course I never said goodbye," I hissed back, feeling my emotions boil to a simmer. "You didn't let me." There it was, laid out in the open. "You cut me off, Letha." She had. "And you left me for dead!"

Letha held her breath high in her chest as her mouth formed a tight line. It wasn't until she moved her chair closer to mine and gripped the table harder that she allowed herself to breathe; "I left you for dead because you basically fucking stabbed me!" 

"I didn't mean to!"

"And you think I did?" Letha hissed. "You gave me no choice!"

"That's not true! I came clean to you, and the least you could've done was to!--"

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry!" 

We stared at one another in silence. There it was, my apology, served on a silver platter. I had heard it once before, but Roman wasn't here to control the outcome of it this time. Something within the bounds of my soul was relieved of anger and tension, and I couldn't halt the result of it; "I'm sorry too,"

Letha froze for a good second or two. Her lips parted in disbelief as her grip on the table lifted, and she sat back in her chair with a slow nod. It gradually dawned on her what this meant for us. 

"Do you think it could work again?"

I indulged with a soft sigh; "What could, Letha?"

"Us," she said, allowing tears to well in her eyes. "You and I. Our friendship."

It was easier to breathe, all of a sudden. I knew that an apology wasn't enough to mend our wounds, but it was a start. I nodded along with Letha and watched as the corners of her mouth tugged upwards into a smile-- I caught myself mirroring it.

"So..." she tried.

"So..."

"Did you hear that Brooke Bluebell bought a big needle from a pharmacy?" 

I grimaced; "What? No, why?"

"To get her revenge on Roman," Letha held back a laugh, biting down on her lip as she turned to write down the answer to the math equation. "From a few months ago, if you remember the whole ordeal."

"Oh," I breathed. "Needle-gate?"

"Needle-gate,"

Despite how concerning the big needle sounded, it was a funny reminder of the past; "I've gotta tell Roman," 

"Yeah, you better. I think he's blocked me, so I'm out of the picture," Letha sat back in her chair after finishing her work, and she glanced back at me as she tapped the pencil against the paper. "You've gotta tell him about prom too."

"... Prom?"

"Yes, prom," Grabbing her bag, Letha rummaged around for a few seconds until she found a flyer. It was purple, super lavish-- "It's in two weeks, I think. Kinda short notice, but I have a feeling he'd secretly want to go. He's into the classics, so I'd suggest you indulge him."

I felt my cheeks turn red as I kept my eyes on the flyer. Just the thought of me in a dress, Roman in a suit; it made me warm. Uncomfortably warm. "I think he'd rather die, actually," I mumbled, handing it back to Letha. "Are you going?"

"Meh, don't think so," She stuffed the flyer back into her bag and sighed, reaching for her phone. "The guy that I'm into says he doesn't want to go, so I'll stay home."

It hit me that this was the first time I didn't know who Letha had a crush on. Previously, she would tell me all about them. There was a Tyler, there was a Scott, and then there was a third one who had a really peculiar last name. And just as I was about to scour my brain for more names, a particular one popped up on Letha's phone as she turned it on;

Peter: I think it's time to...

That was all I was able to see, as she needed to click on it to read the whole message. My eyes widened as I sat back in my chair, sending Letha an odd look. It was clear by her body language that she hadn't intended for me to see that, and she immediately flipped her phone. 

... Was something going on?

Letha cleared her throat and turned back to me with the same smile, yet it felt disingenuous. "That's a different Peter," she said, a somewhat panicked squeak to her voice. "It's the neighbour. He might be complaining about the amount of cars my dad has parked on our street, cause they don't fit into our garage anymore. It needs to be discussed, apparently. It's time, or whatever."

That seemed like a typical rich-kid problem. I could somewhat buy it. "Is it a Godfrey thing to be crazy about cars?"

"Just you wait until you hear about the cigarettes. Dad's a real chain-smoker,"

"... Don't tell me they're cinnamon-flavoured?"

Letha sighed; "Sadly, yeah. The garage smells like a goddamn gingerbread house,"

The laughter that followed wasn't intentional, and it blended in with the ring of the bell. 

This was nice. To see the smile on Letha's face felt good, like a warm soup when you have a cold. It was a comfort to know that we could finally be normal around each other, despite the fact that we would possibly never be friends again like before, or even forgive one another. I doubted that I ever could, fully. 

However, just as I was about to excuse myself, I spotted a silhouette by the door which made my blood run cold. 

Fuck.

Roman. 

I saw it in his eyes immediately. The confusion, which quickly morphed into something darker, anger-like. My laughter died down in an instant as my body kicked into a fight-or-flight response, suddenly scared out of my mind to be caught laughing with Letha-- she seemed to catch on momentarily, but remained in her seat as she watched me shove all my supplies and books into my backpack, hurrying to get to Roman.

I had forgotten that he wanted to pick me up after class. I had forgotten my promise to not fraternise with the enemy-- fucking stupid. 

Hoping to conceal the slight tremble in my hands, I put one of them on Roman's arm when I caught up to him in the doorway, smiling up at him with an anxious breath stuck in my chest. "Hey, you," I tried, giving the sleeve of his shirt a gentle tug as I always did, a plea for him to bend down and kiss me. It was impossible to reach all the way up to his lips without it, anyway.

But Roman's attention hadn't left Letha. His eyes had narrowed, glaring at her with fury apparent in the way his jaw clenched. Had telepathy been a real thing, I'd have thought they were yelling at each other through their minds. I almost wanted to butt in and say Letha wasn't bothering me, that we were having a normal conversation-- however, I knew that would only make it worse. 

"Come," Roman said with a low growl, unlike anything I had heard from him before. With one last scorned look at Letha, he gripped my wrist and started marching down the hallway; I didn't expect to be yanked from my place the way I was, and I was sure my legs were fully in the air for a microsecond or two; "Roman!--"

"This day just keeps getting worse," he muttered, not waiting for me to find my balance as he continued to drag me down the hallway. 

Roman's grip around my wrist was hard. "Slow down!" I tried, grabbing his arm with my free hand. "It's not what it looks like! It's not-- " Everything about this made me dizzy, and his sudden anger made the familiar feeling of dread pool in my stomach. It only got worse when he pulled me into an empty classroom, slamming the door shut behind us.

I took a few steps away from him, waiting for the bomb to explode. My breath came out in short, ragged motions as my hands remained clenched by my sides in anticipation. It felt like I was five years old again, waiting to get reprimanded for having drawn on the walls. "Roman, I--"

"Shut up," Of all the things I expected, it wasn't this. Not at all. Because suddenly, my body was pressed against the door of the classroom with Roman's arms around me, and his lips pressing needy kisses to my neck. My bag dropped to the floor-- What the...?

"Not here," was all I managed to say before my breath hitched, and my hands automatically flew up into his hair. "Roman, please, wait--"

"No," He was more dismissive than ever-- I wondered why I sort of liked it. Why it made my stomach tingle, why I wanted him to do whatever he wanted to me. Was it possibly after what had happened last night? "No more bullshit." 

I closed my eyes, hoping we'd have a few seconds to disperse if someone walked in on us right now. With the force of Roman's weight against mine keeping the door firmly shut, I was sure of it. My head lulled against the door as I felt him latch on a particular spot on the side of my neck, marking my skin with his possession. I knew I was screwed-- you can't get more screwed than this. 

I was sure I disassociated for a few seconds, because suddenly, Roman's lips brushed against my ear, and I had to suppress a shiver. "We're gonna have a damn serious talk," he said, keeping me still against the door. "We need it. I need it."

Something told me we wouldn't be talking much if he continued kissing me like this. "Let's-- Let's talk, then,"

When Roman pulled away, I could finally see the frustration on his face. The way his brows were drawn together, how high his breath was in his chest, and the narrow glare of his gaze. Still, I didn't think it would result in this; it took me a while to realize his hands were no longer at my sides, and that they were now unzipping my jeans. 

"What are you doing?" I breathed, grabbing at his wrists. "Don't--"

"You think you can outsmart me?" It was as though someone had ripped the curtains off its hinges, now revealing what was always hidden behind them. Roman's breath fell heavy against my cheek as a small twitch of his upper lip revealed his inner turmoil; "You think you can tell me one thing, and then do the opposite when I'm not looking?"

My anxiety grew as I realized Roman's strength was unmatched. There was nothing I could do to fight him. "What are you talking about?" It was hard to come up with a cohesive sentence when I was this stressed. 

"Peter told me, y'know," Roman continued, a low growl in his voice prevalent in ways it had never been before. "He told me the obvious, of course. That Letha is trying to reconcile, that she misses you... But then he told me the part I didn't know. The part you probably didn't want me to know."

It was with his last ominous words that he managed to dip his fingers past my waistband, past the hem of my underwear, and placed two fingers on my clit. The unexpected touch immediately made me squirm against the door, squeezing my eyes shut. "Why-- Why are you doing this?" was all I managed to stutter out, my hands still locked around his wrist. He knew I didn't want this. He knew. "I don't-- don't know what you're--"

"Talking about?" Roman rubbed rough circles around my clit as he placed his forehead against mine, pressing my head further up against the door. "Oh, so you're not gonna tell me?" His voice got more patronizing, as though this was fifth grade and he was teasing me in the courtyard-- "Is my good little girl gonna be real stupid and not tell me? You wanna act dumb with me, huh?"

Something about his tone made my cheeks burn. His tone, his words. This was not a good way to find out about a possible kink. My mind dulled with the stimulation against my clit, and it didn't take long before I eventually felt my arousal pooling. In all ways of the word, I felt like my body was betraying me. "Not here," I echoed, breath hitching. It felt like he was pressing a button on me, like I was a toy, thoughtlessly repeating it over and over; "Not here, Rome-- N-Not, here, please--"

"I'll stop when you tell me,"

"Tell you what?" I cried, squeezing his wrists as my hips bucked into his hand. Roman knew how to touch me, even if it was at my disadvantage. My mind was racing; someone could walk in, someone could see, someone could--

"How Letha helped you get us back together," Roman's breath was so warm, so angry, against my face, it felt like he was drawing my scorching red blush on my cheeks. "How you went and asked her for advice on how to decrypt me? Maybe you don't know me at all, is that it?"

I didn't want to think about this. I didn't want to be present. I didn't want to think about the fact that Roman had gotten the information all twisted, that Peter must've had quite an extensive talk with Letha to even know parts of this story, and that Roman couldn't find another way to talk it out than to do it like this. Forcefully. Because right now, it felt too good. It felt way too good. The sensation of his fingers rubbing circles into my clit, running them between my folds to gather up my slick, only to return to my bundle of nerves to make my legs shake with a mix of anxiety and pleasure, felt too good.

"That's not true," I tried in between heaves of air. What would it make me if I came like this? "That's not-- not true, Rome--"

"I won't ever be enough for you, will I?" 

"No-- no, you're everything!--"

"Because the end of the day, you'll go back to Letha," Roman's voice was tight, restricted, as though he was holding back a heap of emotions. "No matter what I do, how gently I fuck you, treat you, you won't want to be with me forever. No one does."

If only he knew. If only he knew that I loved him. My hands let go of his wrist, and I placed my palms against his chest, forcing some space between us with a push. That seemed to do the trick-- Roman's fingers slowed down as our eyes met, and he was faced with my watery gaze. "I didn't lie last night," I said after finally catching my breath. "I've never lied to you." An unnervingly big part of me longed for him to rub me through my high, which was not too far away from the horizon, but the sane part of me knew I had to put an end to his venture into the dark ways of his past. 

Roman's mouth pulled into a straight line; "Peter wouldn't lie to me either,"

"I'm not saying he is. He just got the story wrong,"

There was a long silence, and I knew this was my moment-- I reached for Roman's wrist again, and with careful, slow motions, I got his hand out of my underwear. "Letha heard us fight, and she came over to ask about it afterwards," I started. "There was no plotting. No decrypting. The only thing she told me, was to look for a bigger picture when it comes to fighting with you. I didn't ask for it! And what you saw just now, was us being friendly. Not friends. We will never be again, after everything that happened!" 

"But... you were talking on the stairs," Roman echoed, as something in his gaze faltered. "I saw you when we were leaving the party."

Letha's following words were almost icy to the touch, hollow to the ear; "Was I right?" 

It felt as though my world stilled. Time stilled. Just for a second, I felt as though I could wade my free hand through the coldness of her phrase, and I could wave away the mirage. She was concerned, curious. Had she genuinely wanted to help me get through this fight with Roman? 

"Yeah," I breathed. "You were. Thank you." 

Letha's face softened as a relieved sigh escaped her, nodding her head slowly. It had been a long time since the last time she had heard those words from me. "Any time," 

The memory was as fresh as day. "You were right next to me, Roman. If I was hiding something, I wouldn't have talked to her in front of you," I let go of his hand, letting out a shaky breath as he took another step away from me. I could sense that his mind was cracking itself in half. "I don't need Letha to tell me how to fix things with you. Contrary to what you were thinking, I do know you. And I know you well enough to see that this isn't you being angry with me, but rather your fucking abandonment issues surfacing because you haven't dealt with them yet!"

