#collars can fall off and break too

[freelanceplatypus]

Reminder that if you own a pet to please have tags WITH your contact information and/or have your pet microchipped.

I have had to pick up two loose dogs this last week (one of which it was too late and the dog was deceased). Neither dogs had tags or microchip. The one owner eventually found one of my multiple postings and they were able to reunite. The other I have not been able to find any postings for and I do not know if I'll ever be able to notify the owner of the fate of their dog.

Even if you think "not my pet" remember it can happen to ANYONE due to any circumstance.

[sapphire-writes]

Beyond The Play

college!Art x college!Reader

summary: Tashi needs some time alone with her man, which leaves you without a room for the night.

word count: 3.8k

rating: mature/explicit/18+

warnings: alcohol, fingering, dry humping, p in v sex with a condom, light praise, titty sucking, there's only one bed oh no!!

a/n: thanks for all the love on my first Challengers fic! hope you enjoy this one!

“You are so fucked,” Art says, taking another sip of his beer.

“Shut up.”

“He’s right,” Tashi agrees, sighing heavily, glancing at her cards.

You’re all sitting on the floor of your and Tashi’s dorm room, half-empty beer bottles littering the floor between you. You’d been playing poker for the past hour or so, swindling more of Patrick and Art’s money. It’d become a Friday night habit of yours, card games and beer with Patrick and Art. Patrick was always a maybe, he only came to visit his girlfriend a couple times a semester. 

But you, Art, and Tashi were always a solid trio. Tashi and Art had met through tennis of course, and you had met Art through Tashi after rooming with her freshman year of college. You’d become fast friends, and roommates for the next several years. You got along with Patrick well enough, you had to once he and Tashi started dating.

You could tell that had been a sore spot for Art, at least for a while. You’d suspected he’d had a thing for Tashi, and fire and ice hadn’t been the same since. You’d once asked Tashi about it and she’d only shrugged. Even though she was with Patrick for now, you knew Tashi had only one true love. 

Whatever Art felt for Tashi was easily molded into friendship, and the three of you became nearly inseparable. Which was good, even if you may or may not have developed some feelings of your own for the blond tennis player. 

But your friendship was more important. Those feelings could be pushed aside.

“God damn it,” Patrick curses, “I fold.”

Tashi snickers, revealing her cards and Patrick swears once more. 

“I need a smoke,” Patrick says, standing and leaning across Tashi’s bed to the open window.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tashi says, standing at lightning speed, “Outside, we are not getting in trouble for this.”

She grabs Patrick by the shirt collar, dragging him off the bed. He dramatically chokes, but lets her drag him towards the door.

“Art come on,” Patrick insists, reaching for his best friend.

“What? No, I wanna stay,” Art says, sandy hair falling in front of his eyes, “You don’t need a babysitter—”

“Yes I do,” Patrick insists, “C’mon five minutes, I swear.”

The boys tumble into the hall and you can hear their voices fading as they make their way outside. You stand from the floor, gathering up some beer bottles, and folding up the empty pizza box.

“Hey, d’you think you could sleep somewhere else tonight?” Tashi asks, brown eyes wide, “It’s Patrick’s last night, and y’know we really haven’t had any alone time.”

Your chest constricts at the thought. You totally get where she’s coming from but, it’s your room too. The thought of sleeping in the common area is less enticing. 

“Or at least just for a couple of hours,” Tashi backtracks, seeing your expression, “Just so we can—”

“Yeah, Tash it’s fine,” you tell her, swallowing your annoyance. Tashi’s been nothing but thoughtful and kind as a roommate, and friend. It’s an inconvenient favor, but nothing crazy. “I’ll get out of your hair for a couple of hours.”

“You’re the best,” she says, kissing your cheek, “Seriously, I owe you one.”

“You sure do,” you tell her, “I expect full payment for this.”

“Do you mean a trip to the movies with slurpees and popcorn?” Tashi asks, raising her eyebrows. 

“With extra butter,” you clarify and point at her, “You’re not cheaping out on me.”

“I’d never,” she insists, feigning seriousness before breaking into a grin. 

You finish helping Tashi clean up and begin your excommunication from your room. Walking down the hallway you bump into Patrick and Art on their way back from Patrick’s smoke break.

“What’re you doing out here? You start smoking?” Art asks as Patrick keeps walking past you, picking up the pace, “Hey where…”

“Party’s over,” you tell him, as Patrick turns the corner, eager to return to Tashi now that she’s alone.

Art frowns, confused.

“But we were—”

“Art,” you cut him off and place your hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly, “Party’s over. Unless you’re eager to be a third.”

Art’s cheeks flush and he glances away, forcing out a laugh. Something tugs at your heart watching his half-smile appear. 

“Uh yeah ... .no thanks,” he says and you pat his shoulders before releasing them, “Wait but where are you going to go?”

You shrug, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You can’t just wander around campus, it’s like 2 am,” Art says, beckoning you with his hand, “Come back to my room, at least till they’re done.”

“Really?” you ask, “Cause if you’re tired I can just—”

“Don’t be silly,” Art says, poking your shoulder, “C’mon.”

Art’s room is in a separate building on campus, about a five-minute walk from you and Tashi’s building. Art is lucky enough to have a single; you’d been there a handful of times before class or practice. He keeps his room neat, aside from some clothes scattered on the floor from quick changes before practice. You smile as he hurriedly picks them up, throwing them into a hamper in his closet.

His bed is unmade, navy sheets messy as though he’d just woken up. 

“Sorry bout the mess,” he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m not judging, you’re cleaner than most guys I’ve met,” you tell him and he laughs. 

Suddenly, it hits you how late it is, sleepiness hitting you like a train as you yawn. This triggers Art’s yawn and the pair of you stand awkwardly in front of each other. 

“Um,” Art says suddenly, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” you agree, stomach sinking, “I can just—”

“You should stay.”

You’re silent at that. You stare at him, as he nervously plays with the hem of his t-shirt, waiting for your reaction. You’re not sure what to say. It’s fine, right? Just a friend, helping out another friend.

A friend whom you have a big fat annoying crush on.

“I mean….it’s just late and you’re tired and who knows when they’ll be done.”

“I don’t have anything with me,” you tell him, voice sounding softer, meeker than you’d like.

“Oh, here I got you,” he says, walking to his dresser. He shuffles through the drawer a moment before revealing a shirt and clean boxers, “Just did laundry today. You can….you can change in the bathroom. I even have an extra toothbrush.”

You roll your eyes at that, taking the clothes from him. 

“Okay,” you agree.

“Bathroom’s right there.”

You nod, quickly making your way across the room and into the bathroom. You close the door and quickly change, finding Art’s spare toothbrush unopened in a goodie bag from the dentist shoved into a spare drawer. You quickly wash your face, brush your teeth, and change into his clothes. The shirt is baggy, with Stanford Men’s Tennis written across the front. It smells like him, like his detergent and his cologne and you can’t help but greedily inhale.

When you exit the bathroom, Art dips in, leaving the door open as he brushes his teeth. You place your clothes in a pile on his desk, awkwardly waiting for him. When he emerges, he’s wearing only his boxers and a gray t-shirt.

“I’ll take the floor,” Art says, his face turning beet red, “You can have the bed.”

“Art no,” you insist, “It’s your room. I’ll take the floor, it’s only fair—”

“Yeah that is not happening,” he says, satisfied smirk on his face, “Tashi’d kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the floor.”

“We could…..” you wet your lips, struggling to get the words out, “We could share the bed?”

Art watches you, his eyes wide. You watch his Adam’s apple bobs as he contemplates your question. Suddenly your pulse quickens, and embarrassment floods your body, and your face flushes. You turn away from him, scooting onto the bed.

“I mean only—”

“—if you’re comfortable,” Art finishes and you shut your mouth. You both giggle at the overlapping sentences.

“Yeah, I’m comfortable, Art,” you tell him, patting the space beside you, “Come on.”

Art moves onto the bed and you push closer to the wall. He’s so close when he lies down beside you, stretching his arm above your head. You’ve grown accustomed to the moonlit room and at this distance, you can almost count each eyelash that frames his blue eyes. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers, minty breath wafting over your face, making your head spin.

“Mhmm,” is all you can manage as the heat of his body warms you under the covers.

He’s silent then and you lay there for a moment, watching each other, listening to your shared breathing. Art chuckles then.

“What?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, “Nothing, it’s silly.”

“What is it?”

“You’re the first girl I’ve shared a bed with,” he admits, shyly glancing away from your gaze.

“Art Donaldson,” your tone is teasing, “I find that rather hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” he insists, brows furrowing together, “I mean….I’m not saying—wait” he wets his lips nervously, “I’m not a virgin—”

Your eyebrows raise, a smile curling at the corner of your lips. No, you did not doubt that. 

“Not that anything’s wrong with that, I just—wait and not to imply—”

“Art!” you cut him off, reaching forward and pressing your fingers against his lips, “I’m kidding. Don’t freak out.”

“M’not,” he mumbles, lips moving against your fingers.

“I’m fucking with you, Donaldson,” you whisper, taking your hand back, “I know you’re a gentleman.”

“Thank Christ,” he says with an exaggerated exhale causing you to giggle once more. He watches you, a smile on his face, eyes flickering to your lips.

Your face heats up as he wets his lips. Suddenly, nervousness flutters in your belly, and your heart flutters in your chest.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning away from him to face the wall.

You wait for his response, hoping he’s not disappointed. Disappointed about what, you’re not sure. 

“Goodnight,” he says softly and you close your eyes.

You wake up early. Birds are chirping outside the window, golden sunlight is beginning to bleed into the room, and Art’s chest is smushed firmly against your back. His arm is curled around your middle, hand splayed under your shirt and on your tummy, face buried in the crook of your neck. He’s so warm, his presence so comforting, you just want to close your eyes and melt back into him. 

Art groans in his sleep, moving his hips slightly and your eyes snap open.

Oh, Art.

He’s pressed firmly against your backside, rock-hard, hips unconsciously grinding against you. Your mouth falls open slightly feeling him against you, the hard outline of his cock bullying against your ass. Art groans again, hand on your stomach pushing you closer to him.

A breathy sigh escapes you and your head falls back against him slightly. 

“Art,” you breathe, answered with another groan, this one edging on a whimper. His hips gyrate, cock pressing against you with need, “Oh God…”

You swallow, breathing becoming more shallow. Your pussy clenches, and you can feel the growing wetness in the boxers Art had lent you, thighs pressing together desperate to relieve some of the pressure.

“Art wake up!” 

Art wakes with a start, head pulled from your shoulder. You can’t see him, but you feel him tense, the warmth of his body ripped from yours as he lurches backward, right off the edge of the bed. He falls with a yelp, hitting the floor with a loud thud. You sit up turning toward him. 

“Fuck!” he says, scrambling to sit and hide his erection, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” His face is red and he grabs a pillow, placing it over his lap, “God–fuck, I’m so sorry I was asleep—” He keeps stuttering, unable to meet your eyes. 

“Art.”

“It’s just biological you know, just morning wood, I would never do anything without your explicit consent–enthusiastic consent!”

“Art…”

“And I would never want to ruin anything between us, ever–”

“Art!”

His head snaps toward you then, eyes meeting yours. His mouth hangs open, eyes watery as he looks up at you. He looks so sad, so embarrassed, and disappointed. And something else as well. Worried, perhaps. 

“Get back up here,” you tell him.

Art’s mouth remains open in shock as he glances at the bed.

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Art scrambles to rejoin you on the bed, lying beside you. He faces you just as he did last night, sandy hair falling across his forehead. You smile softly at his disheveled appearance and his flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop talking,” you tell him, reaching forward and brushing some hair from his face. You let your hand trail around to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair. “You have my consent.”

Art’s eyes widen, lips parting in shock.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you tell him, pulling yourself closer. His hand drifts to your hip, anchoring himself to it. “Explicit, enthusiastic, all yours.”

The last word has barely left your lips before he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against your own. They’re warm and soft, he kisses you with innocent eagerness, the hand on your hip pulling you flush against him. You lift your leg, hitching it around his thigh, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly, earning a moan against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he moans against your lips, “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”

Something deep inside your belly warms at his admission. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he answers, kissing you again, “Since freshman year.”

“Why didn’t you…..oh fuck..” your question trails off as Art mouths your neck, sucking and biting the tender skin.

“Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he mumbles, kissing your collarbone. 

You hum at his answer, tilting your head to give him better access. His hand moves from your hip bone, up under your shirt—his shirt. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, mouth returning to your lips.

“Yes,” you tell him, “Please touch me.”

You can feel his smile against your lips as he does what you ask, fingers grazing the underside of your breast. Pushing against him, his hand cups your breast, squeezing lightly. You pull away from his lips briefly, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it to the end of the bed. Art’s eyes devour you and he kisses you desperately as he continues to play with your tits. 

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck until he reaches the top of your chest. 

Art’s lips move across the tops of your breasts, as though he’s struggling with choosing which one to lavish with attention. Luckily for you, he decides rather quickly and latches his mouth to your right nipple, thumb, and forefinger, tweaking the opposite. Your back arches as he gently bites down, sucking the hardened peak harshly before releasing it with a pop. 

“Art.”

He simply moans, ignoring your cries as he brings his mouth to your opposite nipple, repeating his previous action. Pleasure winds a current in your lower belly, your thighs clench as he repeats his little torture, alternating back and forth between your breasts. You grab his hair, tugging him not too gently until he glances up at you, cheeks red, lips glossy and puckered. 

He’s too pretty.

You pull him back to your lips, kissing him feverishly while trying to rid yourself of the clothing you have left. Art feels you squirming and assists, hands moving the boxers down your legs until you’re able to kick them off at your ankles. Your hands move to him next, eager to even the playing field. 

You tear his shirt over his head revealing his toned stomach from countless hours on the court. Your mouth waters at the sight before Art is on you once more, lips capturing yours in another heated kiss. His hand returns to your hip, curling against it before he reaches further, squeezing your ass.

You smile against his mouth as he squeezes again. 

“You’re just fucking perfect, aren’t you?” he murmurs, returning your smile.

His hand grazes down the back of your thigh before venturing to the front where your legs meet. Your breathing becomes more labored the closer he gets to your hot center. 

“Can I?” he asks, so softly, you nearly drown out his question with your heavy breath.

“Yes,” you tell him, and that’s all he needs. 

Art slides a curious finger between your wet folds, gently circling your clit. Your mouth falls open as he continues.

“You’re so wet,” he remarks, dipping his finger lower, and finding your entrance. 

He lets his middle finger sink into you, met with little resistance. Your walls greedily accept him as he curls his finger upwards, beginning to pump it in and out. Stars explode behind your eyes and you moan, clutching onto his shoulder.

Art smirks, eyes aglow at the pleasured noises you emit.

“That feel good?”

“Yes—fuck,” you squeak as he presses another finger inside of you, “Oh god.”

“Yeah?” 

Art crooks his fingers against your velvety walls, pressing against that special spot inside of you that has your head lolling against him, moans spilling from your lips. His thumb joins, caressing your sensitive clit in time with the strokes of his fingers. 

“Feels so good,” you moan, “I’m so close.”

“Yeah? You're gonna come for me?” he asks, kissing your neck. Your fingers tangle themselves in his blonde hair, tugging harshly, your orgasm building deep in your belly, “Come on baby, come on my fingers, I wanna feel this pretty pussy come.”

His words send you over the edge and your pussy clenches around his digits as you come, thighs shaking from the intensity as warmth floods through you.

“That was so hot,” Art says, kissing you, still buried to the knuckles inside you, “You’re so hot. Let me fuck you, please.”

You hum against his lips as he carefully removes his fingers from your warmth. He pulls away, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. You watch him awestruck as he moans, eyes closing at the taste of you.

“Get inside me,” you tell him, “Right now.”

Art doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting up and pulling his boxers off as you lay on your back. Your eyes drift down his stomach to his cock. It’s pretty, just like the rest of him. Long, girthy, a neat tuft of dark sandy colored hair at the base. The tip flushed red and weeping as he strokes himself. 

“Condom?” you ask, and he nods, walking to his desk and rummaging through the first drawer. 

He comes up successful, ripping the wrapper with his teeth and rolling the condom on his length before crawling on top of you. You spread your legs for him as he lines himself up, rubbing the tip along your soaked slit. 

“Art, please put it in,” you whine, hips lifting.

“Jesus, I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he says, shaking his head.

Your responding giggle is short-lived as he slowly sinks inside of you, filling you to the brim.

“Oh god,” you whimper, as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you answer, cupping his cheek. He mirrors your action and you smile, a sudden burst of tenderness exploding in your chest, tears welling in your eyes. 

Art rotates his hips, pulling back and sinking back into your inviting warmth. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, kissing your lips, “I’ve dreamt of this for years.”

“Me too,” you admit, wrapping your legs around his waist, “God, Art, I’ve wanted this forever.”

This spurs him on, his thrusts becoming quicker, more eager at your confession. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you whimper as he pounds into you, “Wanted this for so long—used to talk to….to Tashi about it—”

Art moves his hand along your side, reaching your thigh and hooking your leg over his shoulder.

“What’d you tell her?”

The new angle sends him deeper, the head of his cock rubbing perfectly against that spongy section of your walls that has your mouth dropping open in pleasure.

“Wanted you,” you manage as Art holds one of your hands above your head against the pillows, “Wanted this so bad.”

“I’ll give it to you,” Art says, his breath catching, “Fuck—oh god you’re so pretty like this, fuck.”

“Art!” you cry his name as your second orgasm builds, sneaking up on you as he slows his pace, “Why’d you—”

“Wanna savor this,” he says softly, kissing the tip of your nose. His thrusts have slowed, hips moving with leisure. 

The pressure in your belly continues to build as he smirks down at you. Tennis has done wonders to his stamina; he fucks you like he could keep this pace for hours, barely breaking a sweat. You whine, throwing your head back against the pillows as he kisses your neck, your hamstring burning deliciously with the stretch. 

“Please come for me,” he murmurs, right next to your ear, “I’ve got to feel that sweet little pussy come around my cock, please.”

You do as you’re told, spurred on by Art whispering praises and encouragement in your ear and you fall apart, clenching around his cock and milking him for all he’s worth. You feel his hips stutter, cock twitching inside your warmth as he follows your release with his own. Art’s lips find yours then, and you can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air. 

You stay like that for several minutes, his cock softening as you kiss one another, before he slowly pulls out. He takes a moment to take off the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the trash before he rejoins you in bed.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you across his chest. 

You lie with your cheek pressed against his pec, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. He strokes your arm with his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asks, face buried in your hair, “About wanting me? This?”

“Mhmm,” you answer, putting all your cards on the table, “I may have harbored a small crush on you.”

Art picks up your hand measuring it against his own before lacing your fingers together.

“I wish I knew that earlier,” he admits, still holding your hand, “I’ve been in love with you for ages.”

You glance up at him between your lashes and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says with a smile.

“And here I thought Patrick was the only one who owned your heart,” you tease, causing him to playfully bite your wrist, “Hey!”

“Not the only one,” he admits, rolling you over onto your back, “I’m glad you got kicked out of your room last night.”

You lean up, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Me too.”

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[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 18th. mattheo — hate fucking / enemies.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: “at least her favourite form of foreplay isn’t an argument…” “or being a bitch her kink..”

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon(meh), ex bf/gf trope, toxic behaviour, mutual manipulation, these two are chaotic as fuck, mentions of blood, gagging, degradation, rough sex PIV, hate fucking, spitting, spanking, uhhh i think that covers it. this one is a ride. can you tell this is my fav trope?

"I'm so fucking sick of you.”

"Get well soon, princess."

"Get fucked, Riddle."

Three sentences, three venomous insults that cut the room in half—heavy enough in their intensity to make you want to tear through dungeon walls, splintering stone and mortar with bare hands if it means sparing yourself another second in this blasted room, with him.

Detention at midnight—on a Friday, no fucking less—is unheard of. But leave it to your dickhead ex to make the impossible a reality. His fault, of course. Like always.

Snape had turned a blind eye for months. It was only a matter of time before something had to give. An hour unsupervised was as good as you'll get.