It was clear that Roman didn't expect me to raise my voice, but hell-- I was so done with this behavioural pattern of his. 

"It might be good for me to not have the worst relationship with all the girls at this school, have you thought about that?" I said, feeling my fists clench at my sides. "That Letha and I being friendly and not at each other's throats might be good for me? And that it might also be good for your relationship with your cousin, mind you, who you've seemingly blocked?" 

Roman remained silent, at a loss for words. 

My breathing had yet to calm down, along with my arousal. "You will always be enough for me," I said, softening my tone. "You're all I've ever wanted. I'm not leaving you. But it doesn't matter how many times I tell you this unless you trust me." I zipped up my pants, huffing as I picked up my bag. It felt as though my knees were about to give out-- I could feel my slick dripping into my underwear. This was a feeling I never wanted to revisit again. Ready to storm off, to slam the door behind me with a bang and leave Roman here to wallow in whatever he was feeling at the moment, something else hit me like a blow to the head; "Wait, how did Peter know?"

It couldn't be. It seriously couldn't be.

Roman cleared his throat, no longer meeting my gaze. I could see it in the light pink of his cheeks that he was embarrassed about his outburst. "He said they talked at the party," he mumbled under his breath. "Briefly. Just for a second."

"Ah, is that right?"

Roman caught my tone, glancing up at me through his brows. "Why?"

"Don't you think it's odd?"

"... Maybe, I don't know? I was busy getting laid that night, don't ask me,"

I would've laughed had I not been so pissed off. I could see the lack of reaction on my face getting to Roman, and he gave in to a slight shiver. Finally, the roles were reversed, just for a second. "Rome?"

He looked relieved to hear me use his nickname-- "Yes?"

"You will never do anything like that to me ever again,"

Roman tucked his hands into his pockets, head hanging low. "I... really don't know what came over me--"

"Never," I snapped, biting my teeth together. I was afraid I'd start yelling. "You will never."

I wondered whether anyone had talked to him like this. If this was the first time in history that Roman had gotten a boundary imposed on him. Maybe by his mother when she was scolding him as a child, but after that? I somehow doubted it. He remained silent, eyes fixating on his polished shoes.

Finally getting the opportunity to look at him this close, I spotted the vial of my blood still hanging around his neck, poking out from beneath his shirt. In the back of my mind, after having read that stupid book on upirs, a huge part of me thought he was getting affected by it. That the constant smell of blood right underneath his nose was activating dormant senses, dormant thoughts. 

But upirs weren't real. 

Not.

Real.

Roman's silence made me feel unimaginably guilty, as though I had been the one to force myself upon him-- he looked like a kicked puppy. I hated it. So, I gathered my next breath; "Could you at least say you're sorry? Then I'll feel better about inviting you home for dinner later,"

Roman's eyes lit up as they met mine, surprised I'd even offer. "You... still want that?"

"I can barely breathe when we're apart, what do you think?"

He let out the breath he had been holding, falling apart; "I'm really sorry,"

I didn't want to dwell on it. Didn't want to think about the fact that the scared look on my face would probably get him going for months on end. That he'd think about it at night, when he woke up, and especially when he got off at the thought of me. The scared look in my eyes. 

No. I didn't want to think about it. 

Roman was the first to approach, slowly daring to tilt my head up with two fingers underneath my chin and kissing me with the utmost gentle touch. No tongue, no urgency-- just a small, soft brush of our lips against one another, creating sparks that went all the way down into the tips of my fingers. 

Letha had been right when she first warned me about him, all those months ago. Roman was the epitome of an asshole. A core so rotten, it was impossible to carve out all the bad. You could try, you could dig, you could pray, but all of it would never go away. It would forever fester in his bones, infect the very basis of his DNA, and course through his veins.

But... when he kissed me like this, I could forget it.

I could forget.

When he kissed me like this, I only loved him more.

I knew I would love him forever. 

And as the kiss deepened with the sweetest pressure, I reached for the vial of my blood around Roman's neck-- he didn't notice the way I twisted the capsule, figuring out which way to turn it so it would screw itself off. I had a feeling I would need to know this information in times of crisis. 

Just in case.

Just in case. ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The rest of the evening went on as normal. Weirdly enough.

Roman had fully snapped out of his rage, and he had turned into a version of himself I hadn't seen before. He wasn't joking around. He wasn't making dirty jokes. 

He was... calm.

Assured. 

I knew this was probably a form of keeping on the low, to not take a wrong step and blow up in the minefield he had made himself. Roman laid still in my bed with his hands behind his head, watching as I scoured my closet. If there was going to be a prom, I had to look for a dress, right? 

"What are you looking for?" he asked, yawning. "Need some help?"

I shrugged, hoping to brush his question off. It was a bit embarrassing to be talking about this, seeing as he hadn't asked me to be his date or anything. "Just looking for a dress... Wondering if I still have the one I'm thinking about,"

"What do you need a dress for?" Roman sat up in the bed, watching me like a puppy would.

"I... like dresses. Need to wear them more often,"

"But it's getting colder, don't you think it's better to wear something warmer for the season?"

What was up with this obsession of his lately? He had to keep me warm at all times, supposedly. "You sound so polite," I mumbled, wading through my clothes. "Stop looking so guilty, please."

Roman let out a sigh, running his hands through his hair. "I feel bad,"

This was intolerable. It gnawed on my heart. "I told you we're fine, so please don't," I turned to him with one hand on my hip, hoping to stare some sense into him; "I even wore this crazy top to make your mood better, look!"

Roman's eyes darted down to the hot pink crop top I was wearing, and he bit down on his growing smile to stay neutral. Nonetheless, I could see it on his face that he remembered exactly where I had gotten it, and possibly the feeling he had back in that closet when he came into the soft fabric of it. "I'd rather you wore my sweater, like usual,"

"It's in the washer. And this top is fucking iconic," I pointed to the words which were stretched out across my chest. "See? 'Rock on', in big, black letters. You need to rock on more, Roman."

His smile immediately cracked, and he propped himself up on his elbows as he leaned down on the bed. "I've done enough rocking for today, that's for sure,"

I finally saw a way I could turn his mood upside down. With a smug smile, I walked over to the pink speaker I got for my seventeenth birthday and connected it to my phone. "Rome, baby, who's big in rock these days?" 

Roman chuckled, rolling over on his side to follow me with his eyes. "Depends what type of rock you're looking for,"

"Anything,"

"I don't know, then. Anything from Nirvana to Blur, I suppose," 

Bingo. I guessed that Roman was going for bands he thought I had heard of, and he had hit jackpot. With a click of a button, the intro to Song 2 by Blur started playing through the speakers, which earned me another laugh from my boyfriend. It was a typical rock song-- it started out rather quiet until it broke out into complete chaos. 

I crawled back into bed, kissing my way up Roman's stomach, which only made his breath hitch. The giggles brewing in his chest resonated through my body that was pressed up against his, and I joined the laughter as I kissed his rosy cheeks. It was intimate, it was sweet. I loved that I could do this with him now, that he was comfortable enough to be put in a position like this, and that he allowed me to pull stunts like these.

And after all, I decided I would show my love through action, as I couldn't tell him about the extent of my feelings. I knew he'd get up and bolt right out the window like something straight out of a cartoon.

Roman caught his breath, placing his hands on both sides of my face-- all the emotions he couldn't tell me either were on display in his big, green eyes, roaming around the galaxies in his dark pupils. "I trust you,"

"... What?--"

"I keep thinking about what you said earlier," he tried, stroking his thumbs across the soft skin of my cheeks. "I promise I trust you. And I'm sorry that I get in my head about it, because you don't deserve that. You deserve so much better than what I can give you, yet... I want you to stay with me. I really, really want you to stay with me."

This was a rather deep conversation to be having with loud rock music in the background. I should've definitely picked something more mellow. With a sigh, I leaned down to kiss the tip of Roman's nose-- "I told you I'm not going anywhere," I breathed. "I'm yours forever, if you'll have me."

Finally, Roman's eyes lit up. Lit up like fireworks painting the sky. "Forever sounds nice,"

"It does, doesn't it?" It was impossible not to smile.

"It so does," 

It was a relief when he pulled me tightly to his chest and kissed me. It was the type of kiss I had dreamed of having in my bed on a lazy afternoon, the type of kiss which made my heart swell as it beat against his. The type of kiss which I had only ever seen in movies, the type of kiss I could never imagine would feel this good.

No one ever told me that making out with your boyfriend was such a thrill. To be tangled up as one, to be a heap of bodies coming together, to be a mess, and that it would make my whole being vibrate with joy. Roman's lips were so gentle to the touch, yet his kisses were so hot, all-taking, that I wanted nothing more than to melt into him and become one. 

It didn't take long before he rolled us over-- I knew he wouldn't be the type to like anyone on top except for him. My hands were in his hair, tugging at the tips of his dark locks to make my fingers busy, as Roman's tongue licked a stripe up my lips; it was so soft, a feathery touch, and it drew out a shaky moan. 

I didn't know any of this was possible before I met him. I really had no idea, silly me. 

My mind didn't register the meek whine that escaped me, possibly to protect my psyche, as Roman pulled away. A thin string of saliva connected our lips as we simply breathed down at each other, gazing into the other's eyes-- I was sure mine widened a little when I felt something hard pressing against my lower abdomen. 

Fuck, that was still damn hot. 

It certainly gave the words rock on a new meaning, no?

"I need to ask you something," Roman breathed, followed by a sigh of relief when he heard the song was over. "But don't freak out on me, okay?"

I nodded, eager to have his lips back on mine again; "Sure,"

"And before you judge me, I'm not the biggest fan of this idea myself, cause I think it's kinda lame. Keep that in mind,"

"Okay?"

"So... Heh," Roman let out a soft, nervous laugh, nudging my nose with his. "You might actually want to find a dress for this to work, though."

My fingers traced circles into his hair; "Rome,"

"Yeah?"

"Stop rambling, please,"

"Oh,"

"You were saying?"

"Oh," Roman cleared his throat, placing a short kiss to my lips. "Do you want to go to prom?"

Had I not been trapped beneath him, I would've shot right out of the bed. My eyes widened as I pulled him in for another kiss, hoping to suppress the squeal that threatened to escape me. 

"Wait, wait--" Roman's words were muffled against my lips before he raised himself up, still not done. What else was there to say, though? "So, you're going?"

"... What?"

"With friends, or...?"

"Roman, what friends?"

"Ah, right," Once again, he cleared his throat and got all serious again; "So... would you want to go with me?"

It took a second for it to dawn on me that Roman had been genuinely confused. That he thought I would be going with anyone else but him. That he thought, even for just a second, that there was a possibility that I would tell him no. "Are you crazy? Of course!"

Oh, how I loved him.

I loved him to bits.

And here I was, squealing about going to prom. Roman had made me a puddle of girly with his heartthrob-ways. It would've made me sick, had we not immediately gone back to making out, but this time, with bright smiles on our faces. Kissing someone while smiling was definitely in my top three of all things possible on earth. 

Second place was being picked up like I weighed nothing, oddly enough. That was one of the perks of having a tall boyfriend, after all.

And the first place was a no-brainer. It was definitely sex. 

Oh, and who would've guessed-- we'd end up having sex a few minutes later, believe it or not. When your boyfriend is this hot, it's impossible to resist. It was the type of sex that made up for his behavior at school today, the type of sex that made me melt into the mattress with joy and pleasure. 

The cursed hot pink crop top was quickly discarded, and so was my sanity. Roman's kisses grew firm against me, muffling the sounds of my moans as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of my thighs, pinning them down and folding me into submission. It was official-- there seemed to be no etiquette to sex, and my parents being in the house was an obstacle that was easy to deal with. 

Just... shut up. Keep your mouth shut. Right?

But it was so damn hard. Especially as Roman angled his cock right up against my sweet spot with the help of the pillow beneath me, making me whine in pleasure against the kiss he had locked me in to ensure my silence. It was impossible. It made my toes curl, made my vision blurry, and made my mind go into complete lockdown. I entered a phase where I almost didn't care, where I couldn't care less at all, and where the only important thing was for Roman to do whatever he wanted to me. 

"Fuck-- me," I rambled, my hands skimming the muscular range of his broad back as I felt my need grow insatiable. 

Roman let out a huff against me, the smile on his face a visible contradiction; "What am I doing, then, gorgeous?" He was so secure, so confident, that it was impossible not to let him do whatever his heart desired to me. I trusted him with my whole being, even as his grip around my thighs started to make them ache. My lower lip quivered; "Lo--"

No, no!

"Love this," My rambling needed to end, stat. 

Roman smirked into the kiss that followed; "Me too," He seemed to be catching onto my overstimulated state, and the second I let out a sigh of relief when he let go of my thighs and the pounding against my sweet spot relented, he came right back with a move I didn't expect. Roman wrapped his arms around me, pulling me up into his lap with his cock still throbbing inside me. 