Sulking defeat, you sink back in your chair, rough wood digging into your spine as you eye Mattheo with a glare that could rival a bullet. He looks like hell, and it's infuriating how even in that state he manages to look so nonchalant, so maddeningly unbothered—like even exhaustion makes a home on him and he's comfortable with it. Bags under his eyes, scar cutting across the bridge of his nose, those dark curls falling messily over his forehead, white dress shirt wrinkled and open at the collar.

You roll your eyes, a gesture that feels like your only act of rebellion left.

And he notices. Of course he does.

"You haven't changed a bit," he spits, and you know it's an insult. You scowl as he swipes the blood off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. "Always a bitch to me over something."

Bitch. The name strikes you, but you won't let him see it, won't let him know that it lands. You've bled too many times at his feet for him to draw blood again tonight.

"Am I not allowed to be pissed off that you dragged us into detention? We should be at the party, Mattheo. We should be anywhere but here." You hear the frustration rising in your voice, like it's boiling up from somewhere deep, somewhere you can't quite reach. It's hard not to let it slip, especially when he looks at you like that. "This is so fucking typical of you. You mess up, and somehow I'm the one who pays for it."

For a moment, there's silence, and it almost feels like a victory until you realize he's only biding his time, waiting to strike back.

"You really want to get back there? To that party?" He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. You long for the chair to break from under him. "After what your new man was caught doing with Lovegood?"

You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping out like a reflex. You hadn't expected that. And quite frankly, it's amusing—no, downright hilarious—that he's clearly been keeping tabs on you and "new man", and now here he is, trying to play it off like he doesn't care. Like it's nothing.

"I'll spare you the insults this once," you mutter, fingers loosening the tie around your neck with a tug. "Because, clearly, you're ignorant to the truth, even if you think you know every goddamn thing." You pause, ripping out your earrings. "He's not my man, so I don't give a shit what he does with who. He ended it last week. Good fuck, sure—but other than that..."

You trail off, making a mocking noise with your lips, a derisive puff of air, as if you could blow away the memory of him as easily as dust off an old book. A Ravenclaw. Brilliant in all the wrong ways—sharp mind, yes, but utterly thrill-less, like he saw you as just another page to flip through, a textbook he was annotating.

It is what it is.

A moment passes and then Mattheo grins—slow at first, but spreading across his face like fire, destructive in its consummation. It unsettles you. He looks more intrigued than he's been in months.

"A good fuck, huh?"

"That's what I said," you reply, clipped, your tone offering no room for him to crawl inside.

"And why didn't it work out? Too good for you?" He says, twisting the knife just because he can. "Too clean, maybe?"

Your eyes scan the room, searching for something within reach to throw at him, anything to break this unbearable tension. Insufferable. Every inch of him, insufferable.

You find nothing, so you throw words instead. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

He nods, as if that's the truest thing either of you have said all night. Of course he knows.

You barely suppress a dry laugh at his idiocy. "Like I told you—he ended it. If you're so fucking interested in why it didn't work out, then why don't you go ask him?"

There's a pause—he's chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares at you. You imagine chewing his head off as you stare at him.

"I'm sure you gave that bookworm the ride of his life," he says, voice half-dry, half-sarcastic, as if he's already bored of the conversation. As if he knew all of this information already. "Everyone knew that was temporary. Your first rebound, congrats."

And just like that, your blood is boiling. He knows how to needle you, how to get under your skin with the slightest flick of his stupid fucking tongue. Your eyes trace the cold stone of the dungeon walls, desperately trying to find something—anything—to distract yourself.

But it's no use. Mattheo's an asshole. He's always been an asshole. That's why you left. All the two of you did was fight and fuck, a chaotic spiral that was as thrilling as it was destructive. Now, he's easily your enemy—dragging you into his messes, never letting you get too far without ruining your life somehow.

And yet—

If you said you didn't miss the sex sometimes, that'd be a lie. Or at least a half-truth. The kind that slips out when you've had one too many glasses of firewhiskey, the kind you'd regret in the morning.

"What about you, dickhead?" You cut through the silence, ignoring his obvious attempt to rile you up. "That Hufflepuff you were seeing—why'd I see her all over Theo tonight?"

He answers far too fast. "They're friends."

You snort, disbelieving. "Right."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room to the bookcase as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The books feel safer somehow, less volatile.

"You're bored of her, aren't you?" You don't care to look at him. You can imagine the way his jaw tenses at the question.

The silence is telling. He doesn't answer right away. You know him well enough to understand what that means. Then, finally, he speaks, a half-answer that doesn't really answer the fucking question at all.

"At least her favourite form of foreplay isn't a fucking argument." He stands, slow, pushing his hair back from his forehead with one battered hand. You glance at him, pulse quickening. "Or being a bitch her kink."

"Does she even have kinks?" It slips out, a knife thrown without aiming. "Sounds like you're bored, Matty."

You watch as he blinks, his eyes darken. That nickname—you know you don't have the right to say it anymore, and that's exactly why you do. It's an insult wrapped in familiarity, and it hits its mark by the way his shoulders tense, jaw tight.

He steps toward you, one calculated step, and you feel it—that chaotic pull, the gravity that's always drawn you both in, no matter how far you try to stay away. A smile pulls at your lips, a cruel thing.

"How cute." He tilts his head just enough to inspect you, eyes dragging over you like he's searching for something to confirm what he already suspects. "Looks like you're jealous."

Your hand grips the bookshelf, eyes locked on him over your shoulder. Jealous? There's not a soul on this planet who could make you jealous. She may be the hero of this story, the girl that gets the guy, might even be everything you're not—

"Looks like you're learning the hard way," you're inspecting him now, too. Every piece of him you once touched. "When it comes too easy it's never gonna' hit as hard, babe."

Another pause from him—something dancing in his eyes. Anger? Maybe. Or something more, something twisted that you don't care to name. You've already lit the match, and now you're just watching him burn.

"You're so clever, huh? So full of advice," he sneers, ripping off his tie and chucking it on a desk. "Go on then, tell me more about how I feel, professor. Since you know everything about me."

You can't help the smirk that curls on your lips. Oh, he's pissed. And that means you're winning.

"What? You don't like hearing the truth? Too much for your delicate ego?" You take a step toward him, savouring every second of this. He hurt you, over and over, the scars from those days still fresh, still bleeding beneath your skin. This has been a long time coming. "You think I care about your new girl, Matty? The one you let your boys fawn over in the common room?...she kissed Theo tonight." You pause, letting that linger. "You think you're doing something, but I see right through you. You don't give a fuck about her. If you did, no one would dare touch her like that. So don't sit here, accusing me of jealousy, like I'm the one hung up on you. You're projecting. And it's pathetic."

He doesn't waste a goddamn beat—his laugh is bitter, sickeningly so—and he advances again, his shadow moving behind him, the space between you now barely there.

"That's amazing, truly. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a goddamn oracle. All-knowing, all-seeing." His voice is infuriating. The look on his face more-so. "What's your verdict then, my lord? You think this is all an act? That everything I'm doing is just to spite you?"

Your heart races, breath catching in your throat as he steps closer. This is a dance you both know too well, the kind where neither of you win.

"I know how you operate." Your chest heaves, anger rising with every breath. "It's all a game to you, Matt. A sick, twisted game to keep yourself entertained."

"That's rich, coming from someone who played it just as well." He takes another step forward. You could reach out and touch him now he's that close. His grin grows. "Too bad your Ravenclaw figured it out before you could sink your teeth in too deep. Next time you see him, make sure to tell him I said you're welcome."

Your brows pinch—the blood in your veins screeching to a halt, backing up like New York traffic at a standstill. You feel it, hot and furious, rushing toward a place it can't go, clogged behind the wall of rage building up inside you—

"You're welcome?" You spit, a sharp snarl caught between clenched teeth. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He's watching you, his eyes darting over your shoulder, fingers brushing over his lips like he's trying to dull that familiar smirk, that cruel little game he's always played.

Your stomach sinks, drops to your feet.

"Mattheo—" you snap, cutting him off just as he opens his mouth, before he can throw another snide word. "Spare me the cryptic bullshit for once in your life—“

His eyebrows lift at that, but there's a nod, a hint of something deeper in it. You taste the smugness in the air between you, can almost feel it slithering through his silence.

"Looks like you don't know everything after all. Isn't that ironic?" He straightens up, letting the moment breathe before his face hardens into something almost serious. "Your rebound came to me in the courtyard about two weeks ago. Had some questions about you."

"What?" Your nerves are vibrating, every cell in your body on edge. Your blood is so clogged, you swear you're seeing red. "What questions?"

"The usual sort of normal stuff. Your birthday. Your favorite colour. Childhood traumas. Our downfall. You know."

The casualty in the way he says it makes you sick, bile rising in your throat, a bitter burn at the back of your mouth. It's all starting to come together now. This stupid motherfucker—

"You're lying." The words feel weak, frail. He wouldn't—no, he couldn't. "You're fucking lying."

"Am I?" His fingers brush your cheek, but your skin's gone numb, your blood too frozen to feel anything but the cold burn of your fury. "Or, is the truth just…too much for your delicate ego to handle?"

Oh, fuck off—

Your wand is in your hand before you even realize you've grabbed it, instinct, pure reflex. There's barely a second of rational thought before you're casting, the spell hitting him square in the chest, sending him flying back into the chair he once sat in. His eyes flash, anger igniting there, and he scrambles for his wand—but you're faster.

"Expelliarmus."

One word and you're across the room before you even know you've moved, chest tight as you slam the tip of your wand against his throat. There's a cut on his lip, blood trickling down his chin for a second time tonight, but that stupid fucking smirk is still there, showcasing rubies for teeth and carved into his face like it belongs.

"Tell me what you did." Your voice cracks, but not from fear—it's fury, burgling through you, burning hot enough to make your whole body shake. You half want to cut him open just to bury your rage inside him, let him feel it. "If what you're saying is true, he ended things just days later. Tell me what the fuck you said to him."

Mattheo’s leaning back, hands raised in mock surrender, eyes glinting with the same smug amusement that's always haunted him. He's daring you, taunting you. He knows you never cared about that guy, not really.

You both know it. He was boring, easy.

This—this is something else.

His tongue swipes at the blood on his lip. "He didn't tell you—"

"Don't." Your wand digs deeper into his skin, cutting off whatever he was about to say. The pressure makes his breath hitch, but not enough. Not nearly enough. "I said tell me."

"Merlin—okay—I told him nothing, nothing really," his voice makes your grip tighten on your wand. He stares at you for a long, hard minute before he adds; "except that he should show me some fucking gratitude."

Your jaw slips, confusion rushing in like a flood. But before you can even question him—

"I told him he should be thanking me." Another pause. "When he's fucking you."

He laps at the blood seeping from the cut on his lip for the second time in only a minute and you barely notice the movement—the words hit you like a brick, but it's deeper than that, something visceral that crawls under your skin and settles in your bones. It's sharp, raw, cutting through the wall of rage so fast it leaves you breathless. You don't know how to explain it, this feeling that twists through you, something far too complicated to be named.

And then, you become aware of everything at once.

His legs, spread wide on either side of yours, the space between you so small, your chest just close enough to his face that his breath feels like it's fogging your skin. You're towering over him, wand pressed hard into his throat, your heart hammering in your chest like you're ready to ruin him—but his eyes, the way he looks up at you, says he'd let you.

"I may have even added that although you're with him, you'll always think of me. Both you and him know it’s true.“ That stupid smirk is gone, replaced with something you've never quite seen before. He pauses, before he continues. "You miss it. Us." Another pause. There’s something victorious in his tone, something that's almost breaking you. "And no matter how many times you try to forget, you never do, do you?"

Salazar save you—you should hex him. You should fucking hex him. Every nerve in your body is screaming for it, begging for it, but you can't. You can't fucking move. Your wand is still pressed to his skin, but it feels like you're the one pinned down.

"Shut up," you finally manage, but your voice is meek, thin, nothing like the fury you want to feel. "You...you're being—"

"I'll shut up," his hand finds your wrist, pressing your wand tip against his neck with more force—enough to make himself wince. "If you make me."

You blink, stunned, and you can feel your anger slipping, slipping faster than you can catch it. You don't know what's happening to you—it’s just him—his sick twisted insanity that disarms you. Time and time again. An endless fucking cycle.

"I could ruin you," you whisper, but it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself than him. You press the wand deeper, just enough to draw a grunt from him, but the look on his face—he's not afraid. No, he's enjoying it. "I have more reasons than most to leave you here bloodied for Snape to find in the morning."

You say the words but the conviction is gone, swept away in the flood of heat between you—the dizzying proximity, the way his lips curl, almost smiling but not quite—

"What are you so afraid of?" He whispers, and there's something fragile in his voice now. "That you might actually want this?"

"I don't want this." You force the words out immediately, hoping they will make it real. Hoping they'll stop this spiral. "I regret ever wanting this."

He’s silent for a moment as he lowers his hands, dark eyes falling to trace your lips—

"I know you hate me, the feelings mutual...but I know. I know I'll always be your favourite regret," those chocolate curls shift, his head tilts closer, too close. Not close enough. "You're still my weapon of choosing."

Merlin. Merlin bloody forgive you—

"…to hurt yourself with?” It's half a question, but you already know the answer.

He nods, and that does it.

Your lips are on his, fast and hard and bruising—and the reaction is immediate, visceral. All that backed-up blood—all that rage frozen in your veins rushes forward in a single, scorching wave. It crashes low, between your thighs, a heat so sharp it aches. The shame comes with it. So does the disgust. A sick knot of self-hatred pulsing through you as you taste his blood on your tongue while his hands are under your skirt, grabbing you like he owns you, pulling you into him. It's only a moment before your wand clatters to the ground, and your hands are tangled in his hair, yanking hard, hard enough to hurt.

You want it to hurt. God, you want it to hurt.

He growls at the sting on his scalp—and then, everything flips.

His fingers tug at something, and you realize it's his own wand, the one you tucked into the back of your skirt—and before you can even think, he's got it, casting a spell that sends you flying back onto the desk behind you. You groan—the world spins, but you don't even have a second to gather yourself before he's advancing toward you, casting another spell on his tie.

Within seconds it's slithering across your lips and tying itself around your head, gagging you.

He steps between your legs, parts them with the ease of someone who's done it a thousand times before—rough hands gliding up your thighs, eyes wild. His fingers slip beneath your underwear, through your slit, and you try to hold on to any shred of control, but it's gone. You can feel it. The way you forget everything except the way he leans down, breath hot in your ear.

"Look how fucking wet you are," he spits through a sneering grin. "You're goddamn shameless, aren't you?"

You roll your eyes, but your thoughts scatter the moment his fingers shove inside you, curling hard—so hard you gasp into the tie, your back arching violently off the desk.

"He ever get you this wet?" His voice is like gravel, each word grinding into your bones. "Nod your head if he did."

Your body reacts before your mind does, arching against him, but you don't move your head. As much as it hurts your pride to give him that win. You dig your fingers into his hair and pull—hard enough to make him grunt, hard enough to hurt.

His hand comes down hard on your thigh in response, a sharp smack that stings, a warning. You squeal, and his fingers start pumping faster, deeper.

He huffs. "That's what I thought."

His fingers make quick work of you, relentless, and his thumb presses to your clit, rolling circles in a rhythm that has your blood on fire, shame licking at the edges of your vision, but it only makes you burn hotter. This is all wrong. Everything about this is wrong, something you'll regret with every fiber of your being tomorrow, but right now, it's an ache you need.

It's the wound you keep reopening, the pain you crave because it's the only thing that ever feels real.

"Fuck, you're close, aren't you?" He sounds almost shocked, like he can't believe how easily your body betrays you, but you feel it too, the disbelief crashing through you as fast as the pleasure does. Too fast. Far too fast. "Did he ever make you cum? Huh? When's the last time you fucking came?"

You can't answer, just groan, yanking at his hair again. His response is immediate, another stinging slap to your inner thigh, sharp enough to make fluid prick your eyes. Your orgasm is right there, teetering on the edge, ready to tip over—but then he slows his pace, dragging it out, torturing you.

You whine. A pitiful, desperate sound you hate yourself for.

"Look at me." His voice cuts through the haze, and begrudgingly, you do. "He didn't make you cum, did he?"

Your face burns, not from his breath or his fingers or even the astronomical amount of shame you feel—but from the truth of it. You shake your head.

"How long?" His voice shatters the air between you. "A week?"

You shake your head again, biting into the fabric of his tie as his fingers curl deeper inside you.

"Two weeks?"

Another shake. He curses under his breath.

"You poor little thing." His words are venom, but the second they spill from his lips, he pumps his fingers into you again, massaging at your walls, and your vision goes white. "Can't even cum without me."

You would've slapped him if you could, would've torn him apart, but the orgasm hits you like a freight train, ripping through you with violent force. You clench around his digits, thighs trembling as you ride the wave of pleasure, convulsing, moaning into the tie as he watches you like he's won.

"So fucking easy." He withdraws his fingers, and immediately, his hands go to his belt. "We'll make up for lost time."

Everything about this feels like a rerun. The same scene playing out on loop, again and again—a cycle of self-destruction you know too well, like running headfirst into a burning building, certain you can handle the smoke only to choke on it.

He's taking off his belt, ready to fuck you stupid, and by morning you'll be back to the same familiar hatred, tearing each other apart in new, inventive ways. Your hands move sluggishly to rip the tie from your mouth, but you're slow, too slow, still dizzy from the release that blindsided you, one that you haven't felt in so long—the fabric barely grazes your fingers before Mattheo catches your wrists, yanking them back, dragging you to your feet in one rough motion.

The spin disorients you—arms pinned behind your back, his cock sliding between your thighs.

"You've done enough talking today," he hisses at your ear as he drags along your slit. "You want this, don't you?"

Your mind screams for you to shake your head, to end this here and now. You know he'd stop—he's an asshole, but not that kind of an asshole. You know it. You almost do it, almost say the word that would shatter this madness. But then he drags his tip against your clit and you moan before you can stop yourself.

Your head nods with a wanton moan, and it's so full of shame your eyes sting with tears.

"Yeah, I know, baby." He's taunting you, every syllable smug, condescending. "This pussy missed me so much, huh?" His hand tightens on your wrists until your skin burns, the other hand finding its way around your thigh, pulling you closer to him. "Fuckin' lost without me. S'all it's good for, isn't it? Taking my cock."

You groan, shaking your head in defiance, but even that feels like a lie. You hate him. You want him. You hate yourself for wanting him.

"No?" His fingers inch toward your clit, ghosting over it—you squeal, hips jerking for more. "Maybe we should call this off then?"

You blink once and his fingers are gone—wrenching a whine out of you, pathetic as you push your ass back against him, shame burning through you as you shake your head. Fuck him. Curse him. But you need him inside you, need him to fill the aching void that gnaws at you.

"That's my slut," he growls, and before you can process the words, he's inside you—one long, brutal thrust that spears you open, the stretch burning deep. The sting mixes with shock of his fingers returning to your clit, rubbing circles that make your knees buckle. "You know you're the only girl I've fucked raw? This pussy will always be mine."

He's fucking insane. Completely insane. And the worst part is, you're just as insane for wanting him. For needing him. You can't fight it. You don't even want to. Not now. Not when his voice drips like poison and he's tearing you apart in the only way you understand.

"Mmmf—" you groan into the tie and he's matching you, his teeth grazing your shoulder, marking you in ways that will last for days.

"I hope it hurts," he grumbles against your skin, his breath ragged. He's lying, you can feel it in the way his fingers are moving, coaxing you to cum, even as he pretends to wish you pain. "I hope it fucking stings."

Your hands ball into fists, trapped in his grip, and you imagine clawing at his back until you draw blood, sinking your nails in until he feels every ounce of your anger.

"I want you to feel it—fuck—I want you to remember this," he pants, his voice barely more than a growl as your climax crashes toward you, unstoppable now. "Remember how weak I make you. How much of a slut you are for me."