I suppressed a surprised yelp. "Rome!--"

"Shh," He guided my legs around him as he watched me adjust to the new feeling-- he was deeper than ever, now, and it freaked me out a bit. "Stay quiet for me, okay?"

I was on the brink of tears. It felt like my thoughts had short-circuited and left me for dead. My breath tensed in my chest as I draped my arms around Roman's neck, grabbing a fistful of his hair to ground myself, just as I knew he liked it. "Let's try something new," he purred, hands traveling up my thighs to grab my hips, lifting me up along his shaft as I gasped into his open mouth. 

Even when I was on top, Roman needed to have control. Perfect. That worked out well for me, actually.

The way he was looking at me made me feel like I was on fire. The green of his eyes etched into mine, watching me with unmatched amusement-- his lips were upturned into the usual smug smirk which made my heart dance in my chest, and in vulnerable moments such as these, it also resulted in my cheeks flaring up with an embarrassing shade of pink. 

It didn't take long before we found a rhythm, and before I got used to practically riding him. It was different like this, especially when Roman's hands were simply a weight on my hips, and I could fuck myself on his cock. It felt like a permission of sorts, like he was telling me he was all mine, that I could do whatever he wanted to him-- like an exchange of submission. Although, of course, Roman would never fully submit to anything in the world. 

It was easy to keep quiet when the soft pillows of his lips muffled the sounds of my inevitable moans, but when they left me, it became a fight against my conscience. A small gasp would escape me here and there, along with a loud hitch of my breath, and it eventually balled on into a breathy string of ah ah ah's-- staying quiet was an impossible task. I prayed to all the Gods above that my parents wouldn't hear the mess their dearest Roman was making out of their daughter.

They had no idea he could be like this. None. He was such a sweetheart at dinner, he'd always make sure to help my mom set the table, and he'd talk sports with my dad-- they had no idea. I could see it in Roman's eyes that he found the sight of me beyond amusing. That he got off me unraveling more than anything. He only made it harder for me to stay quiet as he pressed the heel of his palm to my clit, keeping me steady with a hand on my back as his kisses trailed down my body. 

"A-Ah, Rome--" I was done for. I was done for. 

"Shh, just a little more," Roman's lips had stayed at my clavicle for long enough to leave a mark. It dawned on me that he was leaving a trail of hickeys, and my fist in his hair tightened as my legs quivered. This was too many sensations at once. "A little more... You can take it, right?"

I couldn't utter a cohesive sentence. The pressure on my clit, his wet, eager kisses, and the way I could set the perfect pace as I slid up and down his cock made my brain buzz with static noise. I was sure my eyes had morphed into the shape of hearts as I let out a shaky, quiet moan, filling myself up with Roman's cock over and over. The best feeling in the world. 

"That's my girl..." he cooed, grabbing my waist with his free hand. "Fuck yourself on my cock, it's all yours..." His pink lips parted with pleasure as he watched me sink down on his length, enchanted by the sight. It was a delight to watch the way his perfect up-do came undone, and the way his hair fell over his forehead in messy strokes. He looked unreal, godly. 

Roman's words were enough to make my hips buck into his abdomen, but my state only got worse, deteriorated, as his mouth trailed down to my breast. The moan I had to suppress when I felt his tongue against my stiffening bud was unmatched-- I was sure I started panting as he took it into his mouth, suckling it swollen as I whimpered. 

I wanted to let it spill past my lips; I love you, I love you, I love you. In that sense, sex was dangerous territory for me. However, how was I supposed to resist when it felt this good?

My lips ghosted over the parts of him I could reach, his ear, his cheek, and I let my breath hitch against his skin as a familiar feeling pooled in my tummy. Aware, Roman only drove the heel of his palm harder into my clit, making it so that I was grinding up against him with every lift of my hips against his length. I gave into a tremble, unsure how to stabilize myself in this position-- "Rome," I cried, pleading for him to kiss me. I wasn't sure I'd be able to suppress the sounds that were threatening to spill past my quivering lips when my high washed over me.

Roman's free hand remained at my breast, pinching my bud between his pointer and his thumb in a firm hold which had me wincing in pleasure. He kissed up my body, my shoulders, my neck, my jaw, my cheek-- yet he hovered inches away from my lips, the smirk still prevalent. "You lost," he whispered.

Lost what?

It was as though he read my mind; "You can't stay quiet, can you?"

I really wished I could. I was trying with all my might. But I was so, so damn close, and I shook my head, hoping he'd take pity on me. 

"It's okay," he cooed, his breath falling hot against my cheek as he tilted his head as though to kiss me. "You were never meant to win."

And so I crumbled. Completely. Utterly. Euphoria tore through me as I fell apart in Roman's arms, and it didn't take long before he simply wrapped his arms around me, laid me back down, and fucked me through my high as I suppressed my sobs of pleasure into his shoulder. 

Honestly? I didn't remember what happened next. Completely zen, relaxed, and thoroughly fucked, I considered myself logged off for the next ten minutes or so. However, I had to run over to my mental keyboard as Roman's hand, which was previously toying with my hair, pointed to my nightstand-- "What's that?"

With a small grunt, I raised my head from his bare shoulder. Fuck. My eyes sprung wide open as I spotted The Avoidable Vampirism on display, uncovered and everything. "Uh..." How could I have left that abomination out in the open? I gulped, turning to Roman with a doe-eyed expression that I knew worked well on him. I was sure my next words would put him off his incoming queries in an instant; "It's the sequel to Twilight. Vampire erotica, the usual. Edward is gay in this book, Bella is dead, and there are tons of scenes where, uh... men kiss men. And suck each other off. Super interesting."

Unsurprisingly, Roman was immediately disinterested. "Girls," he mumbled, rolling his eyes before he pressed a short kiss to my lips. "Stop thinking about gay sex, go to sleep."

"I'm not thinking about!--"

"Sleep!"

a/n: thank you for reading this monster of a chapter!!!! as you see, Roman's going absolutely nuts... I wonder whyyy (oh we know why, don't we? don't dangle a carrot in front of a donkey or whatever they say). there are a few chapters left of this book which will be packed w shit I hope will melt your brains, but before that, I wish you all a lovely christmas and a happy new year!!! MWAH, THANK YOU!!)

here are all the chapters!!<3: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11

loveliest taglist of all time:

@mentallyscreamingsincebirth @putherup @corawithfanfiction @vladsgirlxx

@iamaslytherin0 @sexualparkour @the-universe-is-complicated @heavenly-bratt

@lafemme-nk @namiusedbubble @useyourwandbro @strmborns @literally-lani

@virgosapphire79 @star-girl-04 @veyzus @ddipotassium @pecxiebu

@mil88691 @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @katifefe @sn0wybowie-blog

@lilithskywalker @likecherriesinthespring @sadheartjellyfish @vadersangel

@shehangsbrightly @burningmiraclekingdom @dollforaswan @austinswhitewolf

@nico-velvet @shiiiii-okayyyy @theantagonistalwaysdies @blackbluerose666

@obexes @rosecoloureddudez @amoure020 @itsaeasykill

@succubustacy @carmillavalentine

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 4/?)

Suffocating slowly, you can't tell if it's the gas enveloping you or Silco's grip tightening around your throat. The choice is yours to make.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 4,8K

Warnings: use of sedative gas, slight hints of reader's past, emotional manipulation, death of secondary characters being referenced, attempted murder, possessive behavior, you work in the brothel. Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Hear me out: Silco wearing a gas mask just like Jinx in episode 6 of the first season… just keep that in mind. Heavily inspired by episodes 6 and 7 btw. Just to be clear, don't romanticize his lines, at this point Silco still has a distorted and obsessive vision. No smut today because we need to develop some good old angst, but don't worry we'll get back to normal programming in the next chapter. And yes, the protagonist, in this case you readers, has a past. But you will only find out as the story progresses.

You were a woman on a mission.

Your footsteps echoed rhythmically through Zaun's narrow, filthy alleys. The sound of your boots striking the ground reverberated in your head like a war drum, announcing your arrival. You moved forward without hesitation, without asking for permission, without sparing a single glance at the faces around you. They stared, and you knew it. You could feel their curious, distrustful eyes glued to you, murmuring among themselves, but it didn't matter. Not this time.

You never liked drawing attention. You always preferred to stay in the shadows, invisible, and that was one of your mottos: "don't be seen." It always worked well—until now. But in that moment, it felt as though every step was a shout, every movement a challenge, and you had no intention of hiding today.

Between the moment you fell to your knees in front of that bloodied necklace and the early hours of the morning when you collapsed into bed, exhausted from reliving your last conversation with Kate—a conversation you didn't know would be the last—something inside you broke. It wasn't a simple break. It was a tear, a deep cut in your very essence. The pain of loss, mingled with raw fury, was a burning fire consuming any rationality.

Grief didn't bring tears. You felt its weight like a stone crushing your chest, but no tears came. There was no room for them. Only a deadly silence that now transformed into something stronger, something uncontrollable.

In the stages of grief, denial had given way to anger, and it was driving you.

Your face was set, neutral, but your mind could be likened to a grenade pin about to be pulled. Your fists clenched, your shoulders tense under the weight of the coat you wore—a coat that wasn't yours but carried the scent of something now fueling your courage.

Silco's coat.

It wasn't made for you; it hung loosely on your shoulders and the sleeves were too long. But, strangely, it felt like it belonged to you now. Every fold, every detail, as if the fabric itself had been shaped to herald your arrival. It didn't matter that it was misaligned or drew attention. You wore it as a statement.

If Vander could see you, he'd probably give you the biggest lecture of your life. He'd accuse you of being reckless, of acting without thinking, of repeating the mistakes he'd spent years trying to correct. You could almost hear his voice, firm and grave, echoing in the Last Drop as he placed a glass of that sweet drink he always made in front of you. But Vander was dead, and the dead don't get disappointed.

Your stride was interrupted when your shoulder collided with a burly man standing by a stall of questionably sourced weapons. He stopped abruptly, glaring at you with an irritated expression. He made a move to grab your arm, but the motion froze halfway through. His eyes landed on the coat.

And then he hesitated.

It wasn't just him. It felt as though Zaun's alleys themselves had paused to observe you. The symbol you bore on your shoulders—the symbol that coat represented—spoke for itself. Everyone knew to whom that garment belonged. And everyone knew that no one, absolutely no one, wore something of Silco's without a clear reason.

The man stepped back. Others averted their gaze, some whispered among themselves. But you pressed forward, ignoring them.

Your destination finally came into view, each step bringing you closer to the entrance of the Last Drop. The place, once so inviting and familiar, now seemed more menacing than ever. The green lights pulsed on the façade as if trying to scorch your retinas—far too extravagant for your taste. You rolled your eyes. It was as if the very place needed to shout Silco's name through its décor.

"Egotistical." you muttered to yourself, feeling a smirk of derision tug at the corners of your mouth. He didn't even need all that ostentation; after all, no one would dare question his power or accuse him of compensating for some insecurity. Silco didn't seem to have those kinds of apparent weaknesses, and that was exactly what made him so dangerous.

As you stopped in front of the door, one of the guards immediately blocked your path. The man raised his arm in a sharp gesture, enough to make any ordinary person step back. He was massive, twice your size, with muscles that seemed to strain the fabric of his shirt. But you weren't the restrained version of yourself anymore, the one who would hesitate or retreat before any intimidating figure to avoid drawing attention to herself. No. Dealing with Silco had taught you one thing: no matter the size of the predator, you need to learn how to bite back. You needed to be as dangerous as him. Or at least pretend to be.

"We're closed." the tattooed man declared, his voice deep and loaded with menace.

You sighed, theatrical, as if he had just bored you to death. "If you hadn't warned me..." your voice dripped with sarcasm. As you spoke, your eyes assessed him carefully. Something about him seemed... familiar.

The guard frowned, impatient. "Then get lost!" the sharpness in his voice might have been intimidating, but there was something else there. A hint of hesitation that didn't escape your notice.

"Oh, I think I remember you..." you tilted your head slightly, letting a sly smile curve your lips. "Yes, I do. You were one of Silco's men sent to the brothel, weren't you?"

The man stiffened, exchanging glances with his companion beside him. You stepped forward, closing the distance even more. He backed off slightly, which only increased your satisfaction. Being associated with Silco had its advantages, after all.

"Well, as you might know, he and I are... quite close." your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried weight and intention. "And even if I can't see him today, it's only a matter of time before he comes to me."

You pretended to examine your nails as if he were beneath your full attention. Every movement was calculated, a meticulous performance designed to fray his nerves. "Now, I can't help but wonder how he'd react knowing one of his men stopped me from paying a surprise visit... He'd be so... disappointed."

You raised your eyes slowly, peering at him through your lashes. The smile on your lips was sadistic, almost cruel. It wasn't the real you—not even close—but the mask you wore seemed to do the trick. The tattooed man swallowed hard, visibly shaken.