Another harsh thrust and then, you're there—falling into the void—pleasure is so strong it bleeds out of you, forcing your cunt to clamp tight around him, legs trembling, barely able to support you through it. Mattheo’s curses slip through clenched teeth, but this only fuels him—his rhythm picks up, brutal, hips slamming against your ass with a pace that borders on unhinged.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck." The words are barely audible, grunted against the shell of your ear. You're whining, still twitching with aftershocks, but he doesn't care. His hands are on your hips now, fingers digging deep as he thrusts you forward, slamming you over the desk. The wood bites into your palms as you try to brace yourself, but his anger is palpable, drilling into you— "you wanna bitch at me now?"

The moan you release is automatic, instinctual. You can't stop it. Can't control it. His fingers curl around your throat, shifting the tie down to shove two into your mouth.

"Hhhhh—" you're trying to form words around his fingers, but it's impossible. The garbled sound is pathetic, but he knows exactly what you're trying to say.

"You hate me. I know." It’s smug, punctuated by a sharp smack to your ass, the sting of it making you yelp. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping the spit across your cheek before he grips your jaw, forcing your head to turn, to meet his eyes. "Open your mouth."

There's no time to process the demand. His eyes are molten, crazed, filled with something raw and uncontainable. His next thrust is punishing, slamming into your cervix, making you sob—your mouth parting just enough—

He leans in close, and then he spits into your mouth.

"Swallow it." His fingers dig into your cheeks, pressing the order into your bones. "Be a good girl for once."

You choke out a laugh, even as you're panting, even as he's splitting you stupid.

"Never." The word barely leaves your lips before you’re spitting back at him—your entwined saliva landing across his chin and lips.

For a second, you expect the worst—you brace yourself for the retaliation—the slap, the insult, the way he'll tighten his grip and take back control. But to your surprise, instead of anger, there's a grin—wide and feral, big and crazed enough to reach his eyes.

You smile back. His cock twitches inside you.

"Fuck me," he mutters, then crashes his mouth to yours.

You taste the salt and bitterness of mingled spit, a mess of his and yours, and it pulls a moan from somewhere deep inside you. He devours it, greedy, his hips growing erratic, sloppy as his high nears.

His hand drops to your clit, fingers pressing with a precision that obliterates every last shred of sanity—and it takes only moments before the pressure builds again, fast and furious. Your third orgasm rips you apart, your body clenching tight, muscles seizing as you're lost in it. You're not sure where you end and he begins—your breath congealing with his, your moans swallowed in the space between you.

His release follows right after, crashing over him as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a groan that reverberates through your bones. You hate the way it feels. You hate the way he fills you. But you also can't deny the twisted satisfaction of it—the way you sought this punishment, needed it. The shame consumes you, but it's comforting in its familiarity.

He pulls out, and the silence between you is easy, broken only by your ragged breathing. The room feels impossibly small now, your body still thrumming with the aftermath, but the moment is over. You both start to move—piecing yourselves back together, pulling clothes into place, avoiding the weight of what just happened.

You don't understand how it came to this, how it always does, but you're not surprised. Not anymore.

After a long, silent moment, he looks at you. “I don’t regret what I did.”

You know he doesn’t.

“I know.”

He blinks. “I won’t apologize for it.”

You know he won’t.

“I know.”

He nods, now, a smirk on his lips as he watches you fix your skirt. You note the hair sticking to his forehead, how he’s still catching his breath even though he’s pretending he isn’t.

“You aren’t mad.” An observation.

“I’m not.” You reply. You know you should be, but the relief you felt when that Ravenclaw ended things tells you everything you need to know. “Just, never do it again.”

He nods again. “Sure.”

You’re pretty sure he doesn’t mean that—but, at least now, as you glance over at him, there's a small comfort in knowing you no longer want to kill him.

[luveline]

hey lovely!! can we maybe get some more pregnant bombshell and spencer??

“What I’ve decided,” you say, reclining back against Spencer’s lap with all the air of a resting empress, “is that I don’t actually like being pregnant.” 

Spencer startles, as does Hotch. JJ doesn’t flinch. “It’s awful,” she says. 

You’re too pregnant to terminate the pregnancy, now. Thirty weeks, your stomach a bump you pretend doesn’t exist when you aren’t holding a hand to it. “I love my baby,” you say, letting Spencer relax again underneath you, “but this is inhumane.” 

“It’s one of the most human experiences you could ever live through,” Spencer says. People have been having babies since the beginning of time. 

“I wonder if you’d feel that way if you were the pregnant one.” You slip further down into his lap, shuffling across the jet’s couch to let your head rest on his thigh. Your chin tips up, your lips curling into a painted smile. He could kiss every bit of lipstick off of your mouth if you didn’t have an audience. 

“I just mean, it’s intrinsically human to reproduce. Not that your feelings aren’t real. Sorry.” 

“Ooh, sorry,” you mumble, giving him a playful, almost daring smirk. “Doghouse for you, handsome. You know you’re supposed to agree to everything I say.” 

“I know.” 

“Is it hard?” Hotch asks. Not unaware that it is, in fact, very hard, but probing you to open up further should you want to. Spencer probably should’ve asked you first, he thinks. He holds your face in apology. 

“Hotch, it’s like… It’s hard because it doesn’t stop. Sometimes I don’t notice, I don’t feel any different, but when I’m nauseous or when it’s barely five and my back aches like I’ve been carrying a dumbbell all day… I don’t know.” 

“It’s alright to not enjoy it,” Spencer says. “You don’t have to think it’s fun. You can hate every second of it, if you want.” 

“I don’t. Really, I don’t. Just tired.” 

“You could be in the field less,” Hotch suggests. 

You cover your eyes with your hand. “Don’t suggest big things to me.” 

“It’s up to you when you want to stop. But don’t think you can’t take a break. Even if next week you want to come back.” Hotch smiles. “After all, you’re the brains of the operation. You can consult through video, like Penelope.” 

You laugh at being called the brains, stretching your legs out, stockings shining down the lengths of you like they’ve suffered a sudden rain. “It’s not about being tired. I’m exhausted, but it’s just strange sometimes, that’s all. I don’t always feel like me.” 

Spencer lets his hand fall to your chest, rubbing a short line under your collar he hopes is soothing.

“It’s the emotional aspect too,” JJ says. “All the hormones.” 

“Yeah, it is,” you say. 

Spencer hears the unhappiness threaded in your tone, but he’s not sure what to do. Hotch and JJ realise you’re done talking for now and return to their own devices, a new quiet descending over the jet, the only sound the rush and hum of air. Spencer keeps on rubbing that same spot over your chest. Your eyes close. He knows you too well to think you’re sleeping. 

“Are you really unhappy?” he asks quietly. 

“No, Spence. Didn’t mean it like that.” 

“I know. It’s alright if you aren’t happy.” 

“I’m mostly happy.” 

“I want you to be a hundred percent happy.”

“I don’t think I can be right now.” 

He lets his pinky dip under the neckline of your shirt. Your skin is soft. “Okay. Don’t be happy if you can’t be. I’m here no matter what.” 

You sigh softly and twist on your side, your nose pressing into his stomach, the heat of your breath slowly transferring through his shirt to his skin. Spencer brings his hand around with you, holding the back of your neck as you make yourself comfortable. 

“I love you, I swear,” you whisper. “And her.” 

“I know it’s not about love. Pregnancy can be an evil, heavy, horrible thing to go through. Don’t feel like you have to pretend it’s not. There’s gestational diabetes, morning sickness, high blood pressure, night sweats, depression…” Spencer ducks down to press his cheek briefly to your temple. “If you liked all that, there’d be something wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with how you feel, okay?” 

“Okay.” You kiss his shirt. 

“Massage?” he offers. 

“Yes!” You wriggle closer to him and shiver happily as his hand finds the knot between your shoulders. “That’s a pro for this whole ordeal. You could open a massage parlour with hands like that. They’d call it Reid’s Reflexology.” 

“Yeah? Is that a hint for a foot massage?” 

You giggle like you’ve been tickled. JJ groans in her seat with reluctant fondness, while Hotch murmurs, “Let’s keep it PG-13, please.” 

[pucksandpower]

Have My Baby

Day 8 → Breeding Kink 💋 Max Verstappen

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The sound of your laughter, bright and unguarded, echoes through the garage. Max watches from the other side, just close enough to see you kneel beside Checo’s daughter, the little girl’s giggles rising as you hand her a toy car. It’s a small moment — insignificant, even — but it lands in Max’s chest like a stone dropping into a still lake, sending ripples outward.

The race weekend buzzes around him, mechanics and engineers in perpetual motion, but for a second, all he can focus on is you, surrounded by Checo’s kids, your hair slipping from behind your ear as you make some silly face that sends them into peals of laughter.

“You’re good with them,” Max says later, sliding into the seat beside you in the car. He’s not looking at you, eyes instead fixed on the road, but his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Hmm?” You ask, distracted as you scroll through your phone. You don’t look up, but your fingers tighten around his just a bit. It’s small, but he notices.

“Checo’s kids,” Max clarifies, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “You’re good with them.”

You shrug, finally looking up to meet his gaze. “They’re sweet. Just being kids.”

“They love you,” Max insists, a little more forcefully than he intended. Your eyebrows rise at his tone, curiosity flickering across your features, but you don’t push.

“They’re just kids,” you repeat, softer now, like you’re trying to placate him. “They don’t need much to be happy.”

Max falls silent after that, though his mind is far from quiet. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, the warmth of your skin beneath his palm grounding him.

He’s been thinking about this for a while now — longer than he’d care to admit — but today, watching you with those kids, it’s like something clicked into place. A plan, half-formed but persistent, starts to take shape in the back of his mind. He squeezes your thigh absentmindedly, as if to reassure himself that you’re real, here with him.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask, breaking the silence as you lean back in your seat. You tilt your head to the side, studying him with that familiar, unflinching gaze that always manages to strip away whatever walls he thinks he’s put up.

“Nothing,” Max lies, and you know it’s a lie, but you let it slide. He sees the way your eyes narrow, the briefest hesitation before you hum in response. But you don’t push further, instead turning your attention back to the passing cityscape as the car winds through the streets.

When you finally get back to the suite, the evening’s warmth lingers in the air, the low hum of the city just outside the windows. Max lets you walk in first, watching the way you kick off your shoes by the door and stretch your arms over your head. The hem of your shirt lifts just a bit, revealing a sliver of skin that he can’t help but stare at. You catch him looking, a smile tugging at your lips.

“What?” You ask, feigning innocence as you walk toward him. Your hands find their way to his chest, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” Max says, not bothering to hide the hunger in his voice. His hands come up to rest on your hips, thumbs tracing small circles against your skin. “You’re beautiful.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” you tease, but there’s a warmth in your eyes that betrays how much his words affect you.

Max doesn’t reply, just pulls you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. He dips his head to press a kiss to your neck, and you tilt your head back, giving him better access. He feels the way your breath hitches, the way your hands grip his shirt a little tighter, and it only makes him want you more.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs against your skin, though he doesn’t slow his kisses.

“Not too tired,” you reply, your voice a little breathless now as your fingers thread through his hair. You pull him closer, and he takes that as permission to lift you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the bed.

When he lays you down, he does it slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. His hands are steady as he undresses you, taking his time, savoring the sight of you beneath him. There’s a reverence in the way he moves, like he’s committing every detail to memory.

“You’re being gentle tonight,” you observe, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him.

“I like taking care of you,” Max replies simply. His voice is calm, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you shiver.

“I like it too,” you admit, and the sincerity in your voice sends a warmth through his chest. You reach out to him, pulling him down until he’s hovering over you, his hands braced on either side of your head. Your lips brush against his, soft and teasing. “But you’re holding back.”

“I’m not,” he lies again, but this time, you don’t seem to notice the hesitation in his voice. He kisses you deeply, his hands tracing the curve of your body, and it’s enough to distract you, to make you forget the way he’s been acting strange all evening.

Max is careful, though. He’s calculated, making sure you’re so lost in the sensation of his lips against your skin, his hands exploring every inch of you, that you won’t catch on to his plan. He slides a pillow under your hips, and when you look up at him in question, he just smiles, pressing a kiss to your stomach.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “I’ve got you.”

You do as he says, letting your head fall back against the mattress, your body sinking into the softness of the bed. Max takes his time, kissing his way down your body, his lips leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. When he reaches your stomach, he lingers there, pressing gentle, lingering kisses to the soft skin.

“You’ll look beautiful,” he whispers against your skin, his voice so quiet that you almost don’t hear it.

“What?” You ask, half-dazed, your mind foggy from the pleasure he’s been giving you.

Max doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he continues kissing your stomach, his hands holding your hips in place as he murmurs against your skin, “You’ll look beautiful all full.”

You blink, trying to process his words, but your thoughts are hazy, your body too lost in the moment to fully comprehend what he’s saying. Max’s lips move lower, and any questions you had melt away as he pulls you deeper into the sensation, your mind going blissfully blank.

Max’s voice is soft but firm as he murmurs against your skin, “We’re going to have a baby.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even a statement. It’s a command, one that leaves no room for debate. His tone, so certain and unyielding, sends a shiver through you. Your mind tries to catch up, tries to process what he’s just said, but it’s difficult. The weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable.

You blink, trying to shake off the fog that’s settled over your thoughts. “Max, we can’t-”

“We can,” he interrupts, his voice still gentle but carrying an edge of finality. He looks up at you from where he’s still kissing your stomach, his eyes locking onto yours. “You’re perfect for it.”

“But I’m too young,” you protest, though your voice falters as he starts to rub slow circles over your clit. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

“You’re perfect,” he repeats, his fingers skillfully teasing your most sensitive spot, drawing a moan from your lips despite the confusion clouding your mind. “You’re perfect for this, liefje.”

“I don’t know,” you try again, though the words are barely audible now, your body betraying you as it reacts to his touch. “It’s too soon.”

Max’s hand moves lower, his fingers brushing over your entrance, spreading your slickness with deliberate, teasing strokes. “It’s not too soon,” he coos, his voice dripping with reassurance. “I know what’s best for you. For us.”

His thumb returns to your clit, pressing down just right, and you gasp, your hips bucking up toward his hand. Any resistance you had starts to melt away, your body responding to him in ways your mind can’t seem to control.

“You’ll look so beautiful,” Max continues, his tone soothing and hypnotic as his fingers work you over. “All full and round with my baby. Your pussy …” He trails off, his thumb rubbing over your swollen clit again, sending a rush of warmth through your core. “It’ll be so puffy and pretty for me.”

You’re lost now, any coherent thought slipping through your fingers like sand as his words and his touch weave a spell around you. All you can do is feel, every nerve in your body attuned to the pleasure he’s giving you, the heat building steadily in your belly.

“Max …” you breathe, your voice trembling, unsure if you’re pleading with him to stop or to keep going. It doesn’t matter; he’s already made up his mind.

He shifts, positioning himself between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider to accommodate him. He lines himself up with your entrance, his tip pressing against you, but he doesn’t push in yet. He wants you to feel it, to crave it.

“Tell me you want it,” Max demands, his voice low and rough with desire. “Tell me you want to be full of me.”

You bite your lip, torn between the part of you that knows this is happening too fast and the part of you that’s completely under his spell, desperate for more. His fingers return to your clit, stroking in slow, torturous circles, and you whimper, the last of your resistance crumbling.

“I want it,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but it’s enough for him.

Max doesn’t waste any more time. He pushes into you slowly, filling you inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch is delicious, the fullness overwhelming, and you moan loudly, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you.

“You’re so tight,” Max groans, his hands gripping your hips as he starts to move, each thrust deliberate and deep. “So perfect for me. You’ll be even better when you’re carrying our baby.”

The thought of it, the image he paints with his words, sends a thrill of arousal through you, and you can’t help but arch into him, meeting his thrusts. Your mind is a haze of sensation, every nerve alight with pleasure as he takes you, owns you.

Max’s pace quickens, and you can feel him getting closer, his breaths coming in harsh pants as he drives into you. “You’re going to take all of it,” he growls, the intensity of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re going to be so full, schatje. So full of me.”

He pushes deeper, his thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate, and you can feel your own climax building, the tension coiling tight in your belly. You’re teetering on the edge, so close, and then Max reaches down, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing it with just the right pressure.

You come undone with a cry, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over you. Max follows you over the edge, groaning your name as he fills you, his release hot and overwhelming inside you. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop thrusting until he’s sure every drop of him is deep inside you.

When he finally stills, he leans over you, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. His hand moves to your lower belly, pressing down gently, and you gasp as you feel the fullness inside you.

“You’re going to be so beautiful,” Max whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “I can’t wait to see you, all full and round with our baby.”

He pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the emptiness, at the way his seed threatens to spill out. But Max is there, his fingers quickly pushing anything that dares to leak out back in, making sure nothing is wasted.

“Don’t worry,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your trembling thigh. “I’ll make sure you stay full.”

***

The room is bathed in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon, and the curtains flutter slightly from the breeze coming through the open window. It’s peaceful, quiet, but the atmosphere is thick with anticipation.

You’re propped up against a mountain of pillows on the bed, your swollen belly stretching the fabric of the oversized shirt you’re wearing. It’s one of Max’s shirts, soft and worn from years of use, and it drapes over you, barely containing the fullness of your body.

Max stands at the foot of the bed, eyes dark and intense as he looks at you. He’s shirtless, his skin glowing in the warm light, and there’s a possessive hunger in his gaze that’s never really gone away, not since the day you first told him you were pregnant.

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch your belly, his fingers tracing the curve of it with a reverence that makes your heart skip a beat. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion. “So fucking beautiful like this.”

You smile, though it’s strained, the weight of the baby pressing down on you making every movement feel like an effort. “I’m huge,” you say with a breathless laugh, trying to deflect the intensity of his gaze. But Max shakes his head, his hand still resting on your belly.

“You’re perfect,” he insists, his thumb stroking your skin softly. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.”

Your heart flutters at his words, but you can’t help the slight wince that crosses your face as the baby shifts inside you, pressing uncomfortably against your ribs. Max notices immediately, his brow furrowing in concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you reassure him, though your voice is a little tight. “Just … ready for this baby to be out.”

Max’s eyes darken even further at that, and he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your belly. “Soon,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. “And then …”

He trails off, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile as he looks up at you, his hand sliding down to rest between your thighs. “And then I’m going to fill you again,” he continues, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Again and again, until it takes. And then I’ll do it again, until you’re always full with my child.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, a shiver running through you despite the warmth of the room. The sheer possessiveness in his voice, the certainty with which he speaks, sends a rush of arousal through you, even as your body aches with the strain of carrying his child.

Max notices the way you respond, the way your body tenses and relaxes under his touch, and he smiles, that slow, satisfied smile that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His fingers tease along the edge of your panties, just barely grazing your skin, and you can’t help the small whimper that escapes your lips.

“Do you like that idea?” Max asks, his voice deceptively gentle. “Being full of me, over and over?”

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice, but it’s difficult with the way he’s looking at you, with the way his hand is slowly inching higher, closer to where you need him most. “Max …”

“Tell me,” he presses, his fingers finally brushing over your clit through the fabric of your panties. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, your hips jerking involuntarily toward his hand. “Tell me you want it.”

“I … I want it,” you whisper, your voice trembling. Your body is aching, every nerve on fire, but he’s barely touched you, barely given you anything. It’s maddening, and you can feel the desperation building inside you, the need for release, for him, growing stronger with every passing second.

Max’s smile widens, his thumb circling your clit slowly, teasingly. “What do you want, liefje?” He asks, his tone almost mocking in its sweetness. “Tell me.”

You bite your lip, trying to resist the urge to just beg him to touch you, to give you what you need. But he’s relentless, his fingers moving in slow, agonizing circles, keeping you on the edge but never quite pushing you over.

“I want … I want to be full,” you finally gasp out, the words tumbling from your lips in a desperate rush. “I want to be full of you, always.”

Max’s eyes flash with satisfaction, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to your swollen belly. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride and something darker, something possessive. “You’ll always be so beautiful, all puffy and swollen with my baby.”

His words send another shiver through you, your body responding instinctively to the promise in his voice. He slides your panties down your legs, his hands gentle but firm, and you can feel your pulse quicken, your heart pounding in anticipation.

When he spreads your legs wider, his eyes fixed on the sight of you, so wet and ready for him, you can’t help but squirm, the need for him almost unbearable. “Please, Max,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. “Please.”