"You know, right? It's not wise to disappoint men like Silco," you continued, letting each word hang in the air like a veiled threat. "The consequences tend to be... unpleasant."

The man hesitated, his gaze flickering from you to the coat you wore and then to his companion beside him. The tension was palpable, and the silence that followed was almost as satisfying as the victory that came next.

"Take the stairs to the second floor," he finally relented, his voice slightly unsteady. "He's in the office, last door down the hall."

"Good," you replied with disdain, already turning to walk through the entrance. Before continuing, though, you paused and glanced back over your shoulder. "Oh, and make sure no one interrupts us."

Your voice was cold, imbued with an authority that wasn't yours by right but one you stole with the ease of someone who had learned to survive among wolves. The guard nodded, still hesitant, but stepped aside and shut the door behind you.

You let your gaze wander through the bar, a creeping discomfort snaking up your spine like a sly serpent. Everything felt out of place despite being right where it belonged. As if someone had stripped the soul from the space, leaving only an empty shell devoid of warmth or life. The Last Drop had once buzzed with the communal energy of Zaun—now, every corner seemed consumed by shadows that whispered how misplaced you were here. You were a puzzle piece left over, trying to fit where there was no longer space.

Still, your eyes searched for echoes of the past. The turntable, the pool table in the center, the spot where Vander's gauntlets used to hang near the bar. But those details were now distant memories, almost unreal. It was hard to believe that the last time you'd been here was three years ago, when you said goodbye to him. Vander, with that warm smile and his damned bear hug, had made you promise you'd come back to Zaun. What a bitter irony. You'd returned. But he wasn't here anymore.

When a pang of sadness threatened to surface, you clenched your teeth and forced your legs to move. You climbed the stairs quickly, refusing to let your thoughts drown you. The place was empty, perhaps because of the time of day, you thought. Everyone knew criminals preferred the cover of night, and the morning silence made each step you took echo louder than it should.

You stopped in front of Silco's door. For the first time, you hesitated before knocking. This was a point of no return; whatever happened in that room would alter the course of your life forever, though you couldn't tell if it would be for better or worse. Like everything in your life, it was a risky gamble you were willing to take.

Two knocks, followed by a muffled "Enter," were the last sounds you heard before pushing the door open and stepping directly into Silco's lair.

Silco's office was a flawless extension of his personality: stylish, shadowy, decadent, and steeped in a subtle theatricality that seemed to bury old traumas beneath layers of sophistication. The walls, painted in dark tones, absorbed more light than they reflected, and the few points of brightness came from meticulously arranged objects on his desk or trinkets scattered throughout the room. It was as if every piece had been chosen to construct a personal fortress, a space where he could simultaneously conceal his scars and display his power.

The greenish light streaming from the window behind his desk served as the main source of illumination, casting the room in a cold, almost icy atmosphere, with hues that seemed to seep into your very bones.

You found him at the heart of his domain, seated in his chair like a king upon his throne. His posture was impeccable—his back pressed against the chair, one arm resting casually at his side, while the other held a set of files. He seemed completely absorbed in the documents, but as soon as he registered your presence, he lifted his gaze with a calmness that was almost insulting. What truly caught your attention, however, was how his eyes roamed over your body, taking in every detail like a collector assessing a prized piece. He was subtle, as always, but you knew that look all too well. Beneath the mask of indifference, there was something deeper, more intense: the fire of his possessiveness burning behind those irises.

"You made quite a scene coming here." his voice reverberated off the walls, low and controlled, but with a weight that made your skin prickle. There was no overt irritation in his tone—just an observation he seemed to find almost amusing. "Especially dressed like that." he gestured vaguely toward the oversized coat you wore, the heavy fabric hanging awkwardly off your frame. "If your intention was to draw attention, congratulations. You succeeded."

"As if you care..." the retort slipped out effortlessly, polished but devoid of any humor. You remained standing, still debating whether the moment called for a direct attack or if you should continue with the dance of provocations. "People were already whispering about the 'whore' you took for yourself. I just gave the rumors a face."

Silco's eyes glinted with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator sizing up its prey. "It was reckless."

"I don't deny it." you shrugged with the nonchalance of someone who couldn't care less, taking a few steps forward over the carpet that seemed to swallow the sound of your movements. "But in the end, nothing would've happened to me, right? I know you sent your men to escort me. They're not exactly subtle."

It was pure bluff. You had no proof that Silco had actually assigned bodyguards to shadow your every move without your knowledge, but it was a safe bet. He seemed intent on maintaining absolute control over every aspect of your life, directly or indirectly. And even if you were wrong, it didn't matter.

For a moment, his eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. He knew you were bluffing—of course, he knew. Unraveling lies was an art he had mastered. But, curiously, he didn't challenge you. He allowed you to keep that advantage, perhaps more intrigued by your audacity than inclined to argue.

"I take precautions," he finally said, his voice as firm as the steel that held Zaun together. "Zaun is no place for recklessness. Especially for someone who insists on testing the limits."

You crossed your arms, feigning indifference to the implicit threat. "And don't you live by testing limits, Silco? Seems a bit... hypocritical, coming from you."

The provocation had the desired effect. Silco rose slowly, every movement calculated, as though pondering the best way to deal with your defiance. The chair swiveled slightly behind him as he made his way toward you, circling the desk with the grace of a predatory feline. Leaning against its edge, right in front of you, his proximity made the air thicker. Without even touching you, his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room. Your heart pounded in your chest—perhaps from fear, perhaps from expectation, or something else you refused to acknowledge.

"I know my limits." his voice was barely above a whisper but carried the weight of an unspoken threat. He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly while keeping his gaze locked on yours. "And I assure you, I know exactly how to hold them. The question, dove, is: do you know yours?"

You rolled your eyes in disdain.

"Don't lecture me about limits, Silco. Not after the damage you caused." your voice lashed out, brimming with restrained fury, though the subtle tremor in your hands betrayed you. Every fiber of your being screamed to close the distance between you, to make him feel at least a fragment of the pain that consumed your chest. "You killed her."

"I did." the response came so simple, so direct, that it seemed to rip the air from your lungs. There wasn't a trace of regret in his voice, no shadow of remorse in his eyes. It was as if he had admitted something trivial, like the day being overcast.

"You're not even going to deny it?"

"I gain nothing by denying something you already know." Silco seemed disinterested, even bored, as though the entire scene was just another interruption in his meticulously planned day. He studied you, but not cautiously. "I gave her a chance."

You laughed, but the sound was hollow, cruel—a desperate attempt to mock his words. "A chance? Let me guess: you gave her the privilege of choosing how to die, right? The options: crushed by your brute or burned alive in the fire you started yourself."

Silco remained impassive, as though your words had slipped off him without leaving a mark. If anything affected him, it was well hidden. In fact, he seemed... satisfied. Satisfied to see you unravel, to witness the internal war you were waging against yourself. "I gave her a chance," he repeated, his voice low, as if explaining something simple to an impatient child. "I would have killed her that day, but I respected what you said. If she had let go of you, I would have left her alone. I am not the irrational monster you imagine me to be."

He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, the sound of his shoes echoing in the silent room. The proximity made your heart race, but it wasn't fear. It was something more visceral—hatred, perhaps. Your gaze burned, but his was pure ice, an impenetrable force that seemed to crush any opposition. "I don't control the feelings others have for you." he continued, his voice laden with an almost suffocating intensity, "But I can control who gets close. Your friend, Kate, made a choice."

You stood firm, but the weight of his words pressed down on you. "She chose you." His declaration was final, a verdict. "And that was her mistake."

Silco stared at you with the same resolute expression you had learned to despise and, in some ways, admire. He wasn't lying—not this time. It was hard to accept, but you knew that beneath the layers of manipulation and cruelty, Silco possessed a brutally objective honesty. He spoke the truth not because he cared to be honest but because it gave him an advantage. He knew the impact his words would have.

The ache in your chest intensified. The conclusion was bitter: Kate had died because she chose you. She chose to trust, to love, or perhaps just to believe there was something in you worth the sacrifice. And that choice destroyed her.

"Don't blame yourself." Silco's voice was lower now, almost as if he were trying to offer some form of comfort. But his words, no matter how carefully chosen, found no place to settle within you. "Eventually, you'll understand this was for the best. It was for your own good."

You stared at him, your breathing heavy, your chest rising and falling in a rhythm that betrayed your effort to stay in control. He didn't see the error in what he had done. To him, everything was calculated, justified, as if the ends always justified the means.

"For my own good?" Your voice came out incredulous, even shocked if you analyzed its tone. Silco didn't respond. He only looked at you, as though daring you to continue. The silence was unbearable, and you felt anger rise like a wave ready to break. "You destroy everything you touch, Silco. No matter how much you try to mask it with promises of control or security. In the end, you leave nothing but ruins behind."

He didn't blink, didn't look away, maintaining that glacial indifference that seemed so natural to him. It was as though your words were just a distant hum, insignificant, incapable of penetrating the fortress of his composure. But you knew. Deep down, something had been struck. You saw it in the way his gaze hardened, if only for a moment, like a slight crack in a marble surface. You didn't know exactly what your words had touched, but you knew they had left a mark. And even so, he remained unshaken, fixed, silent, as he stared at you with that overwhelming intensity.

"Just like you."

His words shattered the silence with an almost tangible weight. They sounded vague, but you understood. Oh, God, how you understood.

You instinctively stepped back, as if distance could soften the blow you'd just received. Your heels hit the coffee table, causing something to fall and shatter on the floor. The sound of breaking glass reverberated through the room, but it felt like a distant echo, unimportant. If he had slapped you across the face, it would have hurt less than that. Because they weren't just words—they carried a knowledge you had forced yourself to forget long ago.

The question escaped before you could stop it, almost a whisper filled with disbelief: "How do you...?"

He didn't answer immediately. He only tilted his head slightly, his eyes analyzing every nuance of your reaction. Finally, he responded, with that infamous tone of casualness that made your blood boil. "I have my ways."

It was a deliberately vague answer, and the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips confirmed it. A small smile, almost imperceptible, but laden with satisfaction. He knew exactly what he had done. He saw the impact of his words, saw how they carved a hole inside you, and he savored it. Just as you had wounded him moments before, he now returned the attack. And worse, he relished your reaction.

"I know more about you than you think, dove."

Silco took a step closer, shortening the distance with the precision of a meticulous predator cornering its prey. There was something predatory about his movements—calculated, yet fluid—as though he had all the time in the world to ensnare you. Your body froze, rooted to the spot. It was as if the floor had turned to cement and you had become a statue. Your mind screamed frantic commands for your legs to move, but no muscle obeyed. You were trapped there, staring into the headlights of an oncoming train.

"Out there, it's full of people who would use you and discard you without a second thought." His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet each word carried a weight that seemed to crush the air around you. He tilted his head slightly, his narrowed eyes studying every nuance of your reaction. "You know that. You've been discarded before."

He spoke your name slowly, every syllable laden with an unsettling intimacy. It wasn't the nickname he usually used but your true name—and it hit like a weapon in his hands. For some reason, it felt even more intimidating, more personal, as though he were dismantling any layer of defense you might have had.

"I am the only one who has truly protected you so far," he continued, taking another step toward you. The greenish glow from the window fell across his broad shoulders, outlining his silhouette in a way that made him seem even more imposing. The interplay of light and shadow obscured parts of his expression but highlighted that piercing orange iris like a beacon drawing you toward the abyss—dangerous and yet irresistibly captivating. "The only one who sees your worth. Who understands what you're capable of."

He stood directly in front of you now. The greenish light enveloped him fully, casting a distorted halo around him. The sight should have made you shudder, but instead, you found yourself mesmerized by the corrupted celestial image before you.

"I am the only one who knows exactly what you need."

Silco was a serpent, sinuous and treacherous, slithering gently around you while tightening his coils, slowly and methodically squeezing the breath out of you. You knew you needed to break free, to shatter this venomous cycle, but something always held you captive. It wasn't love, nor any twisted imitation of the feeling. It was something darker—a torment intertwined with obsession. A bond that consumed you, toxic and painful like a razor's edge slicing through your skin. And yet, you allowed yourself to be cut, drawn to the danger, to the chaos.

To him.

"Why me?" Your voice broke the silence, taut with tension, like a rope ready to snap. "You could have anyone else."

Your gaze flicked downward for a moment, and then you saw it. Silco's gun, resting within reach in its holster—a solution gleaming like a beacon through the fog of conflicting emotions. Your mind screamed that this was your chance. One movement. One shot. And it would all be over.

Silco tilted his head slightly, following your gaze. "You've already answered your question, dove."

His smile was dangerous, filled with certainty and malice, yet he made no move to push the gun away. He seemed perfectly aware of where your eyes had landed, but as always, he played the game on his own terms. Then he raised his hands, placing them around your face with a disturbingly gentle touch. It was an intimate gesture, almost reverent, but laced with power.