“Not yet,” Max replies, his voice a low growl as he watches you, his gaze heated and intense. “I want to hear you say it again.”

You bite back a frustrated whimper, but you know he won’t give in until he gets what he wants. He never does. “I want to be full of you,” you repeat, your voice a little stronger this time. “I want you to fill me, Max. Over and over.”

He seems satisfied with that, and he finally, finally, slides his fingers inside you, his touch both gentle and commanding. The sensation is overwhelming, and you moan loudly, your body arching up toward him, desperate for more.

Max watches you intently, his fingers moving in and out of you with a steady, deliberate rhythm that drives you wild. “You’re so perfect like this,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing down on your clit again, making you gasp. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You’re trembling now, every muscle in your body taut with tension, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level. “Max, please,” you beg, your voice breaking on the last word. “I need …”

“I know what you need,” Max interrupts, his voice dark and soothing. “I know what’s best for you.”

His fingers move faster, deeper, and you cry out, your hips bucking up toward him as your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and intense. Max doesn’t stop, though, his fingers continuing to work you over as he watches you unravel beneath him.

“You’re going to give me another one,” he murmurs, his voice filled with certainty. “Another baby. Another perfect child. And then another. And another.”

You can barely think, barely breathe, but the thought of it, of being so full of him, of carrying his children again and again, sends another wave of pleasure crashing through you. “Yes,” you gasp, your voice trembling. “Yes, Max.”

“That’s my girl,” Max says, his voice filled with satisfaction as he leans down to kiss you deeply, his fingers never stopping their relentless pace. “You’re going to look so beautiful. Always full of my children.”

He finally pulls his fingers out of you, and you whimper at the loss, but he’s not done. He slides inside you slowly, filling you completely, and you moan, your body shuddering from the intensity of it all.

Max moves with deliberate precision, his thrusts deep and slow, each one pushing you closer to the edge again. He’s relentless, driving you higher and higher, until you’re trembling, gasping for breath, completely at his mercy.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough with possession. “Mine to fill. Mine to keep. You’re going to give me everything, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your voice breaking as he drives into you harder, deeper, the pleasure almost too much to bear. “Yes, Max, I’m yours.”

He groans, the sound raw and primal, and you can feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more desperate, more urgent. “You’re going to be so full of me,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “So fucking full.”

And then he’s coming, his release hot and overwhelming inside you, filling you completely, just like he promised. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull out, just stays there, buried deep inside you as he catches his breath.

When he finally does pull out, you’re trembling, your body spent and exhausted, but there’s a deep, satisfied warmth in your chest, knowing that you’re his, completely and utterly his.

Max leans down to kiss you again, his hand resting on your swollen belly. “You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips. “So perfect.”

You smile, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace. “I love you,” you murmur, your voice soft and content.

“I love you too,” Max replies, his voice filled with a tenderness that makes your heart swell. “And I can’t wait to do this all over again.”

You know he means it, and as you drift off to sleep in his arms, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of peace, knowing that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

[sukunasteeth]

Stitches

Sukuna has never made you wait for him.

He was always on time, always there before you, and if circumstances arose where-in he couldn't be, you always knew an hour before. You were never left to wonder or worry.

If Sukuna says he'll be there, he's there.

So when you wake up to his cold and empty bed, after hours of waiting for him to return home from work, you want to assume the best case scenario.

He's just working late, you assure yourself when your eyes find the clock on the nightstand and it tells you that it's two o'clock in the morning. Maybe he was so entranced in whatever he was tending to that he had forgotten to call you and tell you he'd be late. It had never happened before, but there was a first time for everything.

You try not to trip over your own two feet on your way to the bathroom, ignoring the dread that immediately darkens your thoughts upon checking your phone for the hundredth time that night.  

No call. No text... Did he tell you in person earlier in the day and you had simply forgotten?

What if he's hurt?

You round the corner of the hallway.

What if he's in trouble?

You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't even register seeing the bathroom light peeking out from under the door.

You push it open.

What if he's-

Standing over the sink, dripping in blood, and using a fishing line to sew up an enormous gash splitting into his side?

You're frozen in the doorway. 

Faced with the unfortunate answer to the questions that had been progressively plaguing you the entirety of the night. Shock grips your throat and has a cold sweat breaking out over your skin.

You haven't seen him so roughed up since the two of you were in high school. Sukuna, always hungry for a test of strength, had often walked you home with a bloody nose or a ripped open pair of knuckles, but this would be the first time you've seen him look like he just rolled out of a fight club ring. 

He's taken off his suit jacket and his usually pristine white button down has been torn to shreds. The pieces that are left of it have adhered to the deepest of his wounds, soaked in crimson. He's holding up the hem of his shirt with his teeth, glaring down at a particularly large slice in his torso as he feeds a needle into the skin and puts himself back together again. One of his eyes is swollen and there's a small cut to the side of it. You can tell that he'll have a black eye come morning. Sukuna must see you in the corner of it, because he suddenly turns to look at you. The edge of his shirt falls out of his mouth, but Sukuna doesn't seem to notice, too surprised by your presence.

The two of you take each other in. Silently appraising the situation.

Before you can react, his surprise is already morphing into a resigned, disappointed sigh.

"Aw shit."

"What the HELL?!" You don't recognize the voice that escapes you in your panic. Raspy from the sleep still coating your throat, disjointed as your tonsils remember themselves and yet forget how to operate in your shock. You're across the room in a flash, nearly tripping headfirst into him in your haste. "What happened?! Y-You're hurt. Why are you hurt? Jesus, that looks so bad- oh my god. 'Kuna-"

"Shhh," He's hushing you. You're close enough for him to reach out with his free hand and pull you even closer, he doesn't seem to notice the streak of fresh blood he leaves behind on your wrist. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"You're covered in blood!" You whisper in horror, you search his eyes for even an ounce of alarm, and find only his usual nonchalance lounging there. As though this was nothing out of the ordinary.

He even looks down at himself like he wants to refute you, but when he picks up the collar of his shirt, finding the shredded pieces of what remained of it, he seems to think better. 

"Little bastards didn't do half bad, actually." He mutters to himself. He almost sounds... impressed. "Any deeper and it could have really been a pain in my ass."

"What happened?" You ask again, desperate.

"Just some kids waiting outside of the office." He rubs at the back of his head, and you notice another small cut there over a raised bump that seems to be swelling at the base of his skull. It must be tender, because he grimaces when he grazes it. You do too, just from watching him. "Trying to make some pocket money off of me and Uraume. They should have at least waited until we were both alone." When he pulls his hand away from his head, there's fresh blood glistening on his fingertips. He sucks his teeth. "Amateurs."

You take a deep, steadying breath- willing your heartbeat to slow.

You were the one who decided to fall for a man constantly looking for a good fight. At this point, you had only yourself to be disappointed with.

Without another word you turn your back to him and head straight for the shower. You needed him to wash off. You wouldn't be able to tell which parts of him needed attention in the mess that was currently coating his skin and you were already preparing mentally to tend to him. You spin the dial to ‘hot’ and turn back to him, trying your best to glare. You didn't think it was working very well. Especially because he's smiling softly at you.

"Get in." You command, pointing to the tub.

Sukuna scoffs softly, turning back to his needle and fishing line.

"It's fine.” He brushes you off. “I'm just going to rinse the cuts as I go-"

"Sukuna." You don't mean for it to come out as demanding as it does. Sukuna was hurt. You wanted to be gentle with him, but you can't help how overwhelmed you are at the sight of him battered to such a degree.

He slowly lifts his head like he was giving you time to think about the way you had just spoken to him before he meets your eyes again. You're too roused to take it back. "Get. In."

You can tell in his momentary silence that he doesn't recognize this shade of frustration on you. He's watching you like he's trying to take in every detail of it. Engrave it into his brain. Part of you is reminded in that moment that it wasn't Sukuna's anger you were in risk of pushing, but rather his excitement.

He folds up the fishing line and loops it around the sewing needle, placing it onto the counter without turning to look at it.

Your unrelenting stance falters a bit as he crosses the room after you, unbuttoning his dress shirt as he goes. His eyes never leave yours, testing your will.

When he makes it to you, he's brimming with pride. His belt clinks when he unloops the first notch. 

"Yes ma'am." He purrs.

...

An hour later, he's as clean as he can be and sitting on the closed lid of the toilet seat. You're perched in his lap, having already finished stitching shut the larger wounds that needed it. Now you're down to the last small cut left, which is on his cheek. It didn't require much attention, it was a tiny graze compared to the rest of the gashes you had tended to.

You can feel Sukuna watching you with a smitten little smile, like you had just spent the past hour silently telling him how much you adored him with your gentle but stern touches.

It ticks you off.

"Stop looking at me like that." You mutter, pressing the last of the steri-strips against his skin.

He doesn't even pretend to stop. You refuse to meet his gaze as you do a final examination of your handiwork. Finally, with him properly patched up and without a single drop of fresh blood in sight, the pain in your heart eases. He was okay. 

"...Why didn't you have Uraume help you with this before you came home?" You pretend to reassess one of the gauze strips on his bicep, but it's really just an excuse to nervously pick at the cotton while you're underneath his gaze.

There were plenty of people at the office who knew how to deal with wounds to this severity, professional medics that could have sewed him up twice as fast and sent him home just as clean as when he had arrived. So why did he wait so long for help?

Sukuna hums and his bandaged knuckles glide up and down the outsides of your thighs. "Maybe I like watching you play nurse."

"Kuna~" You groan hopelessly, letting your head thunk against his shoulder. "Quit teasing. I'm mad at you." You announce.

It only serves to widen his grin, which you can feel pressed against your hair as he kisses your forehead.

"But you're so cute when you want to be mad at me." He mocks your tone of voice and chuckles when you press your thumb into the bandage on his bicep in an attempt to punish him-just a bit.

Quickly, he snatches your hand, locking the both of your fingers together and gently nudging your head with his own. Silently asking you to look up again.

You're trying your best to pout at him, but you're surprised to see softness where you expected to find mischief in his expression. There's a warm fondness to his gaze. One you usually only see him wear when he's watching you talk about something you're particularly passionate about.

"I'm sorry I made you worry." The genuineness of the statement softens the hard lines of your face. And just like that, you completely forget that you’re supposed to be mad at him. His fingers trace the space between your brows where he had just made an angry knot disappear. "I do hate it when I do that."

Maybe it was a tactic to get off the hook. But it was a good one. It even has you feeling guilty for being hard on him. 

"I don't like seeing you covered in blood." You whisper, finally meeting his eyes. The glimmer there is triumphant.

"I'll hose off out front next time, how's that?"

You bite back a laugh at the image, trying to keep your stern disposition. You lean in, so as to impart the severity of your tone. "No next time."

Sukuna leans in closer, "And I'll have to get you a nurse's outfit."

"No next time!"

You were in love with the epitome of mischief. There was always going to be a next time.

[luludeluluramblings]

Smalltown!Neglected!Meta!Reader x Yandere!Batfam ☁️ Part Two

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part One ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Four ☁️ Part Five ☁️ Part Six ☁️ Part Seven ☁️ Part Eight

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Still establishing some more lore and feelings. Currently, the Batfamily has two yanderes. With more yandere’s being revealed outside of Gotham and some in Gotham about to start falling into obsession. Also, my favorite Reader is one who is manipulated into thinking the collar around their neck is a necklace. Will be working on Part Three, but it might take longer because we have obsessions starting and Reader starting to get to a breaking point.

Warning(s): Yandere themes, Obsessive behavior

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Poor Reader has it rough. Not too rough, but still life kinda sucks and they wanna go home now, please and thank you.

But, as always, things start to brighten up a notch or two.

Reader is thriving at school, sure they can’t hang out with their friends, but their friends understand (which honestly kinda odd, but they’ll roll with it)

There is a small issue.

Reader is a metahuman. (I know, shocking. So unique.)

Reader controls the weather, at will or with extreme emotions (oooooo interesting)

Back in their hometown, Reader didn’t have to hide said abilities that much. (Hell, more than a few people knew about it. Such an understanding community.)

Here in Gotham, in a practical stranger’s house, they’re not gonna to that.

Which is fine. Fine fine fine

Okay, so Reader is tense. Doesn’t have a healthy outlet, and is bottling things up. So that storms brewing. Gonna be fun when that comes back to bite Reader in the ass.

But, things are looking up. (I swear this time!)

Duke and Cass are hanging out with Reader more. They’re sorta becoming a trio of amigos.

Though, they do disappear often. For long periods of time.

Reader is pretty sure Bruce is Batman, at this point.

They’re not stupid, it’s in their damn genetics to be somewhat intelligent, so to speak.

But, no one actually tells reader. It’s lead to some awkward situations of them going silent when Reader enters the room, or the manor being unusually empty after everyone went to the ‘library’.

(Smalltown doesn’t mean stupid, bunch of jerks.)

It just makes reader feel even less like they’re part of the family. Even Alfred disappears for a time, leaving Reader completely alone with nothing, but portraits and old wood furniture.

No one says anything. No one mentions a single thing. (Am I not worthy of the secret? Why did you drag me here only to ignore me?)

Bruce continue to bounce between ignoring and coddling. Yet gets upset if Reader does the same. (Making them anxious.)

Dick pops back in, immediately showering Reader and excessive amounts of affection before shooing them off cause he’s gotta take care of somethings. (It makes reader feel like a pet in a degrading way.)

Jason gets caught harassing Reader by Alfred. Which leads to a screaming match between Jason and Bruce. It’s a violent one, but Alfred drags Reader out of the room before they can see. (But they hear things breaking and It’s terrifying.)

After that, Reader is extremely cautious around Jason. Which for some reason makes him angry and more violent. (Why does he hate me? This is scary.)

Stephanie starts to come around. Slowly. They’re getting there. (Stephanie still prefers to hangout with Tim and Tim…)

Tim ignores Reader the most. Will not talk to Reader at all. Which sucks because Teader thinks they would total get along. (But, nope. All they get is the cold shoulder.)

Reader just avoids Damian like the plague.

Reader talks more often to her other half-brother living miles away than the one she’s currently living with. (That’s gonna piss Damian off later)

While Barbara remains cordial.

Life is moving on. We’re good. Everything’s good.

Wait? Gotham Academy is having its own student Gala? That sounds amazing! Getting dolled up, having a night with friends. Maybe…. Having a date escort them….

And the best part is, Bruce says Reader can go.

Now, Cass and Duke and Damian won’t be going. Which is a bummer, but Reader understands.

Bruce even buys reader something to wear.

An obnoxious designer outfit. (A couture ruffle monstrosity that’s all the rage on the runway.)

It’s so terrible you have to laugh. (Just to hide how upsetting it is that no one actually knows what you like here or bothers to ask.)

Reader even shows Stephanie and they share a laugh. (It’s great. Reader needed that laugh.)

But, there’s no way Reader is going to wear this. So, Reader calls their childhood friend and favorite fashion designer.

Commissioning a more mature outfit. (Reader is almost grown, time to take a break from the ruffles and embrace the sexy.)

BFF comes through and then a week later someone shows up at Wayne Manor. (Damn that was fast.)

Someone from Reader’s hometown, and this starts to set things in motion.

BFF’s older brother, Reader’s childhood crush, shows up holding a dress and driving Daddy’s old truck. Which he hands Reader the keys too.

Nana and Grand Daddy, the Step Grandparents, wanted to surprise reader with a gift from home. (Remind Reader how much better living in a smalltown is compared to somewhere like Gotham. How much their town adores them and misses them.)

Poor oblivious Reader. Not realizing their smalltown is so desperate to have them back. (Reader was their’s first, they know Reader best.)

Nor how desperate Gotham is going to be to make force reader to stay.

[cjlouwho]

“Hey, Cutie. What's your name?”

Buck stopped digging to look up at the man, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Buck,” he replied simply, sucking in a deep breath.

“Buck?” he questioned. “Just Buck?”

Buck sighed. “Evan Buckley. Most people call me Buck.”

The man smiled. “Evan's nice. I like Evan. I'm gonna call you Evan.”

“My boyfriend's really the only one who does that.”

The man stepped closer, invading Buck's personal space. “You're already taken?”

“I- I am,” Buck replied, tripping over his words. Now that he was closer, this man did have some beautiful blue eyes. They nearly stared right into his soul.

“Hm.” The man shook his head. “That's a shame,” he looked Buck up and down. “You're really... really hot.”

“Pr- Probably from the wildfire th- that's nearby.”

The man laughed. Damn, even his laugh did something to Buck. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “But I think you'd look good no matter what.”

“I really, um, I need to get back to digging, so the fire doesn't spread.”

“Looks like you could use a break to me.” The man pulled a bottle of water from his pocket, and the sight of it nearly made Buck's dry mouth start to water. “Ice cold, just for you.”

And well, it would almost be rude not to take the water. So he did.

He twisted the cap off and drank nearly half the bottle down. He couldn't help but notice the man watched every gulp, staring at his throat like he wanted to lick the sweat right off.

“Thank you,” Buck said once he finished. He went to hand the bottle back, but the man shook his head.

“That's yours,” he said. “Can't have a man as handsome as you passing out from dehydration. Someone may have to give you mouth to mouth.”

Buck swallowed hard. “Th- Then why'd you give me the water?”

Buck watched the man's blue eyes darken, his breathing picking up. He reached out, tugging on the collar of Buck's wildland gear to fix it. “You've gotta be careful, Evan. I don't usually go for taken men, but I might have to change my mind.” His hand slowly ran down Buck's chest as he pulled away from him.

Buck's breath hitched. He couldn't look away from this man. Couldn't help all the feelings bubbling up deep in his gut. “I... I don't even know your name.”

“Might be better that way,” the man replied, taking another step closer. His eyes moved down to Buck's lips. “I'll be able to remember you forever, and you can go back to your boyfriend and forget I ever existed.”

“I- I don't know if I could do that.”

“What? Go back to your boyfriend? Or forget me? Cause-”

“Dear God,” Eddie interrupted, exasperated. “You know other people can hear you, right? Get a room, or better yet, get a truck. I'll cover for you if it'll get you two to stop... whatever the hell this is.”

Buck sighed, resting a hand on his hip as he turned to Eddie. “We were just getting to the good part.”

“You've done this before?!” he exclaimed.

“Two days ago,” Hen informed him as she passed by. She gave a wave to the man. “Hey, Tommy.”

“Hi, Hen. Eddie,” he greeted with a nod and a smile.

Eddie groaned. “You two are pathetic.”

“Oh, are they doing that weird roleplay thing again?” Chimney asked as he walked up beside Eddie.

“You've heard it too?”

“I think half the firefighters in the county have heard it by now.”

“Three weeks!” Buck reminded them, holding up three fingers for emphasis. “We've been here for three weeks without more than a few seconds alone. Let me have this.”

Eddie raised his hands in surrender. “I'm gonna go get me a water since, apparently, it doesn't matter if I pass out from dehydration.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “I'll bring you a water next time.”

“What about me?” Chimney asked. “Because, if I remember right, you'll have to give me mouth to mouth if I fall to the ground.”

“I will bring everyone water next time.” Tommy spoke loudly, so everyone around could hear.

“That's better,” Chimney said. He patted Eddie on the shoulder. “Come on, let's give the lovebirds a minute.”

Tommy turned back to Buck. “As much as I'd love to finish the scene,” he said once the others had walked away, “I do have to go. I told my group I'd only be five minutes.”

Buck couldn't help his pout, but he also knew he had to get back to work too. “When we get home, if we ever get to go home, we're not putting on clothes for three days.”

Tommy smiled, nose scrunching up. “Deal,” he agreed. He leaned in and gave Buck a quick peck on the lips. “I gotta go. Love you, Cutie,” he said with a wink.

Before he could walk off, Buck grabbed his turnouts and pulled Tommy back for one more kiss before letting him go. “Love you too. Be safe.”

[reilemon]

Beneath the Collar

♡︎ synopsis: What do you tell yourself when you develop a crush on a hot priest? 'It'll pass.' But what if it doesn't?

♡︎ pairing: priest!Zayne x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: personal sacrilege, mutual masturbation

♡︎ word count: 13k

♡︎ a/n: the fifth story for kinktober 2024. i know i wrote something else as a prompt for this story, but it kinda didn't fit into the vibe. I hope you'll still like it.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

You’d been absentmindedly wiping down the counter, eyes flicking to the clock every couple of minutes. You were anticipating the weekend as if it was your lifeline. The shop was nearly empty, just a couple pastries left. You could already taste the freedom that awaited once you locked up. Saturday nights were your escape. You’d head out of town and finally let loose with your old friends. You couldn’t wait to slip into a tight dress, feel the beat of music thrumming through your veins, and drown the stress of your quiet life with a few too many drinks.

You loved the buzz, the way you could disappear into the crowd. It was so different from the slow, predictable pace of this town—so different from the way you had to be here, composed, calm, responsible. You could already imagine the way your friends would greet you with shrieks and hugs, the taste of sweet cocktails on your lips, the feel of someone’s hands on your waist as you danced the night away.

You hadn’t realized how tightly wound you’d become until you started thinking about it. The endless days of baking, of small talk with customers who didn’t really know you, of going home to an empty apartment. This wasn’t the life you’d imagined.

The chime above the door rings, pulling you back from your thoughts. You straighten instinctively, slipping back into your practiced routine, eyes flicking up with a tired smile ready—until you see him.

The man who steps in isn’t like any customer you’ve seen before. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark, understated clothes. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the stark white collar around his neck—the unmistakable sign of a priest. Yet you can’t help but stare at his features - his sharp jawline, the raven-black hair falling slightly across his forehead, and those intense green eyes. He looks cold, distant, his gaze hard and unreadable as it sweeps the room before landing squarely on you.

You can feel your heart pound as your breath catches. You aren’t supposed to feel this way. He’s a priest, for God’s sake. Yet here you are, rooted in place, unable to tear your eyes away from him. You shouldn’t be thinking about how strong his hands look, or how his lips might feel if they ever touched yours. Guilt twists in your gut, making you flush with shame.

You swallow hard, the professional smile faltering for a second as your thoughts race. What is a man like him doing here? He doesn’t look like the type to indulge in something sweet.

He steps forward, approaching the counter, and the closer he gets, the more you can feel your façade slipping. You force yourself to break eye contact, focusing instead on the pastries.

You need to say something, anything to break the tension. “Good evening,” you finally manage.

“I’m sorry for coming in so late,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, instantly making you feel butterflies. “I was hoping to grab something before you closed.”

You nod, trying to keep the conversation professional, though your mind is anything but. “Of course,” you reply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again.

His eyes flick over the display case before returning to you, making your heart flutter. “Macarons,” he says after a moment. “Do you have any left?”

You blink, thrown off by the unexpected request, by how he knows exactly what he wants. “Ah—no,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Sorry, they sold out earlier today.”

He nods once, but doesn’t seem disappointed. You half-expect him to say something more, maybe ask about the next batch or try one of the remaining pastries. But he doesn’t. His eyes flick to the empty spot where the macarons should’ve been, then back to you.

"Thank you," He doesn’t smile, just offers a polite nod before he turns and walks toward the door. The air feels lighter the moment he steps out, but your heart is still racing, your mind still tangled in thoughts you shouldn’t have.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what just happened, your hand still resting on the counter as if anchoring you back to reality. Slowly, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

‘What the hell was that?’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Later that evening, you stand in front of your mirror, smoothing your dress down over your hips, but your thoughts are miles away. You’ve been looking forward to this night all week— but now, you can’t stop thinking about him.

As you spray the perfume on your neck, your mind drifts back to the way those cold green eyes had fixed on you with such unnerving intensity. You replay the interaction over and over in your head as you fix your lipstick, each swipe of color across your lips bringing back the memory of his deep, steady voice.

You grab your heels and slide them on, trying to push the image of him away. It’s your night - you should be thinking about the friends you’ll be laughing with, the strangers you might flirt with, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. And that damn collar, the way it stood out against his sharp jaw, mocking you.

You sigh, frustrated with yourself as you grab your clutch and head for the door. Tonight is about fun, freedom. As you step outside, you convince yourself that by the end of the night you will forget all about him.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stand just outside the church, a box of macarons clutched in your hands. The crisp autumn air hits your face, cooling the remnants of your hangover. You wince slightly as the last pulse of your headache throbs behind your eyes. But it’s nothing compared to the nervous energy swirling in your stomach. The night before is a blur of music, laughter, and drinks—too many drinks—and yet, through it all, he was still there. No matter how hard you tried your mind kept circling back to the priest.

You woke up early this morning, despite the dull ache in your head, the need to see him again pulling you out of bed far earlier than your body wanted. You spent more time than usual getting ready, trying to make yourself look presentable. Like you hadn’t spent half the night dancing under neon lights, sweat mingling with perfume. Like you were fresh and composed, not some hungover mess delivering macarons to a man who probably didn’t even remember you.

Now, as you stand outside the church, watching as the last of the congregation trickles out from Sunday mass, you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ You glance down at the box in your hands. Last night, you’d come home and found the extra macarons sitting in your fridge—fresh, untouched. And somehow, in your alcohol-soaked brain, you’d convinced yourself that bringing them to him would make sense. That maybe, just maybe, seeing him again would clear your thoughts.

Inside, you hear the faint echoes of voices, the last goodbyes being exchanged. Your pulse quickens, the nerves settling in deeper now. ‘What if he thinks I’m crazy?’ You glance up at the church doors as they swing open again. More people spill out, some of them familiar faces, regulars from your shop. You offer a small, polite smile to those who glance your way, though the last thing you want is to be seen here, holding this box like some desperate girl with a crush.

The crowd thins, and finally, you see him. He steps out of the church, tall and composed, his dark coat catching the cool breeze as he exchanges polite nods and handshakes with the remaining parishioners. Your heart stutters in your chest when his eyes land on you, sharp and focused, just like yesterday. His gaze flickers with confusion as he approaches. The contrast between the two of you couldn’t be more stark. He’s the picture of calm and control, while you feel like a bundle of frayed nerves.

"Good morning," he greets, his voice low and even, though there’s a hint of curiosity in it. His eyes drop to the box in your hands, and then back up to meet your gaze. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

You force a small smile, suddenly feeling foolish again for showing up like this. "I, um..." You glance down at the box before awkwardly extending it toward him. "I brought these... for you. Macarons. I had some extras, and I thought..." Your voice trails off as you realize how ridiculous you sound.

He hesitates for a moment, clearly taken aback by the gesture, his brow furrowing slightly as he looks between you and the box. "That’s very kind of you," he says after a beat, his tone polite but still laced with confusion. He takes the box from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through you. "But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why bring them here?"

You feel your face heat up, the embarrassment creeping in again as you try to explain. "I just... yesterday, you asked about the macarons. And I had some left at home, so I thought..." You trail off again, unsure how to finish without sounding completely absurd.

His eyes soften slightly, the confusion changing into something more like understanding. "I see," he says quietly. He looks down at the box in his hands, then back at you. "Thank you. This was... thoughtful."

There’s a long, awkward pause before you gather the nerve to ask, "Have you visited my shop before? I mean, you knew we sold macarons, but I don’t remember seeing you."

He glances away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you, his tone still measured and calm. "I have stopped by a few times, yes. But more often than not, my colleagues bring me your macarons. They speak highly of your pastries." His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile, but the closest thing you’ve seen from him. "They’ve made sure I know where to find the best sweets in town."

You blink, processing that information. ‘So, he has been there.’ A strange mix of relief and disappointment washes over you—relief that he’s not a complete stranger to your shop, but disappointment that you missed those visits. Still, knowing he’s tasted your work fills you with a sense of pride.

"I see," you murmur, nodding. "I wasn’t sure, since... well, you don’t seem like the type to indulge in sweets."

He raises an eyebrow. "I do, on occasion," he says, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Especially macarons."

Another silence falls between you. The cold morning air feels sharper now, the quiet around the church almost too loud as the last of the parishioners filter away, leaving just the two of you standing there.

You feel the urge to say something, anything. "I hope you enjoy them," you say quickly, nodding toward the box in his hands.

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than feels comfortable. "I’m sure I will," he replies, his voice softer now, though his serious demeanor never wavers. "Thank you again. This was... unexpected."

You nod, unsure what else to say, and suddenly, the weight of what you’re doing—standing outside a church, hungover, giving a priest macarons—hits you all over again. You swallow hard, feeling the need to leave before you make things even more awkward.

"I should probably go," you blurt out, taking a small step back. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning."

He watches you, his gaze steady, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to say something to stop you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply nods. "Take care,"

You turn and start walking away, your heart pounding in your chest, the cool air biting at your skin. You feel a little silly, a little reckless, but something about the way he looked at you, the way his eyes softened just a fraction when he accepted the macarons... it stays with you.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday arrives quicker than expected, and this time, you're determined to play it cool. You still went out the night before, but you kept it light—a couple of drinks, no wild partying. The ache behind your eyes this morning is faint, nothing like last week’s pounding. You’d woken up with enough time to fix your hair and choose an outfit that’s both casual and appropriate, though you spent longer than you’d like to admit deciding on it.

As you step inside the church, the scent of old wood and candles washes over you, calming your racing heart just a little. The crowd is larger than you expected—families, couples, elderly regulars. You quietly slip into a pew near the back, hoping to blend in.

You settle in, your eyes scanning the front of the church, seeking him out. There he is, standing at the altar in his robes, his presence as commanding as ever. He’s facing the congregation, his expression stoic, speaking in that calm, steady voice that fills the room with reverence. At first, he doesn’t notice you. He’s focused on his sermon, his attention on the crowd as he guides them through the service.

And then, as if he can sense you watching him, his gaze flickers toward the back of the church—and locks onto you.

For a moment, the rest of the congregation fades into the background. It’s just you and him, his eyes lingering on you longer than they should. There’s no surprise in his expression, but his gaze isn’t the distant, detached look you remember from before. Your breath catches, and for a second, you’re not sure what to do. You glance down at your hands, trying to steady yourself, but when you look back up, his eyes are still on you. He’s quick to recover, though, returning his focus to the sermon, but the brief connection leaves your pulse racing.

The rest of the mass is a blur. You try to listen, to follow along with the prayers, but all you can think about is the way he looked at you. The quiet intensity of his gaze, the way it felt like he was seeing more than just another face in the crowd.

As the mass ends and people begin to rise from their seats, you remain seated for a moment longer. You watch as the crowd shuffles toward the exit, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, offering their thanks and farewells. For a second, you think about slipping out quietly and disappearing before he notices you again. It would be the easiest thing to do—walk away, avoid any awkward conversations.

But just as you start to stand, your eyes find his across the room. He’s still speaking with a couple of elderly women near the front, but his gaze shifts—briefly, unmistakably—back to you. And there’s something in that moment that makes it impossible to leave. Before you know it, you’re moving toward him, your pulse quickening with each step.

You tell yourself it’s only polite to say hello, maybe thank him for the sermon. It’s what people do, right? But the truth is, you haven’t attended a church service in so long, you’re not even sure how you’re supposed to talk to a priest. What do people even say in these situations? Your mind races as you approach, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to say.

When you reach him, he finishes his conversation with the elderly women, offering them a polite nod before turning his attention to you. For a moment, you stand there, unsure of how to start, but before you can stumble over a greeting, he speaks first.

"Good to see you again," Zayne says, as he offers you a barely visible smile. It’s subtle, just a small upturn at the corner of his lips, but it’s enough to make your heart race. "I don’t recall seeing you here before last week."

You blink, feeling like you’re caught red handed. You fumble for a response, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Oh, no, I—I haven’t been here before," you admit, glancing down at your hands before looking back up at him. "I mean, I used to go to church when I was younger, but... it’s been a while." You force a small smile. "I’ve been in this town for a few months now, but I guess I still feel kind of... new. I’m trying to, you know, be a part of the community."

It’s a half-truth, but close enough to reality.

Zayne listens intently, his expression thoughtful as he considers your words. "It’s understandable," he says after a moment, his voice softer now. "Moving to a new place can feel... isolating." His gaze lingers on you. "I’m glad you’re finding your place here."

You nod, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Yeah, I think I’m making some progress."

You’re unsure of what to say next, but Zayne is the one that speaks next. "Those macarons you brought last week," he begins. "There was one flavor I hadn’t tried before—rose, I believe?"

You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. "Oh, yeah," you say, a giddy smile creeping onto your lips. "I like to experiment with new flavors in my free time. I wasn’t sure if anyone would like that one."

He nods, with a faint smile. "It was... different. Unexpected, but in a good way."

Your smile widens at that, unable to contain the warmth blooming in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much his opinion would matter to you. "I’m always experimenting," you admit, feeling more at ease now. "Sometimes I stay up late trying out new combinations."

The air between you feels lighter, warmer. "I can tell you put a lot of effort into it."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you’re not sure how to respond. But before you can say anything, Zayne shifts the conversation slightly. "We’re hosting a bake sale next week," he says, "It’s for a local charity. I was wondering if you’d have the time to volunteer."

Volunteer? At the church? You’ve never done anything like that before. But the idea of working with him, of contributing in some way—it tugs at you, and before you can think it through too much, you find yourself nodding.

"Yeah, I’d love to," you say quickly, the giddiness from earlier still bubbling beneath the surface. "I mean, I’m sure I could make time."

His gaze softens, and there’s that almost smile again. "Good," he says. "I think your talents would be appreciated."

You nod, feeling strangely content. Working with him, even if it’s just for something simple like a bake sale—seems like a small step forward, a way to stay close without pushing too far.

As the crowd continues to thin, you realize you’ve lingered long enough. You take a small step back, your heart still racing from the interaction. "I’ll see you next week, then," you say softly, offering him a final smile before turning to leave.

"Yes," he replies. "Next week."

You can feel his gaze on your back as you exit the church, the weight of it lingering long after you step outside into the cool autumn air. And though you try to tell yourself that it’s just a bake sale, just a way to be part of the community, you can’t shake the excitement simmering beneath the surface.

Next week couldn’t come soon enough.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The bake sale was a success. The air was filled with the scent of baked goods and laughter, but you hardly had time to enjoy it. Zayne, ever the center of attention, had been pulled away in a dozen directions the entire day. When you’d arrived early that morning, hands full of pastries and stomach full of butterflies, you barely got a chance to exchange more than a quick greeting.

He had smiled at you, brief but warm, though his attention was quickly snatched away by people needing his assistance, asking for advice, or organizing last-minute details. Of course, he handled everything with calm efficiency. You watched him navigate the chaos with admiration, though a part of you ached for more than those fleeting glances you stole throughout the day.

Now, as the sun begins to set and the crowd dissipates, everything is finally winding down. The tables have been mostly cleared, the leftover baked goods packed up, and most of the volunteers have either left or are chatting amongst themselves. You’re still tidying up, folding a tablecloth when you feel a presence beside you. Zayne.

"Need any help?" he asks.

You offer him a small smile, shaking your head. "I’ve got it," you say, too aware of how close he’s standing. "But thank you."

"You did a lot today," he says quietly. "The bake sale wouldn’t have been as successful without you."

The compliment, though simple, warms your chest, and you can’t help the slight flush that rises to your cheeks. "I’m just glad I could help," you reply, glancing at him, and there it is again—his gaze, lingering just a fraction too long.

"Will you be attending mass tomorrow?" he asks after a pause, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

For a moment, you’re not sure how to answer. Attending Sunday mass on a regular basis was not something you imagined for yourself when you moved here. But neither was the crush on a priest. You tilt your head slightly, offering a small smile. "I might," you say. "But... I’d be more than happy to help out around the church too. If you need extra hands for events or... anything else." The offer hangs in the air.

Zayne’s eyes hold yours for a moment longer, before he nods, his lips curving into that barely-there smile that always makes your heart race. "I’ll keep that in mind."

As you both finish the last of the cleanup, the weight of the day settles over you. The connection between you and Zayne feels more real.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Days pass after the Sunday mass, and your mind is restless. You had hoped—foolishly—that this crush would fade. That the flutters in your stomach and the lingering heat in your chest, and somewhere else, would disappear. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s grown stronger. It’s more than just attraction now—it’s curiosity, fascination, a desire to know him beyond the surface.

You had gone to mass that Sunday, and the entire service, your eyes had found his. After the service, you exchanged pleasantries as usual, but there was something beneath the surface. The way he smiled at you, as if holding back. And then, before you left, he had handed you his phone, suggesting that you exchange numbers, “in case there’s any more help needed with events.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request, and yet, your hands had trembled slightly when you typed your number in. A simple exchange of phone numbers shouldn’t feel like this, but you couldn’t shake the thrill it gave you.

Now, days later, you’ve been staring at his name in your phone for what feels like hours. Your fingers hover over the screen, your mind spinning with a thousand excuses you could use to text him.

‘Just invite yourself over.’ Tell him you’ve been working on new desserts and want to share them. It’s innocent enough—after all, you’ve done it before, and he was more than happy to accept. Why should this time be any different?

You lean back, the phone still in your hand, your thoughts a tangled mess. ‘It’s not wrong to want to see him, is it?’ When you’d exchanged numbers, had there been something in the way his hand brushed yours? Something more than just casual contact?

Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone, heart pounding in your chest. ‘One message. That’s all. Just one message to bring him something.’ It’s innocent. Harmless.

You begin to type. “Hey, I’ve been experimenting with some new dessert recipes. Thought you might like to try them. Could I drop some by?”

Before you can second-guess yourself again, you hit send.

The message disappears, leaving you staring at the screen, your heart racing.

Your phone buzzes a minute later, and you can hardly breathe as you open the message.

“That sounds great. I’d love to try them.”

His reply is simple, casual, but the effect it has on you is anything but. You glance around your apartment, suddenly feeling the weight of what you’ve done. You’re going to see him again, and this time, the meeting will be more personal, more intimate. ‘Just you, him, and those damn desserts.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You close the shop with shaky hands, flipping the sign to "closed" and locking the door behind. You try to calm your nerves as you walk toward the church.

‘Why am I doing this?’ you ask yourself for the hundredth time. You always shared your new recipes with your two employees—they were your taste-testers, your go-to feedback. So why now? Why are you heading to a priest, of all people?

‘He’s the customer experience,’ you remind yourself, a weak excuse at best. However, if anyone could give an honest opinion, it would be him—level-headed, composed, with that quiet seriousness that always unnerves and excites you. It’s just an opinion, nothing more. You repeat it like a mantra as you approach the church.

The doors creak open as you step inside, the familiar scent of incense filling your senses. The church is mostly empty, the soft glow of evening light filtering through the stained-glass windows. As you enter, you spot Zayne standing outside the confessional. He’s speaking quietly with an older woman, but his eyes flick up as soon as you walk in. The moment he sees you, his expression changes for a split second, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make your heart skip a beat.

The woman finishes her conversation, offering him a polite smile before heading toward the door. Zayne watches her go, and when she’s gone, he turns his full attention to you.

His lips curve into a subtle smile. "Good evening," he greets you with that calm authority that always makes you feel both at ease and strangely vulnerable at the same time. "Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble."

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady as you return his smile. "No trouble at all. I just closed up the shop, so... it worked out."

He nods, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before gesturing toward the back of the church. "Shall we?" He leads you down the quiet hallway, until you reach his office—a small, private room tucked away from the rest of the church. The walls are lined with bookshelves, a modest desk in the middle, and a soft lamp casting a warm glow. Zayne closes the door behind you, and for a second, the air between you feels thicker than it had before.

You sit across from each other at the small desk. You set the box between you, showing a display of your latest creations. Zayne’s intense green eyes take in the array of sweets.

"These look incredible," he says as he leans in. He reaches for one, pausing as if to savor the moment. "Shall we start?"

You nod, your voice wavering as you describe the little creation.

As he finishes the first dessert, followed by more praise, his eyes drift over the others in the box. His eyes linger on a small orange-tinted one. His brow furrows slightly, and he glances up at you. "Is that… carrot?" he asks, with reluctance in his tone.

You laugh softly, "Yes, it’s a mini carrot cake," you say, your voice light and teasing. "I’ve been thinking about adding it to the menu."

Zayne’s smile tightens just a little. His fingers hover near the pastry, but he doesn’t reach for it. "Carrot cake... that’s..." He trails off, clearly searching for the right words, though his discomfort is obvious. "I’m sure it’s delicious," he adds, his tone strained with effort.