"Anyone but you." his voice was low, a whisper laden with a disconcerting truth. You didn't know whether to believe him or to run. Silco's gaze locked onto yours, hungry, as if he could strip your soul bare and devour whatever he found. There was something primal in his eyes, a raw desire that threatened to consume everything around him.

"You have it in you." the statement came out almost like a prayer, but there was something darker beneath the words. His eyes roamed over your face, attuned to every flicker of emotion, as his thumb traced a slow path across your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine. "No one challenges me the way you do. No one makes me feel alive the way you do."

The world seemed to shrink until only the two of you remained. He leaned in, close enough that your lips almost touched, but not quite. The proximity was suffocating, his every breath mingling with yours.

"You wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on me, would you?" his words were low, tinged with a dark amusement, while his eyes gleamed with a twisted delight. "So, tell me..." he tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious about your answer. "Where would you aim? The chest, or the head?"

It was those words that triggered something in you—a switch that should never have been flipped.

The world slowed, as if time had been captured in a slow-motion sequence unfolding right before your eyes. A fragment of reason, and something else you hadn't felt in ages, broke through the chaos in your mind, commanding your body for one fleeting second—the single second of adrenaline you needed to act. Instinct took over, focusing solely on eliminating the threat in front of you. That familiar tingling sensation sparked in your eyes, a sensation you hadn't felt in years. There was no stopping it now.

With one hand, you shoved Silco hard, pushing those burning hands away from your skin, while the other reached for the gun strapped to his holster. You barely registered the sound of him hitting the wooden table—that was all you needed to aim precisely where he stood.

Silco was right, after all.

You didn't hesitate.

The sound of the gunshot exploded in the room, loud and deafening. The recoil jolted your arms, and the echo reverberated like thunder in your head. For a moment, everything was silent except for the sharp ringing in your ears. Your fingers loosened, and the gun slipped from your hand, clattering to the floor with a metallic clang.

You felt your nose begin to bleed, the sensation of the recoil never pleasant, but it wasn't until the tingling in your eyes subsided that you realized they had closed. An involuntary reaction, an attempt to refuse to face what was about to happen. As if shutting your eyes could somehow erase the consequences.

Slowly, almost as if afraid of what you'd see, you opened your eyes. But what you found wasn't blood or a fallen body. It was a thick green smoke hanging in the air, swirling ominously. Before you could react, the substance invaded your nostrils, burning your lungs with a heavy, suffocating sensation. You tried to cover your face with your hands, but it was already too late.

Whatever the smoke was, it acted almost instantly.

A violent cough overtook you. Your body convulsed, your lungs ablaze as you desperately tried not to breathe in more of the noxious fumes. Your knees gave out, and you collapsed to the floor, your legs unable to support your weight. Everything around you began to spin, and a crushing sensation engulfed every fiber of your being. Your vision started to darken, the world around you fading as you fought futilely against the creeping unconsciousness.

"A shot to the head. Quick and merciful..." Silco's voice echoed distantly, muffled, as though it was coming from a dream. "How fascinating."

You thought you were hallucinating. Maybe it was just the smoke, warping your perception, but then you saw him. Silco's imposing figure emerged from the green haze. He walked slowly, each step resonating like a drumbeat in your head. The gas mask covering his face was confirmation of what you should have suspected: he had planned everything. From the very beginning—every word, every provocation, the gun most likely tampered with—it had all been calculated to lead you to this exact moment. You had fallen into his trap.

He crouched in front of you, observing in silence. When your body finally gave out, unable to resist any longer, and your mind faltered, your resistance shattering like broken glass, his eyes were the last thing you saw before slipping into unconsciousness.

Even on the brink of oblivion, you were aware when he pulled you close. Silco's arms, surprisingly warm and firm, enveloped your limp body with a strength that was both possessive and oddly comforting. There was something cruelly gentle in the gesture, as if he were cradling a precious object that was rightfully his. You felt the faint touch of his fingers gliding through your hair—a distorted, profoundly wrong caress, yet somehow... familiar.

"You're safe now, dove."

Part 5

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Golden Pt. 5 - Weasley Twins x Reader

Hi everyone! Thank you for all the support on the last few chapters. I have really enjoyed writing this fanfic, and I hope y'all like reading it. This is probably my favorite one yet. Enjoy!

Again, 18+, minors dni. Love you all. <3

Other parts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

George had decided that he would, in fact, be joining you in Hogsmeade. He wasted no time in getting ready, clearly not wanting to leave you alone with his twin for any longer. For someone who didn't care about you, he sure was fucking jealous.

Leaving the shop hit you with the truth of reality like a brick to the chest. Diagon Alley was desolate and destroyed, the shop one of the only businesses still in operation. You clung to Fred. "He's growing stronger, isn't he?" you asked, though even you knew it wasn't a question so much as a statement. Fred leaned down to kiss your temple. "I'm afraid so. But nothing will happen to you while you're with us." "With Fred, at least," George smirked, moving to the front of the charge. "I'm more of an every man for himself type of guy." Fred rolled his eyes. "Ignore him." He laced his fingers into yours and for a moment, your heart stopped beating. A coy smile took its place on your lips as you looked up to find a matching one on his.

"So what all do we need in Hogsmeade?" you finally asked as you walked to the edge of Diagon Alley. A group of wizards had set up an anti-apparition barrier within the streets of the town, hoping to increase its protection against Dark Magic. The borders were patrolled, which did a little to ease your anxiety.

"As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, I think it's time you get some of your own," Fred laughs, his words bringing a blush to your cheeks. "I have also decided to turn our office into a temporary bedroom for you, until you feel more comfortable in ours."

Your heart jumped again. Every so often, ,you would forget that these two were your soulmates, not just a new relationship. Eventually you would all share a bedroom, and a bed, and a life. Your future was as intertwined as your fingers. George finally looked back at the two of you, glancing for only a moment at your hands, then back ahead of him.

"We're at the edge," he said firmly. "I'll apparate us." He reached out one hand to his brother, then one to you. The same pulse of energy ran through you as you touched. You were completely wrapped around the finger of the two, and unsure if it was exciting or terrifying.

The village of Hogsmeade was still as beautiful as it had always been. Since it was an inhabited city of wizards, it was harder to vandalize unnoticed.

"I'll go get the bedroom furniture," George said, immediately dropping your hand. He was gone before anyone could protest. Fred barely noticed, taking a moment to pull you into him, kissing your forehead lightly. "Let's go get you some clothes, love."

Fred made sure you had clothes for every occasion, but your eyes always drifted to the dresses on the racks. He insisted that you needed every one you tried on, eyes raking your body with each new fabric. He even went so far as to outfit you with a slinky silk nightdress that he had adored. If it hadn't fallen slightly past your bum, he would've insisted you go home in it. Instead, he picked out a soft red sundress for you to wear the rest of the day. By the time you were finished, Fred's hands were full of bags, and George was waiting outside.

"Did the princess do some damage in there?" George asked with a smirk. Your own face dropped at his use of your nickname - the one he had only used as his hands had fucked you. "She wouldn't have needed so much if we hadn't basically kidnapped her," Fred laughed. "Where's all the shit you were supposed to get?" "Delivered and assembled," he smiled. "I go above and beyond, dear brother." Fred rolled his eyes. "Let me drop this off and we can grab dinner at the Three Broomsticks. Could you two get us a table without killing each other?" You smiled. "I think we can manage." You placed a kiss on Fred's cheek before he apparated away.

"How long are you going to wait to tell him that I've been inside of you?" You groaned. "I don't know, George. You'll be happy to know you've put me in quite the fucking predicament. So I'm sure you're bloody elated." "He can't be too mad, considering you're fucking him, too." All of the color drained from your face as you stopped in your tracks. You took a moment to regain your composure. "I am. He's my soulmate and he's fucking nice to me." You took a step closer to George. "I would do anything for him." George took a step closer to you, closing the distance between you, before leaning down to whisper in your ear. "I didn't even have to be nice to get you to open your legs." You spun to slap him, but he caught your hand, holding it tightly within his grasp. "No need for violence, princess. Unless that's what you like."

Upon arriving at the Three Broomsticks, the two of you took a booth at the back of the restaurant, George slipping in beside of you. "You really have to sit next to me?" you asked. "Unfortunately. The only thing worse than sitting next to you is sitting across from you and having to look into your eyes the whole evening. I'll leave Fred that torture." "Fred actually likes me, George. Even though you seem hellbent on stopping him from doing so." "It takes two to tango, sweetheart. You know as well as I do that you wanted last night to happen. Probably can't wait for it to happen again." "You're the one who came onto me. You wanted it as much as I did."

George shifted in his seat to look you straight in the eye. As he did, he snaked his hand under your dress and up the middle of your thighs, only stopping at your core. You squirmed from his touch, but his thumb found its way to your clit and his index to your already soaking entrance. He leaned in to your ear, using his free hand to push back your hair. "Like I said, seems like you can't wait for it to happen again." You pushed him off of you, face only reddening as he took his fingers into his mouth to clean them off. "Mm, sweet as honey, princess."

"What is?" Fred asked, sliding across from the two of you. "George what the hell did you do to her?" he added upon seeing your reddened face. "I didn't do anything, Freddie. The poor thing is just embarrassed she's never had Butterbeer." "Never?" Fred asked. You shook your head - a lie, but it would do. "Didn't think I'd like it."

Fred immediately jumped into action, ordering a round of Butterbeer to go with your meals. Hopefully you feigned surprise well when you tasted it for the 'first time'. Fred seemed to buy it, at least. George tried to ignore you the entire evening.

He was successful until you arrived home. "Let me show you your bedroom," he called, not checking to see if you were following before he started walking away. Your bedroom was on the first floor of the shop, nestled cozily in the back. Though the room wasn't very big, George had managed to fit a bed, dresser, and desk into the space. Fred had already spelled your clothes away, filling in the new dresser. "This is incredible. Thank -" you turned to thank George, but he was already gone. Your blood grew hot - he was not going to humiliate you and then ignore you for the rest of the evening. He was going to fucking pay.

At the very top of one of your drawers held the black silk dress. You quickly stripped into nothing but the nightdress, letting your hair fall loose on your shoulders to accompany it. It was beautiful, and you needed to thank Fred for getting it for you.

You didn't bother with a robe or slippers as you ascended the staircase to the twins' room. You knocked on the already opened doorframe, grabbing the attention of Fred first. "Holy shit," he murmured, taking in your body like he was seeing it for the first time. You entered their room, noting George's agape mouth as you moved. "I just wanted to thank you both for putting my room together. I'm the luckiest girl on the planet to have you," you said, smiling at Fred.

"I'm the lucky one," Fred murmured, fingers slipping up and down your frame. "You're so fucking beautiful." You kissed him tenderly, heart melting at his words. "I love you, Fred," you whispered, words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

George pulled the two of you apart. "All right, get the fuck out of here and go to bed." "What the fuck, George?" Fred asked. "She's clearly drunk, Fred! She needs to go the fuck to bed." "No, I'm not!" you protested. "I had like two Butterbeers." "Apparently, you're a lightweight, then." You looked at Fred to back you up, but his face was downturned. "Your face is super flushed, love. Maybe you should get some rest." "I'll make sure she gets downstairs, then she's on her own. Tomorrow is a big day for all of us and I need a fucking shower." "Goodnight, love," Fred called. "Goodnight, Fred," you frowned. "I do love you." His expression didn't change.

As soon as you were in your room, George locked the door behind you and cast a silencing spell on the room. "I am not drunk, George. What the hell is wrong with you?" "What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with you? You clearly came up there to try and seduce me. And then you tell Fred you fucking love him? He is not a tool to fucking abuse."

You threw a pillow at him, which he wordlessly deflected. "Not everything is about you!" you yell. "I do love him! More than anything," you voice quiets with each word. You draw in a shaky breath as you lower onto the bed.

George walks over to you, holding your chin in his hands. His eyes glare daggers into yours. "I don't believe you." Your gaze doesn't break. "I don't need you to." "I'll tell him. Everything." "And what is 'everything', exactly? That you fingered me? That you want to fuck me? That you need me as much as I need you?" His grip tightened, pulling you to your feet. "I do not need you. I don't even fucking want you."

In one swift motion, you reversed your spots, pushing George onto the bed. He stared up at you as you held your fingertips to his chest, holding him in place. "For someone who doesn't want me, you seem to spend a lot of time inside of me." He laughed. "Because you're fucking easy. It didn't even take a full day to get with you. It didn't take two before you were with both of us."

You pushed him back farther onto the bed, straddling him. "I think you're the easy one, Georgie. If I was so easy, I would've made you cum instead of your brother." "Fuck you," he snarls, grabbing a handful of your hair. "If you'd like," you retort, grinding your already wet cunt against him. He's clearly hard underneath of you, despite the layers of clothing separating him from you. "Fucking slut," he groans, wrapping an arm around your back to support your position. "I'll stop if you want me to," you repeat his own words back to him. "But I don't think you want me to."