You can’t help but chuckle softly at his expression, the idea of Zayne being uncomfortable with something as simple as a carrot cake is both endearing and amusing. "You don’t like carrots, do you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him with a grin.

Zayne shifts slightly, his ears tinged with a faint blush as he gives a sheepish smile. "I’ve never been... fond of them," he admits.

You laugh again. "That’s completely fine," you say, shaking your head. "You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended."

Relief washes over his face, and you can’t help but find it charming. "Thank you," he says with a smile, his voice more relaxed now. "I’m sure it’s wonderful. Just... not for me."

You nod, smiling back at him as you make a mental note not to add the carrot cake to the menu after all. Who would have thought Zayne, of all people, would have such a small but specific dislike?

As you both settle into a comfortable rhythm of tasting the remaining pastries, the earlier tension eases, replaced by the easy conversation and laughter that flows between you. There’s something natural, almost soothing, about this—sharing these quiet moments, watching his reactions as he tries each new flavor, the occasional teasing smile crossing his lips.

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to push the boundary just a little. “I won’t ask what made you become a priest at such a young age,” you begin, offering a shy smile to lighten the weight of your words. “But I have to admit... I do wonder what you do when you’re not here. What’s Zayne like when he’s not... well, Father Zayne?”

Zayne’s lips twitch slightly at the question, as though he’s surprised but also amused by your boldness. He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing a bit.

“Well,” he begins, a faint chuckle escaping his lips, “I don’t have much free time, to be honest. Between the church, the community events, and my other responsibilities, it’s hard to find a moment just for myself.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “But when I do get some time, I like to read. Mostly fiction—novels, stories that take me somewhere else for a little while.” His voice softens with a hint of something like nostalgia. “I also try to visit new restaurants when I can. There aren’t many options in this town, so sometimes I take trips to the city just to try something different.”

There’s something so relaxed, almost vulnerable, in the way he talks about it that makes you feel like you’re seeing a side of him that few people do. A side that isn’t weighed down by the responsibilities of his role, but is simply... Zayne.

He shifts the conversation, leaning forward slightly as he looks at you. “What about you?” he asks, his voice warm with genuine curiosity. “When you’re not experimenting with food, what do you do in your free time?”

“Well,” you begin, shifting in your seat, “when I do take a break, I like to drive out of town, too. I’d meet up with old friends, go out for a drink or two... but honestly, I like the quiet here. It’s different. Calming, in a way.”

Zayne nods, his expression thoughtful. “I can see that. There’s something peaceful about being here, away from the noise. But I imagine it must get lonely sometimes.”

His words strike a chord in you, and for a moment, you feel a vulnerability creeping in. You hadn’t expected him to understand, but somehow, he does.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “It does.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light— as someone who, like you, is navigating his own struggles, his own desires.

The rest of the evening continues with light topics and soft laughter. But as you glance out the window you see it’s pitch-black outside. You glance at your watch, feeling a pang of reluctance as you realize it’s time to go.

“I should probably head out,” you say softly, not wanting to break the moment but knowing it has to end.

Zayne nods, though there’s a hint of something in his eyes that shows he feels the same reluctance. He stands, walking you to the door of his office. “Thank you for the desserts,” he says, his voice feeling more personal now. “And for the conversation.”

You smile. “Thank you for listening. And for the... honesty.” There’s a moment of hesitation before you step toward the door, the space between you suddenly feeling too close. He opens the door, and as you step out into the quiet hall, you glance back at him one last time.

His eyes linger on you. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice low, and for a second, it feels like there’s more he wants to say, but the moment passes.

“Goodnight,” you reply, turning to leave, your heart still racing from the quiet intimacy of the evening.

As you walk out into the cool night air, you can’t help but feel that this connection—whatever it is between you and Zayne—has deepened. And as you head home, your thoughts linger on him, wondering where this path will lead.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, and your heart skips a beat. It’s a message from Zayne.

“The desserts were incredible,” it reads. “You have a real gift for combining flavors. Thank you again.”

You smile, rereading the message a few times before typing out a casual reply. His words, the thoughtfulness behind them, mean more than they should. You tell yourself it’s just feedback—he’s just being kind, just acknowledging your work—but the fact that he took the effort to write this message... it lingers in your mind.

Days pass, and the messages continue. They’re not frequent, but every other day, you’ll receive something from him—a thoughtful comment on one of your desserts or a small exchange that feels more personal than before.

One evening, your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a picture—a grainy snapshot of a small, scruffy-looking cat sitting outside the church doors.

“This little guy hangs around the church sometimes. I think he’s starting to expect me to feed him,” the message reads.

You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself as you look at the picture. You quickly type out a response: “He’s adorable! Have you tried petting him yet?”

A minute later, Zayne replies: “I’ve tried. He runs away every time I get close.”

You smile to yourself, finding the image of Zayne—a man so composed, so in control—being outwitted by a stray cat endearing. You imagine him, kneeling down, trying to coax the little creature closer, only for it to scurry away. There’s something so human about it, so... normal.

“That’s adorable,” you reply, the smile still on your face. “Keep feeding him, and he’ll come around eventually.”

The conversation carries on like that—simple, easy exchanges that make you feel more connected to him in ways you hadn’t expected. But with every message, every small insight into Zayne’s life outside of his role as a priest, the ache in your chest grows. The attraction you’d hoped would fade has only grown stronger, and now it’s not just about the way he looks or the way his voice makes your heart race. It’s about him—his quiet strength, his thoughtfulness, the way he seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but still finds time to send you a picture of a stray cat.

You know you shouldn’t feel this way. He’s a priest, and you’re well aware of the boundaries that are supposed to exist between you. You’ve tried telling yourself that it’s just a crush, something that will pass.

But it hasn’t.

Late at night, you lie in bed, staring at your phone, your thumb hovering over the screen as you reread his latest message for the hundredth time. You feel a warmth spread through your chest, a soft ache blooming alongside it—a gnawing longing.

Your set the phone beside you as you exhale, closing your eyes. The ache doesn’t go away. The thought of him consumes you. Every night, it’s the same. You tell yourself not to think about him, not to let your mind wander to those places where it’s dangerous to go, but you’re powerless to stop it.

You imagine his hands—strong yet gentle—the way they would feel against your skin. You think about his lips, how they’d taste, how they’d move against yours, how they’d trail lower. Your body heats at the thought and before you can stop yourself, your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties. The room feels too quiet, too still, as your breath quickens, and all you can think of is him.

Every night, you touch yourself to the thought of him. It’s become your secret ritual, a way to chase the frustration and desire that builds up inside you. You picture the way his body would feel pressed against yours, the way his breath would hitch as he gives in, as the control he fights so hard to maintain finally snaps. You can almost hear his voice—low, rough with need—as he murmurs your name, telling you how much he’s wanted you, how long he’s been fighting it.

Your fingers move faster. And just as you reach the edge, teetering on the brink of release, you whisper his name into the darkness, your voice barely audible.

When it’s over, you lie there, breathless, your heart pounding in the silence of your room. The guilt creeps in, just like every night.

During the day, at the shop, you go through the motions—serving customers, smiling, chatting. But your mind drifts back to him, and you wonder –

‘Does he ever think about me like that?’

You think of him during the slow afternoons at the shop, when the world feels like it’s moving on without you. You wonder what he’s doing, if you cross his mind in those rare moments when he’s alone. Or if you’re just another parishioner to him, someone he texts about cats and pastries and nothing more.

The next time your phone buzzes, and you see Zayne’s name light up the screen, your heart skips a beat, followed by that all-too-familiar flutter in your belly. He’s sent another picture of the cat, this time with a playful caption:

“Still no luck with petting him. I think he likes to torment me.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. Warmth spreads through your chest, but the ache follows closely behind.

You type out a response, light-hearted to match his tone. “Maybe he’s playing hard to get. He knows you’ll keep trying.”

The response comes seconds later, “You’re probably right. I’ll keep trying. Maybe one day he’ll trust me.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday mass comes, and you sit quietly in the back, as you’ve grown accustomed to. Zayne stands at the altar, delivering his sermon with the same calm and captivating demeanor. The words, though meaningful, drift over you like a gentle breeze—comforting, yet distant. You can’t help but let your mind wander, your gaze occasionally flitting up to meet his. Each time your eyes find his, there’s a momentary spark, a flicker of something that passes between you.

At first, it’s subtle—a glance, nothing more. But as the moments pass, the weight of his attention seems to grow heavier. His gaze lingers on you for just a heartbeat longer than it should. The words coming from his mouth slow for the briefest second, just enough to notice, before he corrects himself and continues. But the flicker is there, a momentary lapse in the composed, unwavering Father Zayne.

You feel a rush of heat rise in your chest. ‘Is he losing focus because of me?’ The thought sends a thrill through you, though you immediately try to brush it off as wishful thinking. But then, it happens again.

Zayne’s sermon flows smoothly as usual, but this time, when his eyes find yours again, there’s a subtle shift in his expression. His voice falters, just slightly, as if he’s momentarily forgotten his place. He pauses, clearing his throat, his gaze quickly flicking away. You feel your heart pound in your chest, and you know he felt it too—his usual calm shaken, if only for a moment.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. A pair of elderly women seated a few pews ahead of you exchange a glance, their heads turning slightly as if they’re trying to figure out what—or who—might have caused the good Father to stumble. They lean toward each other, whispering quietly, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, a mixture of excitement and guilt flooding through you.

Zayne continues, his voice steady once more, but you can see the subtle tension in his posture now—the way his hands grip the edges of the lectern just a little tighter, the slight crease between his brows as if he’s fighting to regain control. You try to focus on the sermon again, to pull yourself out of this strange, charged moment, but it’s impossible.

When the service ends, and the last of the parishioners trickle out, you step forward, your heart still pounding in your chest. Zayne looks up, and you can tell he’s still unsettled from earlier.

But he smiles. "Good morning," he says, his voice quieter now. "I—uh, hope you enjoyed the service."

You nod, offering him a small smile in return. "I did. Though, I have to admit... I still don’t understand most of it."

Zayne chuckles, "As long as you’re here, that’s what matters," he replies, and for a moment it seems as if there’s more he wants to say but can’t quite find the words.

Before either of you can speak again, you glance toward the doors and realize that, during the service, the skies outside have opened up. Rain pours down, tapping against the windows with a steady rhythm. You curse softly under your breath, realizing you hadn’t brought an umbrella.

"Looks like I’m stuck for a while," you murmur, half to yourself, half to Zayne.

He follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a thoughtful expression. "You don’t have an umbrella?" he asks.

You shake your head, feeling a bit foolish. "No, I didn’t think it would rain today."

Zayne pauses for a moment, as if thinking about something, before he speaks again. "I could walk you home," he offers. "I have an umbrella, and I need to head out anyway. We could talk about the next bake sale on the way."

Your heart skips a beat at the prospect of walking alone with him.

"Are you sure?" you ask, though you already know what his answer will be.

Zayne nods, that soft smile returning to his lips. "Of course. It’s no trouble."

And just like that, the decision is made. You follow him to the coat rack near the entrance, where he retrieves a large, dark umbrella. He opens it with a swift motion, then gestures for you to step under it with him. As you do, the two of you step out into the rain, the world around you suddenly feeling smaller.

You walk side by side, the umbrella barely covering both of you, forcing your bodies to press close together. His arm brushes against yours every few steps, the warmth of his presence almost too much, making it difficult to focus on what he’s saying. The scent of rain mingles with the faint hint of his cologne, and it makes your head dizzy.

At one point, your eyes meet again, and for a split second, Zayne’s step falters, just slightly. His words stumble as he’s explaining something about the church’s plans for the sale. He catches himself quickly, but when you glance up at him, there’s a flush of color in his cheeks. And in that moment, you wonder – ‘Is he affected by this as well?’

As you walk, the rain begins to lighten, turning into a soft drizzle, but neither of you rush to part ways. The conversation continues, easy and unhurried, and for a moment, you forget about everything else—the church, the responsibilities, the complicated emotions swirling between you. It’s just the two of you, walking in the rain.

When you finally reach your street, Zayne stops in front of your building.

"Thank you," you say with a smile.

Zayne smiles, that familiar softness in his eyes again. "It was my pleasure."

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment, it feels like something hangs in the air between you. But before either of you can break the silence, Zayne steps back, offering a small nod.

"I’ll see you soon," he says, his voice quiet.

You nod, watching as he turns and walks away. As you head inside, you can’t shake the feeling that the space between you and Zayne is growing smaller with every encounter. You wonder if the boundary between friendship and something more is becoming increasingly blurred.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head. The way he had looked at you, the subtle hesitations in his words, the fleeting touches. You found yourself waiting for a message from him, hoping for a hint that he felt something.

But the message never came.

You tried to brush it off at first. ‘He’s busy.’ The church had its demands, and the bake sale was coming up soon. He probably had a hundred things to take care of. But as the days passed, the silence grew heavier. Each time your phone buzzed, you found yourself hoping it was him, only to feel that familiar stab of disappointment when it wasn’t.

When you finally couldn’t stand the silence any longer, you sent him a message, keeping it casual. You told yourself that it wasn’t a big deal, that he’d reply, and everything would be fine. But when his response came, it was short, almost curt.

Your stomach sank as you stared at the screen. You told yourself you were imagining things, that maybe he was just having an off day. But the pattern repeated itself. Another message from you, another short, impersonal reply from him. It was as if a wall had gone up between you, growing taller with every passing day.

And then there was the shop. Zayne had always made a point of visiting at least once a week, stopping by for a quick chat and dessert. But that week, he didn’t come. Each day, you glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see him walk through it with that quiet smile, but the door never opened for him.

The absence weighted on your mind, leaving you questioning everything. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ you wondered, replaying your last conversations over and over in your head.

You tried to focus on work, on the bake sale preparations, but your mind kept drifting back to him. You thought about sending another message, something more direct. But each time, you hesitated. ‘What if he’s distancing himself on purpose?’ The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest.

By the time the weekend approached, the doubt and confusion had hardened into something else—hurt. You couldn’t understand why he had gone so cold, why the easy warmth between you had turned into this frigid distance.

And as you stood behind the counter of your shop, watching the door and waiting for a familiar face that never came, you realized something. ‘He’s avoiding me.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Saturday, the church is buzzing with activity. Tables are set up along the hall, covered in pastries, cakes, and breads that you had carefully crafted over the week. The sight of them should be enough to fill Zayne with excitement. He usually enjoyed events like these. Always eager to chat with volunteers, admire the work of the community, and, if he was honest with himself, look forward to seeing you.

But today, as he scans the room, his gaze lingers on the table where your pastries sit, beautifully arranged and ready to be sold. He can feel a flutter of anticipation. ‘She’ll be here.’ he thinks to himself, hoping to see you among the busy volunteers. You hadn’t come to last Sunday’s mass, and even though he had tried to keep his distance, part of him had been looking forward to seeing you today. He hadn’t realized how much he missed your presence until you weren’t there.

But as the minutes tick by, his eyes sweep over the table again, and something unsettling clicks into place. You’re not here. Instead, your two employees are standing behind the table, chatting with customers, offering samples and smiling as they go about their work. The sight of them, rather than you, feels like a punch to the gut.

Zayne takes a deep breath, as he walks over to the table. He exchanges polite greetings with your employees, but his mind is racing. ‘Why didn’t she come?’ He expected you to be here, after all the work you had put into the preparations. He glances around the room again, hoping maybe you’re somewhere else, mingling with the other volunteers. But you’re nowhere to be seen.

The knot in his chest tightens. For the first time in days, the weight of his own silence, his distance, hits him with full force. ‘She didn’t come because of me.’ His guilt, which he had been trying to push down, now rises to the surface. This time, for a different reason. He remembers the unanswered messages, the short replies, the way he had deliberately pulled away, thinking it was the right thing to do.

He moves through the rest of the bake sale with that guilt gnawing at him. Every time he passes your table, he feels the weight of your absence, the emptiness it leaves behind. And though he tries to focus on the event, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with parishioners, his mind is elsewhere—on you, and how he pushed you away with his silence.

As the crowd thins and things begin to slow down, he can’t resist any longer. He approaches your employees again, keeping his tone casual.

“She did an incredible job with everything,” Zayne says, offering a small smile as he glances over the leftover pastries. “I was hoping to thank her in person, though. Is she around?”

One of your employees, a young woman with a friendly smile, looks up at him. “Oh, she’s not here,” she says. “She’s actually out of town right now. I think she’s with her friends for the weekend.”

Zayne’s chest tightens. ‘Out of town?’ ‘With friends?’ The information feels like another blow. He hides his reaction, nodding politely.

“Ah, I see. Thank you both for participating,” he says, his voice a little more strained than he intends.

As he walks away from the table, the guilt intensifies. The thought of you spending the weekend elsewhere, with your friends, leaving the bake sale in the hands of someone else, feels like a quiet rejection. ‘She didn’t want to see me.’ The guilt twists in his chest, tighter and heavier than before.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stood in your kitchen for a few minutes, debating what to do. You weren’t planning on attending tomorrow’s Sunday mass—again. The thought of sitting there, with Zayne at the altar, pretending everything was normal, made your stomach twist. But the tablecloths. They needed to be returned, and the idea of just dropping them off quickly, quietly, without having to see anyone—without having to see him—seemed like the easiest solution.

You didn’t expect the rain. The sky had been calm when you left, but halfway to the church, the clouds burst open. Within seconds, the rain comes down in torrents, soaking through your clothes as you clutch the tablecloths tighter, your feet pounding against the wet pavement.

By the time you reach the church, you're drenched, the fabric in your arms heavy and useless. Gasping for breath, you push open the door. Your shoes squeak on the stone floor as you step inside, water dripping from your clothes and pooling beneath you. You wipe a hand over your face, trying to gather yourself.

"Hey," a voice calls from deeper within the church.

Your heart skips a beat. You recognize that voice immediately. Of course, it had to be him.

You’re standing there, dripping wet, trying to catch your breath and your bearings when Zayne steps closer, his eyes scanning over your soaked clothes. There’s a flash of concern in his expression, though he quickly tries to mask it with something lighter, a smile playing on his lips.

"You really don’t like carrying an umbrella with you, do you?" he teases softly, trying to ease the tension, and it works—just for a moment. You chuckle, shaking your head.

"I guess not," you manage to say, a small smile tugging at your lips despite your shivering.

His smile fades slightly as he takes in the sight of you, soaked and visibly trembling. “You’re freezing,” he says, his voice gentler now, more serious. “Why don’t you come to the rectory? You can dry off and change into something warm.”

The idea of going to the rectory, the space where Zayne lives, feels like crossing a line, a line you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks. You shake your head, stepping back slightly. “I’ll just call a cab. I’m just here to return these,” you say quickly, you murmur, gesturing to the tablecloths. "I don’t want to intrude."

But Zayne steps forward, his brow furrowed as he looks you over. "You’re not intruding." he says, his voice more insistent now. "You’ll get sick if you walk back out like this. Please, just let me help."

You look up at him, the concern in his eyes stirring something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to suppress. The rain outside is relentless, and despite your instinct to retreat, you find yourself nodding. "Okay," you whisper.

Relief flashes in Zayne’s eyes, and he nods, stepping aside to lead the way. "Good. Follow me."

Zayne leads you into the rectory, the warmth of his home. He guides you toward a small bathroom. “Take a hot shower,” he says, “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and I’ll leave some of my pajamas for you to change into.”

You nod, stepping inside the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

As the hot water runs over your skin, you feel the tension in your body begin to ease, the heat chasing away the lingering chill. You try to focus on the steam rising around you, on anything but the fact that you’re in his home, about to wear his clothes.

When you finally step out of the shower, you glance at the folded set of Zayne’s pajamas waiting for you on the bathroom counter. You slip into them, the soft material comforting against your skin, and can’t help but take in the smell of his fabric softener – fresh, floral scent. As you step out the bathroom, suddenly you’re self-conscious, aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. The loose fabric brushes against your skin with every movement.

You walk timidly toward the living room, your heart pounding in your chest. As you step into the room, you find Zayne waiting for you, seated on the far end of the sofa. He’s placed two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. The room feels intimate, almost too intimate, with just the two of you here, the rain still tapping against the windows outside.