"Fuck," he groaned. "I need you right fucking now." His nails dug through your slinky dress and into the skin underneath, pulling you as close to him as he could. "Thought you didn't want me, Georgie? Now you need me?" you mocked, slowing your hips to almost a stop. George brought his hands to your hips, moving you against him once more. Your core ignited, but you held your moans.

George did not hold his. His teeth sank into your neck, leaving bite marks and kisses from your hairline to your clavicle. When he bit into your earlobe, your first moan escaped your lips. "There you go, baby girl, let it out." His fingers moved from your waist to your cunt, tracing your entrance. "So wet for me already," he laughed. His lips returned to your ear. "Let me take care of you."

You slowed to a stop once more, taking in the labored breathing and flushed face of the man before you. "What happened to every man for himself?" You leaned into his neck, whispering in his ear. "I'm not letting someone fuck me who wouldn't protect me from a Death Eater."

His face grows hard as you stand from him. Before you can exit the room, he pulls you onto the bed, pinning your hands. On instinct, your legs kick at him with all your might, causing him to straddle you to restrain you. "You don't have to fuck me, princess. But, you will know that I would protect you with my last fucking breath. I would lay down my life to save yours. So you can go to Fred to satisfy your needs, but you will not go under the impression that I would ever betray you."

After a moment, he frees your hands, which immediately latch onto his shoulders and pull him into you. For the first time, your lips meet, starving for touch. George can't get close enough to you, holding you by the waist and hair, locking your body against his. You begin reaching for the seam of his jeans, but he grabs your wrists with one hand and holds them over your head, using the other to hold open your legs as he sinks into your pussy. A moan rips through you as he licks stripes up and down your core, taking particular interest in your clit. He moans as he devours you, eliciting another string of moans and curses from your lips.

You cry out when he pulls away, devastatingly close to orgasm. "You taste so good, baby girl, but I need to feel you cum on my cock. Do you want that?" You nod, but he shakes his head. "I need words, princess." "Yes, please." With a wave of his hand, the rest of his clothes were gone. Even though he had seen most of your body, you had seen none of his. You drank in the sight of him, memorizing every curve of his body like it was the last time you'd ever see it. He lined himself up at your entrance, the contact alone making you moan. "You ready?" he asks. "Please," you beg, your body aching for his.

He pushes in slow, a mixture of his moans and yours filling the room. "You feel so fucking good," he finally says once he's bottomed out. You smile up at him, too fucked to say any actual words. "So fucking beautiful with my cock in you, princess." He thrusts into you again, pulling moans from your mouth like a prayer. His pace quickens to a breakneck speed, bringing you right to the edge of orgasm once more. "I'm gonna-" you start, before a new wave of moans leave your lips as his thumb connects with your clit. "Cum, baby girl. Come for me."

Once again, his words send you over the edge, orgasm exploding through you like a bomb. Your moans turn into screams of his name as you ride out the orgasm. Your cunt spasms from the aftershock, drawing out George's orgasm, spilling himself into you. Without a word, he spells away his seed, leaving you empty of him. You groan at his absence, but he lays beside you and pulls you into his chest. You burrow deep into him, inhaling his scent. His fingers trail patterns on your back, leaving only goosebumps in their wake.

No one speaks for ages, and you were sure George was asleep before he whispers three words. "I love you."

Tears fill your eyes as guilt fills your heart. "I love you, too."

***

Okay, I hope you all love this chapter because I loved writing it!! We will unfortunately have some angst coming up, but I promise to make up for it with a ton of fluff! Let me know how you're liking the story so far and if you would like added to the taglist! I try to add everyone who asks, and I am very sorry if I forget anyone!

Taglist (sorry if I miss anyone): @rk-ceres @foji2000 @hazilyss, @f-e-222 @luthien-elvenia-asher @trashy-panda777 @rhunew @crossedskulls @shadowmoonlight0604 @mochiseni @jenniferpendragon @fonderaura @pyromaniac-fairy-of-water @theveiledlibrarian, @xmadigurlx, @maxsisly, @meg-cal, @ivseceret

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

Girl I need to know what happened at home in "Playing Dangerously" bring a second chapter home please

Part 1: Playing Dangerous

THE END OF THE GAME

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: a lot of tension, +18 content, p in v, unprotected sex, dom!Jude, dirty talk, possesive behaivor, and probably mistakes since english is not my first language.

summary: After a night of shameless teases that push Jude to his limits, you think you've won. However, the anger between you is still there, and you both prove it in a battle for control, releasing all the unspoken tension with touches instead of words. Every gesture becomes a declaration, every caress, a fight. In the end, all he wants is to hear you say it—to speak the truth: that you are his and he is yours.

Jude´s kiss wasn’t gentle—it was all fire and frustration, an explosion of the tension that had been simmering between you two all night. His lips claimed yours with a desperate sort of hunger, his hands framing your face as if to keep you from escaping this time. You gasped against him, startled by the intensity, but the sound only seemed to spur him on, his grip tightening, his lips demanding every ounce of your attention.

Your hands found their way to his chest, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren’t sure. Anger still lingered within you, but desire burned even stronger. But as his lips moved against yours, all traces of anger were swallowed by the sheer heat of the moment. His kiss was a mix of punishment and possession, and you felt it in every brush of his lips, every sweep of his tongue, and every barely restrained sound rumbling from his chest.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands slid down to your waist, holding you firmly in place. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and searching, as if trying to read your every thought. He could do it if he set his mind to it.

“You done playing games yet?” Jude asked, his voice rough, laced with challenge and desire. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against your hip, his touch warm and electric even through the thin fabric of your dress.

Behind you, the car’s cool metal frame pressed into your back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. The glossy black paint gleamed under the soft light, creating an almost cinematic reflection of the two of you locked in this intimate, charged moment.

You bit your lip, struggling to catch your breath, but the defiance in your gaze hadn’t faded. “Not even close,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but still firm.

Jude let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver through you. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours again, teasing, as if he were testing your resolve.

“Maybe I just like seeing you like this,” you shot back, a sly smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “All worked up over me.”

Jude’s mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smirk, but the fire in his eyes never wavered. His fingers slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you—woodsy with a hint of spice, intoxicatingly familiar. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours, his breath brushing against your skin. “Oh, I’m worked up, all right,” he said, his voice low and filled with a dark promise. “But you’re not going to like where this leads if you keep pushing me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the warning in his tone sending a thrill through you. But you weren’t ready to back down—not yet. “I´m sure I will,” you challenged, your voice softer now, almost a whisper.

His smirk returned, sharper this time. Without another word, he opened the passenger door and gestured for you to get in, his grip on your waist lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You hesitated, searching his face for some hint of what was going through his mind, but his expression was unreadable, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place.

As you slid into the car, he leaned in close, his hand bracing against the doorframe. “You’re in so much trouble,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear in a way that made your breath hitch. Before you could respond, he shut the door with a quiet finality, rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat with an air of calm that only made your nerves buzz louder. He took his time and you were hating his pace.

The drive home was silent, but the tension between you was almost unbearable. Every glance, every shift in his posture, every brush of his hand against the gear shift seemed deliberate, calculated, as if he were silently daring you to speak first.

When he finally pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, he turned to you, a flicker of something unreadable—mischievous, almost predatory—dancing in his dark, unrelenting eyes. "Inside," he said, the low, commanding tone of his voice making your pulse race. The corner of his mouth quirked, just slightly, as if he was savoring the way your breath hitched.

You hesitated for just a second, your defiance flickering, but the look in his eyes left no room for argument. Swallowing hard, you stepped out of the car and walked toward the door, aware of him following close behind. The heat of his presence was almost suffocating, and your heart raced as you fumbled with the keys, finally pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Jude’s hands were on you again, spinning you around and pinning you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, this time even more intense, more urgent, as if he couldn’t stand the distance any longer. His hands roamed your body, sliding over your hips and up your sides, pulling you against him with a desperation that left you breathless.

“You think you can play with me like that?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low, each word sending a shiver down your spine. “Flirting with him, touching him, laughing like that—like I wasn’t even there? Y/N, you made me watch every single one of your fucking movements.”

Your hands gripped his shirt, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his words and the heat of his touch. “I wasn’t—” you started, but he cut you off with another searing kiss, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that made you gasp.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice a soft growl as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he searched your gaze. “You wanted to make me jealous. You wanted to get under my skin. Well, congratulations, love. You got exactly what you wanted.”

His words sent a rush of adrenaline through you, your heart skipping a beat as his lips trailed down to your neck, leaving a trail of heated and wet kisses that made your knees weak. “Jude…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he didn’t stop, his hands tightening on your waist as if to anchor you to him.

“Say it,” he murmured against your skin, his lips hovering just below your ear. “Say you’re mine.”

His words weren’t a request—they were a command. As much as you wanted to fire back with that undeniable truth, you clung tightly to your anger and defiance. “No,” you whispered, your voice quivering, caught somewhere between anticipation and need.

Jude leaned back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes ablaze with frustration and something deeper, something that sent a sharp ache through your chest in the most intoxicating way. “If that’s how you want this to go...” he muttered, his voice low and heavy with emotion.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out, but surrendering to him—at least, not yet—wasn’t an option. Nevertheless, you couldn’t help blaming your hormones, your curiosity, and whatever god had blessed Jude Bellingham with the face of an angel and the body of a god of wanting to give up. But the night was still young. The leather of the nearest couch you two found, groaned as you shifted closer, your knees brushing against his. The moment you were within arm's reach, he hooked one arm around your back, effortlessly pulling you onto his lap.

Jude’s grip on your hips was firm, his lips pressing hard against yours as if he was trying to erase every thought from your mind. The intensity in his touch sent shivers down your spine, every brush of his hand leaving trails of heat in its wake. His fingers slid up, curling into the curve of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. The kiss was relentless—no room for air, no chance to think. It was all Jude, all consuming, and you couldn’t help but respond, your own hands tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to hear the low groan that rumbled in his chest.

His mouth trailed down to your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before finding the spot at your neck that made your breath hitch. The sensation was electric, your body arching into his instinctively, your head tilting back to give him more access.

Your breath came in uneven gasps, your head spinning from the intensity of his touch and the heat of his breath against your skin. Part of you wanted to argue, to tease him further, but every inch of your body was on fire, his dominance leaving you no room to think. Still, you weren’t about to surrender so easily—not without one last shot.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Your lips curved into a playful smile, the mischief in your eyes igniting a flicker of challenge in his. “You’re awfully bossy, you know that?”

Jude’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement, his hands tightening on your hips. The possessiveness in his grip was thrilling, his strength holding you in place as if daring you to keep pushing. “And you’re a brat,” he shot back, his voice low and laced with a mix of annoyance and adoration. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The tension crackled between you. Every inch of your skin was alive with anticipation as Jude’s presence seemed to take up every corner of the room. His voice, soft but commanding, lingered in the air. “This is what you wanted, isn´t it?”

Your breath hitched, and despite yourself, you nodded. It was a dangerous game you were playing. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to pull away, to put an end to it—but the pull between you were undeniable. His eyes never left yours, like a predator studying its prey, and you could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

He took a step forward, his every movement deliberate, measured. His fingers brushed against your cheek, a featherlight caress that sent a shiver through you. “Don’t play anymore,” he whispered, almost tenderly.

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to speak. Instead, you clenched your jaw, trying to hold your ground. His smirk deepened, amusement dancing in his eyes as he saw the battle within you.

His hand slid down the curve of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your pulse, sending a rush of warmth straight to your core.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Tell me, do you want this?”

His words wrapped around you like a chain, but still, you couldn’t find your voice. The space between you seemed impossibly small now. His hand traveled lower, skimming the edge of your clothing, and you sucked in a breath as the pressure between you mounted. His closeness was overwhelming, suffocating, yet you didn’t want him to pull away.

You closed your eyes, but the image of his smirk, that knowing, teasing grin, stayed with you. You wanted to break. You wanted to submit. But pride kept you on the edge, unsure whether to give in completely or to keep fighting.

Jude stopped then, just as you felt you might drown in the heat of the moment. His lips hovered inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours in the stillness. His eyes searched yours, waiting for you to make the first move.

You stayed silent, your lips barely parted, your body aching for more. He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his mouth, and his fingers brushed over your jawline, tracing the curve of your face like a forbidden promise. “You’ll break,” he murmured, the words a low, knowing promise.

The game was no longer about control—it was about surrender. And as much as you fought it, you felt yourself slipping, falling into his hands.

Jude’s teeth skimmed your bottom lip, tugging just hard enough to draw a gasp from you before his tongue swept over the tender spot, soothing the sting. His fingers tangled in your hair, his grip firm yet achingly gentle as he pulled back, his lips hovering over yours. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice rough, laced with undeniable conviction. “Only mine.”

The words sent a wave of nervousness through you, raising goosebumps along your skin, igniting something deep and unshakable. You tried to stifle the teasing retort forming on your lips, but defiance slipped through unbidden. “Then deserve it,” you blurted, the challenge clear in your voice.