Zayne looks up as you enter, and for a moment, his breath seems to catch in his throat. His eyes widen slightly, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he takes in the sight of you in his clothes, fresh from the shower. He clears his throat, his gaze quickly dropping to the tea in front of him, but the redness on his face betrays him.

You feel your own cheeks burn in response, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the loose fabric hangs on you. You move quickly to the far end of the sofa, sitting down with careful distance between the two of you.

"Thank you... for the shower," you say. "And for letting me stay while my clothes dry."

Zayne glances at you, his eyes flickering briefly over you again before he focuses on his hands resting in his lap. "Of course," he murmurs, his voice a little strained.

You give him a small smile, wrapping your hands around the warm mug of tea, grateful for something to do with your hands.

Zayne speaks first, before the uncomfortable silence could stretch, “I heard you were out of town,” he says, his voice soft but probing. “What are you doing here?”

His question catches you off guard. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up so directly.

“I was supposed to be,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening around the cup of tea, the warmth barely grounding you. “But... the friend I was supposed to go out with caught a cold. She cancelled last minute.”

The explanation hangs between you, and even though it’s true, it feels flimsy. You look down, staring into your cup. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’

Zayne’s gaze remains fixed on you, as if he’s waiting for something more. Then, he continues. “And the bake sale?” he asks, “You didn’t come.”

The question lands like a blow. You know why, of course. Your throat tightens as you try to form a response.

“I—uh, I got caught up,” you say, your voice faltering.

You know how weak that lie sounds. But he doesn’t push.  Instead his gaze softens as he looks at you. "I’m glad you’re here now," he says quietly.

You stare at him for a moment, his words sinking in, and a small, ironic chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it. "I find that hard to believe,"

Zayne looks at you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, his brow furrowing slightly as he waits for you to elaborate.

"I thought..." you begin, but then pause, biting your lip as you glance away, trying to gather your thoughts. "I thought you didn’t want me around."

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Your eyes find his and the vulnerability in them makes your chest tighten.

"I’m sorry," he says softly. "For keeping my distance. For... pulling away."

The apology lingers between you, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity behind them, but also the pain. He’s struggling—just as much as you are, maybe more.

"I thought..." he starts, his voice faltering for a second. He pauses, his hand moving to the white collar at his throat. "I thought keeping my distance would help, that it would protect both of us. But it only made things worse."

You swallow hard as you watch him. His fingers linger on the collar for a moment longer before he drops his hand, his eyes filled with a quiet regret. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I started hearing things. Rumors. People talking about... us." The words make your heart skip a beat. "It was like a wake-up call, a hard one." His fingers brush the collar again, this time more deliberately. "That I’m a priest. And I took vows. Vows I can’t break."

You want to say something, anything, to ease the guilt you see in his eyes, but before you can, he continues, his voice even softer now. "But no matter how much distance I try to put between us, you’re always on my mind." He looks away for a second. "Everywhere I go, everything I do... I can’t stop thinking about you."

You don’t know what to say, what to do. Zayne’s vulnerability, his confession of how deeply you’ve affected him, makes the tension between you almost unbearable.

His eyes meet yours again. "You’re everywhere," he whispers, his voice almost breaking. "And I don’t know what to do about it."

Zayne’s words linger in the air, pulling at your heartstrings. You want to say something, to ease the pain, and you don’t know if you can. Not when you’ve been feeling the same way.

"Zayne..." you say softly, "I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling," Zayne’s gaze drops to the floor, shoulders tense. Seeing him like this makes your chest tighten, but you can’t stop now. There’s too much unsaid.

"But I can’t stop thinking about you either," you confess, your voice trembling slightly. The words make you feel exposed, but it’s the truth you’ve been holding in for so long. "You’re in my thoughts all the time. It’s like... no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, I just want to be near you."

Zayne looks back at you, and you fight every fiber in your body to close the distance between you.

"I care about you, Zayne," you whisper. "And I hate seeing you like this. But I can’t pretend that what I feel isn’t real."

He’s quiet, his breathing shallow as he processes your words. Neither of you has the answers, but in this moment, it’s enough to know that you’re not alone.

"I’ve tried to ignore it," you continue, your voice shaky but honest. "I’ve tried to stay away, to give you space, but..." You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what’s been burning inside you for so long. "It’s not just the little things. It’s all of it. The way your touch lingers... even when you barely graze my skin. I keep thinking about it, imagining more, wishing you would... touch me, hold me.”

Your cheeks burn as the words leave your lips. This is it. There’s no turning back now. You’ve held this in for so long. And now, it’s out there between you, impossible to ignore, to pretend it doesn’t exist.

"I want to feel you," you confess softly. "I want to feel your hands on me. I can’t pretend I don’t need this anymore."

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move. His breath is shallow, his eyes locked on yours as his fingers flex slightly against the fabric of his pants. You wait, breathless, watching him.

"I want to touch you," he whispers finally. "I’ve thought about it more than I should. About how it would feel…” Then, his expression falters, frustration flashing across his face. “But I can’t."

The empathetic side of you understands him completely, and you don’t want to push him. But at the same time, you can’t just let this moment slip away.

Your hand moves instinctively, slowly sliding down your chest in a deliberate motion. "You don’t have to." you murmur.

You don’t wait for him to respond as you reach up, your fingers tracing the top button of the shirt. Then, one by one, the buttons come undone, exposing your skin to the warm air of the room. You hesitate for just a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you look at Zayne. His gaze is fixed on you, the unbuttoned shirt, eyes betraying everything his words deny.

Your fingers slide along the edges of the unbuttoned shirt, and, with a steadying breath, you shrug your shoulders slightly, letting the material slip down your arms. The shirt falls away, delicately sliding off your skin. Your skin is bare now, exposed under the dim light, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Your nipples are hard as the air brushes over your skin.

Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, and you can see the deep flush flood his cheeks and ears. His gaze roams over your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, his pupils dilated. He’s stunned, frozen in place, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—what he’s allowed himself to see.

His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out, to touch you, but he doesn’t. He’s rooted to the spot, his body betraying him with how tightly he’s gripping the sofa, the knuckles of his hand turning white from the force of his restraint. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—he’s completely consumed by the sight of you.

Without another word, you let your hand slide down, your fingers brushing against the waistband of your pants. Zayne’s eyes follow your movements. You pause for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Zayne lets out a ragged breath, his body tensing as he watches you, helpless to do anything but stare. Your fingers tremble as you hook them into the waistband of your pants, eyes never leaving Zayne’s. You push the pants down slowly, the fabric sliding over your legs and pooling at your feet, leaving you sitting in just your underwear.

For a moment, you hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. You give him one last chance to stop you, to pull back before things go any further. "If you want me to leave," you say, your voice low, "you should say it now."

Your words hang in the air, the final chance for him to take control, to push you away. But Zayne says nothing. His lips part slightly, but no words come. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t tell you to leave. Instead, his eyes stay locked on yours, his silence a wordless plea for more.

That’s all the confirmation you need.

Your hand slides down slowly, Zayne’s eyes following every move. You let your fingers brush over the front of your underwear, and you know he can see the obvious damp spot, his presence alone having you already soaked through the fabric.

His pupils dilate as he watches, and for a second, you think you hear him let out a soft, involuntary sound—something like a groan—but it’s barely audible. His chest heaves, and his grip on the sofa tightens even more, as if he’s hanging on by a thread.

"I think about you all the time, Zayne," you whisper, your voice trembling. "And when I do... this is how I touch myself." Your hand presses down on the damp fabric. "There’s nothing wrong with this," you continue, your voice silky and sweet. "Not if you just watch."

The words feel like a challenge, a tease. Zayne’s face is a mixture of conflict and desire, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes are glued to your hand, to the way your fingers move against the fabric of your underwear, his gaze filled with hunger he can’t hide anymore.

Your hand moves in slow, deliberate circles over your underwear, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body, and you let out a soft moan. The sound makes his jaw tighten, and he shifts in his seat, clearly aroused but still holding himself back. His gaze flicks back and forth between your eyes and your body, torn between wanting to pull away and being unable to look anywhere but at you.

Then, finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Take it off," he rasps, his voice trembling with the weight of his words. His eyes meet yours, and there’s no mistaking the command in them now. "I need to see... all of you."

His words send a rush of heat through you, making your entire body tingle. There’s no hesitation in his voice this time. Without a word, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, your fingers trembling slightly as you slowly slide the fabric down your hips. The underwear slips down your legs, falling softly to the floor, leaving you completely exposed before him. You sit there, vulnerable, your skin glistening with arousal. You can feel his gaze on every inch of your body, lingering on your thighs, your hips, and finally, on the slick wetness between your legs.

"You’re... so beautiful." he breathes, his voice barely audible, filled with astonishment and desire. Zayne swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to steady himself. "Show me," he says, his voice low, trembling with desire. "Show me how you touch yourself... when you’re thinking about me."

Your heart races, your entire body flushed with heat as you slowly slide your hand down your stomach, your fingers grazing over your slick skin. You let out a soft moan as you begin to touch yourself, your eyes fixed on Zayne. He’s completely captivated, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he watches you.

Your fingers move with a growing urgency, sliding over the slickness between your folds. The sight of you touching yourself, moaning softly, has him teetering on the edge of his restraint. You’re watching him just as intently as he watches you, and you need to see more.

"Touch yourself too," you whisper softly. His eyes snap up to yours, stunned. "It’s not so bad," you add. "You’re not touching me. We’ll just… watch each other."

Zayne’s jaw clenches. His eyes are locked on yours, a storm of guilt and desire brewing beneath the surface. But then he slowly reaches up and unclasps the white collar at his throat.

For a moment, he holds it in his hand, his fingers trembling as he looks down at the small strip of fabric. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sets it aside on the table beside him. His hands move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, each motion slow, as though he’s still hesitating at the threshold. When he’s halfway down, Zayne pauses, then pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, slipping free, leaving him bare from the waist up.

The muscles beneath his shirt are more defined than you had imagined. Your eyes roam over every line, every curve of his body, taking in the way his chest moves with each heavy breath. He sits there for a moment, shirtless, his collar gone, his identity as Father Zayne falling away along with it.

He’s just a man now—just Zayne.

You swallow hard, your fingers still moving, your own arousal building with each second that passes. "Please," you whisper. "I want to see you. All of you."

Zayne’s hesitation doesn’t linger for long, before he undoes his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse races as the pants drop to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his underwear, his arousal straining against the thin material. His eyes flick to yours, searching, almost pleading. He’s asking without words—asking if this is what you want, if this is what you’re ready for. And you are.

You nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation. With a shaky breath, Zayne hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, and you can see the tremor in his hands. But he doesn’t stop. He slides them down slowly, the fabric falling in one fluid motion, leaving him completely naked.

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as you take in the sight of him. His erection stands thick and heavy, the tip glistening with need. Every inch of him is raw, masculine, breathtaking. He’s stunning, more than you could have imagined, and for a moment, you’re lost in the sheer power of him—his vulnerability and strength laid bare before you.

Your fingers slide over yourself again, the slick heat of your arousal making you moan softly, your body shuddering from the touch. Zayne’s erection throbs visibly as he watches you. His hand twitches at his side, his body screaming for release, but he waits for you to give him permission, waiting to be told it’s okay to let go.

"Touch yourself," your voice is breathy, filled with need. "Please, Zayne."

His eyes flick between your hand and your face, but then, slowly, he wraps his hand around his length. The sight of him finally surrendering, of his strong hand gripping himself, sends a surge of heat straight to your core. You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as your fingers move faster.

Zayne lets out a low groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he strokes himself. The room is filled with the sound of your combined breathing, the soft moans that slip from your lips, the slick sound of your fingers slipping inside your wet entrance. You’re both completely lost in each other now, and there’s no going back.

Zayne’s hand moves slowly, rhythmically over his length, his breathing heavy and uneven as he watches you, his eyes filled with a hunger so intense it makes your pulse race even faster. His breath catches in his throat, and you know he’s still holding back.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with warmth. “It’s okay... I want this. You don’t have to hold back.”

Your words seem to wash over him, his eyes flickering with something like relief. His gaze is locked on your body, the way your fingers are soaked with your wetness, the slick sound filling the quiet space between you. His jaw clenches as he tries to steady himself, his hand stroking his length with increasing need.

"You’re... beautiful," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath. "God, you’ve been... in my head... in my dreams... almost every night."

His confession makes your squeeze around your fingers, a soft moan escaping your lips. The raw honesty in his voice, makes your body tremble as you teeter on the edge. Your fingers press harder, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you feel the tension in your body building, coiling tight, ready to snap.

You can see he’s close too—his hand moving faster, his body tense with the effort of holding on. But even now, even with his own release so close, his eyes are locked on you, filled with a hunger.

"I want to see you," he whispers, his voice low and rough. "I want to see you... let go. I want to hear you... Please..."

That’s all it takes. His voice, thick with need, and the sight of him on the brink, unravel you completely. Your breath hitches, turning into ragged gasps as pleasure overtakes you, your fingers moving faster, desperate to prolong the sensation as wave after wave crashes through you, each one more intense than the last. And all the while, Zayne watches, his hand moving faster, desperate to join you in the release.

Your breath steadies, your hand still resting on your wet folds, the space between you now feels too wide. "Come closer," you whisper. "I want you closer... please."

The raw need in your voice, the tenderness of your plea, draws him toward you, erasing any hesitation. He hovers over you, kneeling between your legs, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin. His arousal still hard and throbbing, inches away from you, his gaze filled with so much want that it makes your own body heat up again.

"I’m... I’m so close," Zayne gasps, his voice shaking, laced with desperation.

"Let go," you whisper, your voice soft but unyielding. Your eyes lock with his, your breath hitching as you speak. "Let go on me, Zayne."

His eyes widen at your words. He looks conflicted for a moment, as if he’s about to argue, to get up and find something else—a tissue, anything to keep from crossing that final line. But the hunger in your gaze, the trembling of your body beneath him pulls him back into the moment. The sight of your hand sliding over the slickness between your thighs seals his fate. His hand tightens around himself, his strokes quickening as his control shatters.

"Please," you whisper, your soft plea the final push he need.

And then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he finally lets go.

The first hot spurt of his release hits your belly, warm and wet, the sensation eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. His body trembles violently above you, his muscles taut and shaking as his hand moves over himself with desperate need. He groans deeply, the sound raw and primal, as more of his release follows, thick and hot, landing between your thighs, coating your skin. His breath hitches, his body tensing with each spasm of pleasure as he watches the way his release paints your skin. His hand continues to pump his length, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, caught in the overwhelming force of his orgasm. 

Zayne closes his eyes as the last drops land on your flushed skin, his body still above yours.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The air is thick with the weight of what just transpired, but there's no guilt, no regret. His breath is still ragged, your own chest rising and falling with the same uneven rhythm.

When Zayne opens his eyes, they’re soft with awe—filled with pure, unguarded admiration.

"You..." he whispers, his voice rough and shaky, barely able to finish the thought. His eyes trace the glistening trail of warmth he’s left on your stomach, the way it pools between your legs, marking you with the undeniable proof of how far you’ve both fallen. "You’re... perfect."

A soft, breathless smile plays on your lips. "So are you," you murmur back.

For a moment, Zayne just stares at you, his eyes filled with something deeper than words can express. Then, he leans forward, pressing a soft, featherlight kiss to your forehead. The gesture is so tender, so filled with affection, that it takes you by surprise. It feels fragile, like something you both need to hold onto, if only for a little longer.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours again, and for the first time, there’s a sense of peace. Just the quiet aftermath of something real—messy, complicated, but undeniably real.

And for now, that’s enough.

[artyandink]

hyperthermia

Summary: Based on a request by @yinorathedragontamer. You needed a break from hunting, so you didn’t go on the latest one, but found you needed something to occupy your time. Just your luck that the Winchesters happened to return home when you were washing Baby, and you caught the eye of a certain someone.

A/N - Banners in use by @cafekitsune, first entry for Jensen-A-Thon!

TW: Set in S9 (so hot, scruffy Dean guys), and blatant checking out/fantasising

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Dean and Sam ambled back into the bunker, duffel bags carried by their taut arms like they’d done a million times before, so what should be a bag of bricks was a feather. Dean swept his hand over his mouth while Sam’s went through his hair, both ready to crash from the wear and tear of the hunt.

“I swear, m’ready to goddamn pass out.” Dean chuckled, nails scratching over the scruff that had grown on his cheek. He’d been hit a few times - not enough to cause bruises and whatnot - hard enough to cause fatigue once the adrenaline of the fight was used and faded.

Sam could only grunt in agreement, trying to rub the effects of a long drive from Oregon out of his eyes, paired it’s the disgruntlement of having to listen to rock tracks in the car. “You and me both. But hey, we should at least visit-”

“Roger that.” Dean cut Sam off before he could finish, in search of you. You were always a sight for sore eyes after a hunt, no matter what you were dressed in or if you were covered in blood; he enjoyed the vision that you were. More than he cared to admit.

He checked your bedroom, but he only found an unusually neat bed and a clean room, which was a rare occurrence for you and had him thinking that you were kidnapped, which prompted him to take out his gun.

You never did up your bed.

He crept through the hall, hoping to the good God that his boots didn’t squeak, but then familiar humming of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ caught the attention of his ears, originating from the garage. Followed by his arrival there, where he spotted you. And it wasn’t only just the sight of you that had him standing up straight.

You, in nothing but a soaked through plaid shirt tucked into some tight denim shorts, the sleeves of the plaid rolled up to your elbows and drawing his attention to your pretty hands. Hair damp and falling just right and had him biting his lip and fighting off the urge to ruin your friendship entirely. Droplets of water running down your neck, that damn sexy curve of your slightly bent legs and trailing beneath the v-shaped neckline that the collar of your shirt made that he was starting to think was made on purpose to make him go insane.

The image was too damn sinful. And he was suddenly not so tired and ‘ready to goddamn pass out’, more like licking his lips and biting the bottom one as he folded his arms over his chest. Eyes trained on you. Yeah, not so tuckered out anymore and ready to catch the full nine.

His bed can go to hell, he wanted you pinned against the bonnet of his Baby, legs spread wide so he could fit in between and show you how much he appreciated the job well-goddamn-done. Did he mention you were washing Baby? Probably not, he was too distracted with the way your hips were swaying as you stepped to cover another part of his beloved Impala with soap suds that then trickled down your own body and made your attire that much more see through and you that much more delicious.

Holy Jesus of Nazareth, you were giving his self control a run for its money. And his self control was likely to lose the money and go bankrupt if he wasn’t distracted pronto.

Wait- but why was he objectifying you? You were doing him a solid by cleaning the other girl of his dreams, why the hell would he think about your legs like that? And your body clearly outlined by the wet, clingy material of your shirt that he was starting to feel jealous of because he wanted to be that close to you.

No. Bad Dean.

He licked his lips again, his hips shifting slightly as he fought a clearing of his throat in case it’d alert you of his presence. His mossy eyes trained so precisely on you, it’d probably let you know he was there anyway, heat radiating from his gaze.

He didn’t want to think about the curve of that pretty neck. Or the way it’d feel under his lips.

Neither did he want to think about those delicate hands - that he knew were tough as hell - holding the sponge that was lathering up his Baby. Or the way they’d feel working his - nope, too far.

Definitely not the way the shirt looked like it now had to be peeled off your skin to reveal the treasure underneath, because god-holy-damn he had managed to catch a glimpse of black lace underneath that plaid. He’d happily unwrap you like a frickin’ present and it wasn’t even Christmas for about six months.

“Damn, pretty girl.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair that was begging to let his feet walk over, grab your hip and pull you into him so he could lick up your neck to collect all the water droplets running down them. What he wouldn’t give to just pop the button on those shorts, get to his knees and work you until his tongue ached.

Right there. Right-frickin’-there. Against his Baby-

“Pretty girl? That’s what we’re calling her now?” Sam muttered into his ear with a snort, not loud enough for you to hear as you bent over Baby’s bonnet in just the right way to have Dean’s eyes sliding down to that gorgeous ass framed in those shorts that should damn well be illegal.