Jude's jaw tightened at your words, the challenge in your tone igniting a flicker of anger in his eyes. He stopped smirking, and bit the inside of his cheek. His lips hovered close to your ear, his voice low and rough as he murmured, “You never learn, do you?”

Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you towards the bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him with finality, the sound echoing through the room. He set you down with a harsh press against the matress, his hands still gripping you with an iron-like hold.

As Jude’s hands roamed your sides, his touch shifting from heated to deliberate, his gaze bore into yours, dark and unrelenting. He was holding back just enough to tease you, to make you feel the weight of his control. His fingers found the zipper of your dress, tugging it down in one smooth, almost punishing motion. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet as his eyes raked over you, predatory and sharp.

But when he saw the bare skin beneath, his hands froze for just a moment. A sharp, almost feral grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “No underwear?” The amusement in his tone sent a shiver through you, and the heat of his gaze made it impossible to look away.

Your cheeks burned as you stammered, “I didn’t want lines showing through the dress...”

He leaned in, smirking, his lips a breath away from yours, his voice low and rough, each word like a match striking against your resolve. “You’re such a tease,” he said, the words dripping with a mix of annoyance and raw desire. “Did you want me to loose my mind?”

Your blush deepened, but the challenge in his tone reignited the fire in your chest. “Did you?”

Jude’s gaze darkened, the flicker of anger in his eyes giving way to something far more dangerous. “What am I going to do?” he repeated, his voice a low, predatory murmur. His fingers slid up your bare skin, his touch igniting every nerve as he leaned in, his lips grazing your neck before finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Oh, love,” he said, his voice a mix of threat and promise, “I’m going to ruin you.”

All feminism had apparently left your body, because the way he grunted that crude declarations made your thighs shudder with anticipation. Sexual repression was something you had lived with for the last couple of weeks since you two started fighting and his hands around your body felt better than ever.

Your legs opened wider for him as he left kisses along the valley of your breasts, his tongue sweeping down below your erected nipples. The room began to spin, all your senses completely tethered to him. His hands groped at your ass, using it as leverage to rock his covered length into your center. The delicious friction builds as butterflies swarmed your stomach. God, it has never felt this good.

Craving more, thirsty for more than foreplay, you dropped your hands to his lap. Your nimble fingers work on his button and zipper. You ghosted past the shadows in his pants, feeling him, knowing he wanted this just as bad as you did, but he was refusing to help you pull his jeans off, or at least down enough so he could be exposed.

“Jude, some help?” you groaned, hating how gutted you sounded, how needy.

“I’m not doing shit until you tell me what I want to hear.” His mouth continues to assault your neck and chest, the cool air making goosebumps race across your body as it hits the warm places on your throat where his wet tongue had been.

“You want me to tell you⁠—”

“Confess,” he butted in, grabbing a fistful of your hair. “I want you to confess me the truth. The undeniable thruth. That you´re mine, only mine.” That tone again, rubbing you in all the places you never knew you needed. It was obvious that he didn’t like the stunts you’d pulled during dinner.

Your breath shook as you looked up from his waist, diving into his hellfire eyes that spark and sizzle in the dim light. Such a unique version of brown. “Then tell me you are mine,” you whispered, pressing your mouth into his for a kiss that felt like falling. Your heart raced inside your rib cage, thudding over and over again. “Tell me you´re mine and not hers.”

His nostrils flare, and his hands grabbed you harder, as if holding onto control—or maybe letting it slip. The argument was still fresh in your mind, the reason why all of this had started, like a wound that refused to close. The campaign. The model. His silence was worse than all the yelling from weeks and hours ago, and you could feel your stomach sink.

The seconds stretch, his eyes still locked on yours, and when he finally spoke, his voice is a low, smoldering growl. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

He grunted, raising his hips to shove his tight jeans down his waist enough to release himself. You widened your eyes, looking down as his hard cock rested against his stomach.

You raised your hips, directing his cock to your entrance. Lowering yourself onto him gradually, you felt every single inch enter you at your own pace. You whimpered as you felt him stretch you open, forcing his way into your dripping walls. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the process. It’s almost an unbearable amount of pleasure that rides through you when you´re fully sitting on his lap.

The sound of him groaning turns your attention back to him. Beneath you, his head presses into the pillows, his toned arms gripping you as his fingers clutched at your hips, all the veins in his throat bulging as he flexes his jaw, grunting out, “Fuck.”

You were at a live wire of sensations in this moment that you couldn’t fathom happening with anyone else. Eager to please him and craving release, you started to lift your hips up and down. His length rubbed every inch of you on the inside, tickling that sensitive spot along with every other spot. It was touching everywhere all at once, so many places, it was overwhelming. Your limbs felt light and heavy at the same time as you rolled your hips against him.

A groan rumbled in his chest, letting you know what you were doing was working for him just as much as it was for you. “Look at you looking so good ridin’ my cock,” he mumbled, full of rasp, low eyes watching you. His hands were now occupied touching your breasts as you rode him.

You were soaked, thoroughly stretched and perfected for him. You had him exactly where you wanted—beneath you, pinned, with you in control. The rhythm you set was intoxicating, a slow burn, a tease that left both of you breathless. But then his hands lowered and tightened on your hips, a subtle warning that sent a shiver cascading down your spine, you knew that his restraint was slipping, his patience worn thin.

In a single fluid motion, he reversed the tide, his movements deliberate, commanding. The haziness of his earlier submission vanished, replaced by something raw, undeniable, and entirely him. He had let you play, but now it was his turn to have fun.

He encircled your waist, forcing you down his shaft. Your bodies scoot to the edge of the bed so that he could piston his hips into your hole. With hunger and traces of rage, he grabbed again your exposed tits. He did not give you a single moment to settle because soon, your nipple was between his teeth, his soft tongue spinning circles around it.

“Jude, oh my God,” you panted, sweat already sticking to your forehead.

You moved together in sync, rocking your bodies into one another. You felt every single thrust, letting your bodies slam together over and over again. Your head lolled back while your fingers buried themselves into his shoulder blades.

He growled, the sound reverberating through you like a primal command. His hands tightened their grip, driving him to thrust into you with an intensity that left you gasping. You let him guide you, manhandle you, surrendering completely to his control. “See? You’re my good girl.”

His pace was merciless now, a rhythm that left no room for thought, only sensation. Your legs trembled, teetering on the edge of collapse, but his firm hold kept you exactly where he wanted you. Tears welled in your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming flood of pleasure coursing through you.

He had promised this—promised to unravel you, to leave you utterly undone—and now he was keeping that promise with devastating precision. He was ruining you, in the most exquisite way possible.

“I’m going to come. Make me come, Jude, please,” you cried wildly, suddenly not caring about anything else but the pleasure.

“Beg for it, baby, beg for it. Only I can make you feel like this.”

You nodded eagerly. “Please, please, Jude, please.” His hands went down to trace circles in your clit, and it was unberable.

You were aching all over. Fire, consumig you as you climbed higher towards your orgasm. You quivered, the air taken out of your lungs as ecstasy pumped in your veins. All that came from you are broken cries as he continued to plunge, flutters and spasms racking through you. Pleasure thrummed through your body, toes curling as you drift through the most intense orgasm of your life. Now, the heat that once consumed you was replaced by a deep blush spreading across your tear-streaked cheeks, the salt of your tears mixing with the lingering haze of pleasure. Each shaky breath drew attention to the raw vulnerability etched into your expression, a testament to how completely he had undone you.

“Beautiful,” he uttered huskily. You were not even sure that’s what you actually heard, too numb from bliss to truly comprehend.

Your limbs felt heavy and your eyes were shut tight as he raced after his own release, pumping with ruthless thrusts that made your core tighten with indescribable pleasure. Jude’s fingers delved between your thighs, finding your clit again and immediately applying pressure.

“Wait, wait, I can’t. S-so sensitive,” you whimpered, your hand shooting down to his wrist, gripping it to try and prevent him from making your entire body combust.

It’s so intense that you could feel your eyes starting to water. Again. His fingers didn’t stop, and neither did his hips, “One more. Be my good girl. One more.”

He moaned, his thumb speeding up to match his thrusts. That familiar build hit your core, a long whine falling from your lips. “Fuck, I can’t,” you mewled, but your body said otherwise, tightening around him once again.

“You can. You can because I said so.”

And you did. You came again, your body gripping him with a desperate intensity, drawing him deeper, tighter, until every inch of him was enveloped in your heat. Your cries turned into broken whimpers, the sound raw and helpless as your second climax tore through you, leaving you trembling and breathless.

Jude’s growl turned into a guttural moan, a sound that reverberated through his chest and into yours as he thrust one final time, burying himself fully. The moment he stilled, his lips claimed yours with fervor. The kiss was searing, full of hunger and release, his mouth devouring yours with no pretense of gentleness. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before his tongue swept in, deepening the kiss as his hands tightened on your hips, holding you against him like he never wanted to let go.

You melted into him, your lips moving in perfect rhythm with his, matching the intensity of his passion. Your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer as he tilted his head to kiss you deeper, exploring every inch of your mouth with aching thoroughness.

As the storm of sensations began to settle, his lips softened against yours, the urgency ebbing into something slower, more tender. When the kiss finally broke, both of you were breathless, your foreheads pressing together as your shared gasps mingled in the stillness. His thumb brushed over your cheek, catching the lingering tears as his lips ghosted over yours once more.

His long eyelashes tickled the side of your face. You could barely feel his fingers when they started playing with your hair, twirling around your strands. The room was quiet now, the intensity of moments before replaced by a soothing calm. A warm glow from a bedside lamp cast gentle shadows across the room, and the air felt thick with the intimacy of the moment.

He lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, his other hand brushing delicate fingers over you. Your eyes fluttered closed as if you were savoring the way his touch made you feel utterly cherished.

“You're it for me,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. It was as if the words carried the weight of his entire soul. “There's no one else. There couldn't be. You're all I want, all I’ll ever need.”

Before you could respond, he leaned down, pressing the sweetest of kisses to your forehead. It lingered, firm and grounding, as though he wanted to etch the moment into your skin.

“You’re my world, you know?” His lips moved to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth, each touch more tender than the last. “I couldn’t love you more if I tried. I don’t even think it’s possible.” His words were laced with conviction, yet there was an almost boyish softness in the way he looked at you, as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

You let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed due to the sensations that you had felt but comforted. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, and brought it to your lips. “You don’t have to try,” you whispered. Your voice trembled, but your smile was radiant. “I love you so much, Jude...”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward but rich with meaning. You could see how his eyes softened, how his features eased into an expression of pure adoration.

“And you know what?” you added, your tone more playful now, but your words brimming with sincerity. “I’m yours. Every part of me. Always.”

He cupped your face, his lips pressed to yours, soft and lingering, a kiss that was less about passion and more about everything he couldn’t put into words. You snuggled closer to him, your bodies fitting together perfectly, and he tucked the blanket around you both, holding you as if to shield you from the world. His hand found yours, fingers entwining naturally, and as your breathing slowed, he pressed a final kiss to your hair.

"Goodnight, my love," he murmured, his voice warm and tender. "I’ve got you."

And in his arms, you felt it—safe, loved, and utterly complete.

a/n: omg.

[mister0ctopus]

apart-mental issues part 3

mini series - jeon jungkook (ongoing)

Pairings: Neighbor JK x Reader

Summary: Just your awkward and embarrassing encounters with your next-door neighbor, Jungkook. This story has three parts.

I LIED. put your clothes back on. this story doesn't have 3 parts. I realized it's going to be too long to fit into just one chapter. I'll probably make it into 4 or 5 chapters, idk idk. Hehehe!!!

PART 3 i want to be a stone in my next life i can’t keep up let me in

Ratings: 18+ ONLY! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Warnings: Explicit language, Mature Contents

Au/Genre: Mini Series, Neighbors, Enemies to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Slow Burn (?)

Word Count: 2.9K

a/n: inspired by when i moved to my new apartment and my next door neighbor wasnt jungkook :(

🐙 Masterlist / AskMe

apart-mental issues part 1 apart-mental issues part 2 apart-mental issues part 3

🗿i want to be a stone in my next life

“A stone.”

“That’s what you want to be in your next life?” Sean asked again, giving you a look like you’d just said the earth is flat.

“Yeah, this life is so tiring. I just wanna chill in the next one,” you justified, fingers flying over your keyboard as you edited your case study due this Friday.

Your dining table was a mess of open textbooks, half-empty coffee mugs, and sticky notes plastered everywhere.

You had been working on this project for days, spending countless hours in the university library with your classmate and case study partner, Sean.

However, today, with only online classes on your schedule, Sean offered to come over to your apartment to save you the hassle of commuting to the university. It was thoughtful of him, knowing you had a shift later at work.

Your eyes strained from staring at the screen too long, and the sleep deprivation didn’t help.

A knock on the door startled you.

“I hope that’s food because I’m starving,” Sean said without looking up.

“I didn’t order anything, but... let me check,” you muttered, standing up.

You opened the door to find Jungkook standing there, holding two large containers. A kiss on your forehead and his usual smirk greeted you. “Hey, you should take a break.”

Your chest tightened, a wave of warmth and guilt washing over you. You hadn’t seen him in almost a week because of your packed schedule. You missed him so much. You couldn’t wait for this case study to be over so you could breathe again.

“Thank you, baby,” you said, smiling as you widened the door. But before he could step inside, his eyes flicked over your shoulder, landing on Sean, hunched over his laptop at the dining table.

“Oh, that’s Sean” you added quickly. “Remember? My partner for the case study.”

“Yeah, you mentioned him before” Jungkook nodded, his expression unreadable.

Then you noticed something. “Wait, why aren’t you at work? You should be at work right now.”

He gave you a soft smile, scrunching his nose and sniffing the way he always did when he tried to downplay his feelings. “It’s our company’s anniversary. We got the day off? You haven’t been reading my texts, have you?”

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t—again. You haven’t been the best at reading and replying to his messages. You didn’t mean to. Not intentionally. It was just you’d been so focused on your case study. Your phone, where even was your phone—

“Baby?” Jungkook’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

“Oh, yeah... I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ve just been so busy, and I forgot to check…”

“S’okay,” he cut you off, his voice calm and gentle, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know you’re busy.” He shifted slightly, adjusting the containers in his hands before holding them out to you. “I just dropped off some food, but I’m heading out now. I’m meeting the guys and Tae’s family for lunch.”

“Oh! Why? What’s the occasion?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

Jungkook gave you tight smile, his eyes lingered on the floor. “It’s Tae’s birthday.”

Oh, right. Now you remember. He told you last week. He even asked you to choose a color for the hat he bought as a gift. You chose brown over black. You groaned, shutting your eyes as the realization hit.

“I’m so sorry!” You rubbed your temples in frustration with yourself.

“Hey it’s ok” he said,  giving your shoulder a light squeeze.

Your thoughts raced, mentally kicking yourself. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Thank you for the food.” You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“See you tonight after work?” He asked softly.

“Yeah, see you tonight!” you replied with a giggle. “Tell Tae happy birthday. I’m sorry for my fault,” you added, your tone light as you referenced an inside joke he’d shared with you.

He nodded and chuckled softly but didn’t respond, holding your door so you could get back inside while holding the containers.

You turned back inside, placing the containers on the counter as Sean looked up, wide-eyed. “Holy shit, that’s a lot! Who’s that from?”

“Oh, my… next door neighbor,” you said absentmindedly, guilt gnawing at your chest.

“Sweet,” Sean mumbled, obviously distracted and unaware of his surroundings, already back to typing.

Grabbing your phone from under a pile of papers, you unlocked it to find a string of unread messages from Jungkook.

nextdoor<3: [7:15 AM] good morning my beautiful baby 😘 youre just home this morning for online class right? [7:45 AM] baby? still asleep? I don’t want to bother you.. but just reminding you I’m home this morning [8:16 AM] heyyy.. can I come over during your lecture? just want to see you 🥹 [8:32 AM] do you have company? I heard noise.. [9:36 AM] I’m coming over, made you some food.

You stared at the messages, your chest tightening. He’d sent them hours ago. God, hours.

You hadn’t even noticed. It always happened when things got overwhelming, everything else outside the chaos just faded into the background.

You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands.

“You got that chart we made last week?” Sean’s voice pulled you back from your spiraling thoughts.

“Uh… yeah, one sec,” you muttered, rifling through a stack of papers.

Fuck, I can’t keep up.

☠️ i can’t keep up

"YN, can you cover the closing shift?" Your manager’s voice sliced through your foggy mind like a knife. You barely had time to register her words before she continued, practically pleading, "I'm so sorry, Amy and Lia called in sick, and I can’t leave it to the new girl."

"Seems like I don’t have a choice, do I?" You smiled through the pain, already knowing the answer.

Her face lit up with relief as she gave you an apologetic smile. “Sorry! I promise you’ll get an extra day off once they’re back.” She hurried off to greet a table that had just walked in, leaving you to mentally prepare for the hours ahead.

This week had felt like it dragged on forever, maybe the longest, most exhausting one of your life.

You had to put a pause on your case study with Sean this morning when you rushed off to work, and now, coming in to an understaffed shift.

You caught Rosie’s eye, one of your friends and fellow servers, as she wiped down a table.

Both of you exchanged a pained look, her exhausted expression saying it all. She pulled a disgusted face before storming off to the kitchen.

Normally, your shift ended at 10 PM, and you should’ve been home before 11, but tonight you’d be staying until last call, closing down the bar, and prepping the floor for the next day.

The place was buzzing, and you barely had a second to breathe between clearing tables and taking orders, clearing tables and taking orders, clearing tables and taking orders…

Hours passed, and exhaustion slowly crept in. You heard your manager yelling at someone in the kitchen, a table throwing a fit because their negroni was too bitter...

Balancing a tray of drinks, you weaved through the loud, chaotic room. Most of the crowd was tipsy or drunk, their voices blending into a dull roar that made it hard to think straight. Your focus shifted between navigating the tables and keeping the drinks steady, until someone caught your eye.

Sitting in the corner booth was Jungkook.

You hadn’t seen him come in, but there he was, scrolling through his phone.

And that’s when it hit you—like a punch to your gut—you didn’t text him! Again.

You were supposed to let him know you’d be late, but of course, you got distracted. Again.

You meant to send a quick message earlier, but one thing led to another, customers needing refills, tables to bus, orders to run…and you forgot.

Again.

You were supposed to see him tonight. How long had he been waiting for you at home? And why was he here?

You dropped off the tray of empty glasses at the station and hurried over to him, your stomach twisting with guilt.

He looked up when you approached, his expression calm, but there was something in his eyes that made your chest tighten.

It wasn’t disappointment—not the sharp sting of frustration you’d seen in others when you forgot something important.

No, this was worse.

Hurt.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” you started, words tumbling out in a rushed mess. “I didn’t mean to not text you, but I had to cover tonight…” Your voice cracked as the guilt clawed its way up your throat.

“It’s okay,” he said, his tone calm, though there was a tightness to his smile. “I figured something came up. I’m here to pick you up. It’s late, and I know you’re tired."

Your eyes darted to the table, where a half-finished root beer float sat. “How long have you been here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Not long,” he replied, leaning back in the booth and fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie.

You opened your mouth to apologize again, but before you could, a loud crash pulled your attention to a table where a drink had seemingly toppled over, or perhaps fallen, as the guests waved frantically to catch your attention.

“I’ll be right back,” you mumbled, giving him an apologetic look before hurrying off. You felt his eyes follow you as you crossed the room, the weight of his gaze lingering even as you focused on taking the group’s order.

After tending to the mess and getting refills, you made your way to the kitchen when Rosie grabbed your arm, pulling you to the side.

“Confess,” Rosie said firmly, narrowing her eyes at you like she was interrogating a suspect.

“Confess what?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

“Who’s the guy in the corner booth? Boyfriend? Situationship? Secret fling? Because he’s been staring at you since he got here!” She gestured wildly toward Jungkook’s direction.

“We’re…He’s…” You trailed off, your thoughts tangling. What was he? Someone who deserved better than you forgetting things.

“Girl, I swear, I thought you were single as hell this whole time!”

“Well, I am! I mean… we’re not officially together.” You sighed. Does he even want you still?

Rosie slapped her forehead dramatically. “Well, girl??? Secure the bag? Are you kidding? He’s hot!” She groaned loudly, fanning herself with exaggerated flair as she walked away. “Oh my God.”

You shook your head, laughing softly at her antics, but the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You forced yourself back into the flow of the bustling crowd.

Jungkook patiently waited for you in the booth, and you both shared quick glances from time to time.

You closed at 2 am. Every muscle in your body throbbed with exhaustion, your eyelids heavy with the weight of fatigue. Even the thought of changing out of your work clothes felt like climbing a mountain. Instead, you grabbed the t-shirt you’d come in with and pulled it over your crop top. You just want to go home.

Mentally and physically, all you wanted to do was collapse.

↪️ let me in

As you stepped out of the bar, you saw Jungkook standing near the back door, hands in his pockets, waiting.

The dim glow of the streetlights cast soft shadows over his face, but his sharp gaze was unmistakable as it immediately found yours the moment the door creaked open.

The gloomy sky loomed overhead, thick with the promise of rain. The chilly air bit at your bare legs as you walked towards him, your steps sluggish, dragged.

When suddenly, you felt him shuffle beside you, and his familiar scent enveloped you as he draped his unzipped hoodie over your shoulders.

“It’s freezing, baby,” he said softly, his voice warm against the crisp night air. He adjusted his hoodie to make sure it covered you snugly.

The pang of guilt in your chest weighed heavier than the exhaustion in your bones.

“Thank you,” you murmured, offering a tired yet genuine smile as your eyes traced his familiar features.

His hair had grown longer, the ends curling softly. Instinctively, your fingers reached up, brushing through the strands. And as you did, he closed his eyes as he leaned closer to you. A quiet, contented sigh escaped him, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Without a word, he took your bag, slinging it over his shoulder. His other hand found yours, fingers naturally intertwining, offering additional warmth aside from his hoodie draped over you.

The two of you walked to his car in silence, the sound of your footsteps filling the stillness of the night.

You slid into the passenger seat, the car door clicking shut with a soft thud.

It's deafening, the silence.

Jungkook glanced with a soft smile before starting the engine. His focus was on the road, but the tension in the air between you felt palpable.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting tonight…and the other nights. I should’ve texted. And I haven’t been present for you these past weeks. It’s not fair to you…”

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to you for a moment. He didn’t look angry, but tired. And that made your heart ache even more.

What if this time, the tiredness in his eyes wasn’t from the long wait, but from you?

“I’m not mad at you.” he said, his voice is steady and warm. “I know you’ve been busy, and things get hectic.”

“But…” you hesitated, unsure if you could even finish the thought. His patience has to have limits, right?

Jungkook’s hand slid over to yours, his fingers gently squeezing, as if he could already feel the weight of your thoughts. "What’s going on in that head of yours?" he asked softly, his voice gentle, coaxing you to open up.

You looked down at his hand on yours, feeling small and fragile under the gravity of your own insecurities.

You hated the thought that maybe, just maybe, if he looked too closely, he’d see the mess, the noise, the chaos inside you. And then he’d walk away.

Your walls had been crushed, but as you felt the rush of vulnerability wash over you, the temptation to rebuild them surged.

“I just feel really bad, everything is just so overwhelming right now. Sorry for making this hard.” you exhaled a shaky breath.

“Hey,” he says, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I know you didn’t mean to forget. I’m just relieved to see you at work tonight…I just thought something happened.” His words trail off, but his worry lingers in his eyes.

“When I don’t hear from you, my mind goes all over the place. I worry about you. But I didn’t want to press, because I feel like maybe I’m bothering you.” He continues, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

It’s harder to speak now, but you managed to force the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to explain it… It’s like… my brain gets so tangled, and I can only focus on what’s right in front of me. Everything else… it just slips away.”

You held his hand tighter, hoping to somehow communicate the mess in your head, make it simpler, make it easier to understand. “I’ll try harder.”

He slowed down, glancing at you with such tenderness that it made all your broken pieces feel whole again.

“Baby…” he started, his voice soft but steady. “I know how much you’re juggling, and I’m not here to add to that. I don’t need all your time. I just want to know I’m part of your world, not an afterthought.”

He reached over, his hand gently caressing your face. You leaned into his touch.

“And you don’t need to try harder for me. I just wish you’d tell me how I can help. Let me in. That’s all I want.”

“Then I’ll try my best to tell you…”

“I would like that very much.”

——

The moment you entered Jungkook’s apartment, a wave of relief washed over you. It was always so comforting here, his presence in every corner, making the space feel like home. But tonight, your body screamed for rest, and you barely had the energy to sit down, let alone do anything else.

You saw the table already set, two plates waiting idly, a silent testament to the meal he had prepared for you before deciding to come to your work when you didn’t come home on time.

Fuck.

You both quietly ate, your mind silent, but guilt lingered.

After finishing your meal, you were too tired to go back to your apartment. Moving on autopilot, you showered quickly and changed into one of his shirts, the one you usually wear when you stay over. When you stepped out of the shower, you saw he had just finished washing the dishes and was heading straight for the shower himself.

You couldn’t help but sink into his bed, the soft sheets smelling like him, embracing you like an old friend. You wanted to wait for him, to wrap yourself in his warmth, and kiss him until your worries and weariness melted away, but your body had other plans. You curled up under the blanket, and before you knew it, sleep claimed you.

When you woke up the next morning, he’s already gone for work and you were alone in his bed.

His spot is now cold, but the meal on the table is warm.

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a/n: Thanks for reading as always. Happy New Year beautiful people! ITS BANGTAN YEAR!!! Here's to 2025!!! <3

-🐙

taglist: @goldietigers294 @ericawantstoescape @kyljjk @daskewl @the-immortal-dreamer