Dean was snapped partially out of his thoughts, left embarrassed and disgruntled and somewhat still ogling that God-blessed ass before he followed Sam through the halls, the latter of which was sporting a smug smirk. “H-Hey, I was just-”

Sam raised his hands in surrender with a small laugh, looking back to Dean knowingly. “Hey, if you wanna check out her ass, do it at your own risk.”

“I wasn’t checking out her…” Dean got an image of it again and smirked slightly, jerking his head to the side, “yeah, maybe I was, so what? Can you blame me? That thing’s-”

Sam held up a finger, shivering in borderline discomfort as his mind filled the blank. “I’m gonna TMI you before you say it.”

“I’m just sayin’, I’m a man. I have needs, where a female who’s a badass hunter and also happens to be gorgeous and also happens to live with us is concerned. And it’s worse when she’s handlin’ my Baby.” He gave Sam a sheepish grin, but the younger Winchester only shook his head in mock disapproval, grabbing the duffel with his pyjamas.

“I’m going to bed.”

“You do that.” Dean grabbed his own duffel, heading to his room which, to his luck, passed the garage and you working on the car. You managed to lock eyes with him, and you gave him a cheery wave. He returned it, and as you turned, his eyes slid down to the curve of your ass again, eyebrows pumping once as a smirk stretched his pouty lips.

“I’ll see you in my dreams, sweetheart.” He muttered before he disappeared off to his bedroom to live his fantasy.

Meanwhile, you dried your face and neck off with a chuckle, going back to your room to change into some get into some drier and more comfortable clothing with a smug smirk on your face.

You’d noticed Dean through Baby’s newly cleaned mirror that you could probably sing ‘Reflection’ from Mulan in. His eyes taking you in and licking his lips like you were the latest snack he wanted to devour. His hands itching to touch you, his mind going blank when you pushed out your ass on purpose in order to catch his attention.

That was just phase one of your multi-step plan to strip Dean Winchester of his self control where you were concerned.

“Mission accomplished.” You muttered under your breath with a giggle.

I’d really appreciate feedback, loves! Have a great day!

TAGLIST: @k-slla @hobby27

[ohproserpine]

for valentine's day, i thought i'd buy a gun.

synopsis: you make your husband mad on purpose tags: fem! reader, married couple, blood&injuries, demi alastor, suggestive/steamy, just a short kinda bad drabble to break my writer's block, ooc-ish alastor, soft alastor at first, vox mentioned don't like? don't interact.

"Cher!"

Alastor greeted you with a smile, his lips curved into a charming yet slightly crooked grin that softened the rugged edges of his appearance.

Leaning against the door frame, he looked every bit the rogue hunter returning from a hunt. His once-neat attire bore tears, burns, and scratches, with both knees of his pants ripped and scuffed thin. His monocle hung loosely on his chest, the glass broken and shards glinting in the light. Tousled strands of crimson hair fell haphazardly across his forehead, framing his rugged features, while a trickle of blood from the cut on his lips dripped down his chin, staining his deathly pale skin.

"Christ!" You jolted off the hotel bed, propelled into action by concern, your heart racing with worry. You began running around, collecting towels, extra clothes, and a first aid kit in a frantic rush.

Alastor moved into the room and stood in the very center, observing your frenzied activity with an amused smirk.

Finally, with all your materials in hand, you rushed to your husband's side, your footsteps echoing against the cold carpet.

"What happened to you?" you asked, filled with concern as you assessed his injuries, your eyes scanning his form for any more signs of distress.

"Just a little scuffle on the hunt, my doe," he replied with a cheer in his tone, spinning his staff in his hand. "Came across a feisty, moronic beast. But nothing I couldn't handle."

"A scuffle?" Disbelief colored your voice as you got on your tiptoes, straining to reach up and dab at the blood on his chin with a damp towel.

Alastor grinned down at you, his eyes tracing your features with tenderness. Always such a pretty view, but seeing you so domestic and sweet for him made him begin to feel hot below the collar. Leaning down, he reached out to sweep a stray strand of hair from your eyes, his long, sharp claws grazing against your skin.

"That can wait," his voice crackled with low static as he pulled you flush against him, chest against chest. "I've missed you dearly."

“Good heavens, Alastor, you’re insatiable,” you chided him playfully with a swat, though the warmth in your tone betrayed your affection. Your fingers lightly brushed against the rough fabric of his torn shirt as you urged him to let you continue tending to his injuries. "Let me fix you up first."

Alastor's ears twitched back as he rolled his eyes at you, but his grip remained firm as he pulled you closer and closer until you were practically dragged towards the bed, falling into his lap with a gentle thud.

"Love," you began to protest, but before you could continue, he silenced you with a deep kiss pressed upon your lips, a low chuckle vibrating against your own, melting any further protest.

He drew back briefly, only to dive back in, his lips tracing a delicate path along your neck. With a familiarity born of passion, his hands roamed, each touch igniting a cascade of sensations that threatened to consume you both.

"Al," you whimpered, unable to resist the intoxicating allure of his touch. As his lips began to trail up your jawline, you found yourself melting into his arms, the tension of the earlier encounter gradually dissipating in the heat of the moment.

He let out a dark chuckle, the sound echoing in the room, as he threw off his ruined coat and loosened the tie around his neck. Gripping onto your hips with a firm hold, he all but threw you off his lap and onto the bed.

The smug bastard. He knew all too well that his affections could smooth over any trouble he found himself in.

"Alastor," you murmured, your senses cutting through the haze of desire, "We really should attend to your wounds first."

Alastor began to move towards you, his claws digging through and tearing the mattress beneath him. "In due time, my heart."

"I am serious," you insisted, ignoring the wide smile you received in return. Alastor merely hummed, a low, melodic sound, as he moved to press himself against you, encasing you in an embrace that felt simultaneously comforting and confining.

You leveled him with a glare. Gritting your teeth, you continued, "What did you even do? I know damn well you didn't get these," you gestured to the charred edges of his shirt, "from an animal."

"Well, dearest, it was from an overlord meeting. You understand how tense politics can become," Alastor countered with a laugh.

"Bushwa," you scowled, jabbing your finger into his chest. "I know a lie when I see one."

"Rather accusatory," Alastor hummed, his tone dismissive.

"Well, I apologize for worrying about my husband, who looks to be on the verge of collapse any moment now," you snapped, frustration seeping into your voice.

"So enough of this," you scolded, your expression hardening. "What did you do?"

"What was necessary," Alastor scoffed, a mirthless chuckle following.

"I'd say he deserved it. You should have seen the way he looks at you," he continued, his voice low and tinged with a hint of warning, the air around him crackling with static.

"Who?" you asked, leaning down to meet his gaze. "There are plenty of people. Plenty of looks."

"Don't act as if you don't notice that pompous television bastard hanging around the hotel nowadays," Alastor's voice crackled with dark intensity, the radio static grew stronger, prickling against your skin and nearly making his words incoherent.

So this is what it's about?

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at Alastor's jealousy, though a small part of you felt a flicker of flattery at his protectiveness.

Your husband's irritation simmered beneath the surface, evident in the subtle set of his jaw and the way his normally smug gaze turned icy. But a mischievous spark ignited within you, tempting you to push his buttons just a bit further, to dance dangerously close to the edge of his patience.

"Are you talking about Vox?" you asked with a smirk playing at your lips. Tilting your head coyly, you met Alastor's gaze with a glint of mischief in your eyes. Your voice was laced with honeyed sarcasm, dripping like molten gold from your lips.

His expression darkened at the mention, a flicker of raw anger crossing his features before he regained his composure.

"You know well who I'm talking about," Alastor's grin was uncanny, his voice carrying the same tone you'd heard the night he faced death. "Don't toy with me."

Despite the seriousness of his tone, you couldn't resist the urge to tease him further. A playful smile danced on your lips as you reached out, gripping onto his tie and pulling him closer, closing the distance between you with a pull.

“What if I found him charming?” you breathed out against his lips, your voice a tantalizing whisper as you ran your hands up the fabric of his undershirt. Your touch was featherlight, fingers smoothing down the wrinkles of his torn button-up with a teasing caress. “I might have let him have me right then and there.”

A sudden sharp pierce of a distorted screech, like a radio malfunctioning, cut through the air, shattering the moment. Claws flying up to grip your face, Alastor broke the kiss and stared down at you with glowing blood-red eyes, their intensity piercing through you. Your breath caught in your chest at the sight, your heart pounding in your ears as you were overcome by a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Alastor called out your name. It was the first time you had heard him utter it in a while. Throughout the years, he had always addressed you by endearing nicknames, leaving you half-convinced that he had forgotten your actual name.

But as the sound of fell from his lips, despite the danger, you found yourself yearning to hear it once more, to feel the weight of your name on his tongue.

"My sweet," Alastor tutted, a screech of radio feedback following him as he cupped your neck in one hand, guiding your gaze back to him. His touch was possessive, firm, and demanding, akin to the control of a puppeteer manipulating his marionette.

"Never utter such words again," he growled softly, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. His grip tightened ever so slightly, sharpened claws a warning of the consequences should you dare to defy him. "No one else shall lay claim to you."

With a defiant tilt of your chin, you met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down in the face of his dominance. "And what if I refuse?" you challenged, your voice steady despite the fear that coiled in your belly.

Alastor's lips curled into a manic grin, his canines shining beneath the lights of the room, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Then you shall suffer the consequences."

[yanderenightmare]

Mahito

TW: slight NSFW, degradation, dehumanization, Stockholm Syndrome, Mahito in and of himself, platonic to romantic yandere

fem reader

Mahito makes it a point to treat you like an animal – his human pet.

Ever since he first took you. The cage, the collar, the petting, and the treats. 

Most of the time, when he talks to you, he acts as though you’re incapable of understanding complex conversation, using only a few words and simple commands – a smile stretching his face, stroking your head when you do good. Other times, he acts as though he’s forgotten you can even speak at all. The worst part is – you don’t really know whether he’s faking or not. 

He takes you for walks and plays with you – letting you off the leash for a game of hide´n´seek in the forest where he chases you down barefoot – he doesn’t really care about the rules or that he’s breaking the basic premise of the game. He just laughs, liking the way you pant and wince against the mossy floor after he’s hunted and tackled you down for the umpteenth time, sweaty while you beg him to take you home with teary eyes and puffy cheeks. Home – being where he keeps you.

You used to refuse, you used to run away and fight him when he caught you – with scratching and clawing and biting and barking, but you soon learned to behave. He told you he had no use for rabid pets and threatened you with transfiguration, warning you not to bore him, and ultimately – after having seen him twist enough people into mockeries – you stopped doing much more than obey.

You’re constantly blue with bruises and stinging from scratches – but you wash in the hot springs when Mahito brings you along – soaking your aching muscles in the warmth while he cheats in playing Marco Polo, sneaking a peak and tagging you with a laugh – awfully resembling that of a child. You swear you often have to shake the feeling of mothering him out of your head before doing something regrettable.

Other times, he’ll take you to the beach. You asked him once how it was possible, but he’d just booped your nose with a smile and told you it was something you wouldn’t be able to wrap your little head around – and, looking towards the horizon of the never-ending sea, inside what you could have sworn was a concrete building, you couldn’t help but agree with him.

Sometimes you see his friends and hide behind him. He thinks it funny and excuses you, laughing out that you’re shy. And you suppose he’s right. 

You used to be shy around him, too. You don’t know when you accepted it – being his pet.

Lately, he’s been inviting you to sleep with him in his hammock instead of your cage. And everything except your left brain betrays you as you lie snug against his side, with his arm softly holding you around your midriff. He’s so warm, and your whole body feels cottony at the pleasantness of another’s embrace after having gone so long without it. Actually, you almost cry, resting your head atop the rise and fall of his chest, closing your eyes to the steady beat of his heart thumping just beneath your ear. In the moment, you even forget he isn’t human. It just feels nice. 

You don’t even mind when he dances his fingers up your arm in ticklish touches. Instead, you nuzzle into him with something so vulnerable as a moan leaving your lips. 

His eyes travel from reading the pages of his book to the blissful look on your face and the way your smaller hand grips his tunic – but he doesn’t make much of it aside from raising a brow.

He’s seen scenes like this at the theatre – sappy love stories Junpei used to cry his eyes out over – awkward teenagers in dark silent bedrooms and clothes on the floor, then kisses and hugs and naked flesh and sweat and heavy breaths and moaning. He can’t deny it makes him curious despite never having felt any personal need to truly understand any of it. It's a human thing after all.

Your warmth makes him wonder, though. He’s always enjoyed the soft feel of your skin on his fingertips, whether you’re trembling or not – it has an interesting texture – warm and doughy. He could imagine it would feel good pressed against his body, too.

Without a word, he tugs your shirt up your torso, pulling on it until you raise your arms and allow him to remove it entirely. You became a little tense then, hiding your naked chest from him by folding your arms. 

He takes off his tunic just as casually, and you don’t understand it, but suddenly you feel a little blushy. But you don’t say anything – almost as though you’ve forgotten you can speak just the way he pretends.

His skin’s ashen and pale – but his torso is just like a normal guy’s – toned with muscles, two nipples, and a belly button. Oh, and stitches. Like a patchwork.

He lifts his arm, and you take the cue, laying down again – now skin to skin. He’s even warmer now, you note – and something about the feel of bare skin makes your head hot. And you can't help how that heat spreads between your thighs – but you keep it to yourself.

He lifts his book and begins reading it again, turning the pages with the same hand he holds it up with. But his free hand travels from resting on your hip to your chest.

You suppress a shudder by biting your lip, and he cups your tit with absentminded curiosity – paying you not a glance while his eyes lazily skim the words in front of him, giving your breast a firm squeeze.

He keeps track of your small shufflings despite you trying to keep them to yourself – charting what touches elicit your reactions. Soon, he finds your nipple, feeling it stiffen with yearning beneath his thumb, pushing it like a button only for it to bud out again. You stifle a sound he hasn’t heard from you before.

He reads his book finished, then lets it drop flat on the floor beneath you. His statement is like a resolution. “Let’s play a new game.”

You peek up at him from the nook of his arm. “Game?” You ask, but he's already maneuvering your body despite it causing an unsteady swing in the hammock.

He ignores both it and your question. Giving you those very curt commands one would say to a trained pet. “Up on my lap.”

You follow. “Okay-”

You’re straddling him next. Bare-chested while he lifts both hands to cup each tit.

You’re fully flushed now, face steadily getting dewy from the heat as you look away – bowing your head off to the side with your teeth sunk into your lip.

He’s playing. Groping the pillows with fingers now swallowed in the fat before releasing again, twisting the perky nips with eyes feeling a little foggy at the sight. His mouth suddenly waters, thinking about how it looks as though they were made to be eaten – no, not eaten exactly, but something else, something similar...

Indulging the thought, he leans in and envelopes the sensitive things between his lips, sucking on them with his warm wet tongue circling and flicking the point.

Old instincts resurface at the pleasant feeling and you grind your hips down on his lap without thinking.

He falls victim to it, too – taking your hips in both hands while grinding whatever it is that’s gaining weight between his thighs up into that place between yours.

The feeling is more than nice, forcing his entire body to be both mellow and tense with a hunger for more all at the same time.

He presses his face entirely against your chest, nuzzling between the soft mounds there with his cheek. Hands slipping from your hips to pull you closer and grind you harder down on his lap, slithering his arms around the small of your back and hugging you hard.

And you don’t want to think about how fucked up it is when you need it so badly – rolling your hips down, riding that bump you feel nudged against your crotch – like it's the only source of comfort you've had for months. You think about its size – it feels big – you can’t help but picture it – long and pale, probably with a curve and a sharp spine – fuck, you need it – want it pounding your guts, want his pelvis slapping against your clit as his fat cock shoves against your womb – filling you up with thick and filthy warmth-

You still with a shudder when you climax, breaths heavy and shaky. In the blind chase, you’d caressed his head and held it to your chest like a lover would, hugging him close with your body pressed flat against him.

He’s also panting, hot and damp huffs dewy against your skin.

There's something sticky in his pants… and he could have sworn your souls had merged there for a moment...

He’s never felt that before.

[maeedrg]

Mine to protect

Feral Gojo X non sorcerer fem reader X Geto Suguru

ᯓ★

Synopsis : in which you are freshly dating since two months your boyfriend, Gojo Satoru. Still new to this sorcery world, you try to understand that your relationship had to be kept a secret for your safety. But Satoru hides you many things, informations that could have made everything different. You keep bumping too into a man called Suguru, and as time passes, things get complicated. You end up having a bounty on your head, and that makes Gojo snaps.

Words count : 12k.

Warnings : tooth rooting fluff, Satoru being silly, angst, gore, dead body, death implied, stalking, slight smut, alcohol consumption, slight canon divergence, hidden inventory mentioned, some satosugu, a bit of Suguru x reader if you squint

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ Autor’s note : it took me so long to write, and was harder than I thought. I hope you guys will enjoy, with all the pain it caused me to create this… ugh.

｡⋆˚⋆✩₊⋆˚｡⋆♡⋆｡⋆ ˚｡⋆⊹⋆ ˚⋆｡⋆✧⋆˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆⊹⋆ ˚⋆｡⋆✧⋆˚｡⋆⋆

February 16, 11 : 26 PM, Gojo Satoru exterminated 7 upper grades curses. 12 : 02 AM, Gojo Satoru killed 4 sorcerers. Sentence : no one. Reason : still unknown. 

Gojo pants heavily, each breath long and shattered. Blood is dripping down his skin, staining his hands, face, and clothes. Not his blood, obviously. His eyes lack the usual blue shine they hold, instead dull greyish dirty sky paints his iris. His pupils are dilated, big and creepy, slowly drifting to the side. He throws on the floor the head of one of his opponents. It rolls over, until it stops at the feet of a shaking mess of another sorcerer. The man shivers head to toe, and tries to step back, but he just ends up falling pathetically on the bloody floor. 

“Please, please- spare me ! I just wanted the money !” he screams, big fat tears rolling down his bruised cheeks. Satoru snaps his tongue inside his mouth, making a noise of annoyance, before moving one step closer. His aura is so gigantic and imposing, that the sorcerer feels like he could dissolve on the spot.

“Where is she ?”, he asks one time. No need to say it twice, the life of his opponent is on the line.

“I- In- with our boss- please, I swear… !”, now he babbles, snot coming out of his nose and shaking his head multiple times in pure and utter fear. 

The white haired sorcerer suddenly grabs the collar of the man before him, smashing him in a loud thud against the wall behind. It crackles the paint and breaks some of his bones, coughing some blood and whimpering like a poor pitiful dog.

“Boss ? I bet it’s the one that did put a damn bounty on her head and asked you to do this, am I right ?” Satoru snarls, the small light of the flickering bulb behind him illuminating the side of his crimson painted face. The sorcerer, unable to talk, too scared and in pain to form a normal sentence, nods quickly. He tries to squirm away, weakly, but Satoru sighs and shakes his head in disapproval.

“Uh-uh, no need to run, I still need you to answer me. Where is your boss ?” he asks firmly, leaving no room for argument. Without any further, the sorcerer pronounces faintly the place and area he asked for. Satoru’s eyes narrow, tightening his fingers around the collar of the man in an iron grip.

“I see… well, I don’t need you anymore,” he ends up sighing, clearly bored now. 

“I answered, now please, I beg, spare me ! pl-” SPLASH. A flash of light, it flickers, smoke escapes and then a huge red stain paints the wall. What stays of the body of the sorcerer, more like his calcined legs, falls on the ground brutally.

“Ah, what a mess. How annoying,” mutters Satoru, whipping some of the gruesome mix of red liquid and flesh off his cheek. 

12 : 06 AM, Gojo Satoru killed 5 sorcerers. 

Calmly, we can hear the sound of steps on the ground. One, two, three. Each one is steady, and a terrifying shine of blue illuminates the darkness of the corridor. 

“So it was ***, all along…” whispers Satoru in the eerie quietness, before opening the door in front of him in a brutal motion.

12 : 31 AM, Gojo Satoru found you back. But not alone.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

Dating Gojo Satoru as a non sorcerer wasn’t always that easy. Indeed, after barely two months of dating, exploring the spectrum of romantic relationship together, you both had to keep it a secret. If jujutsu society discovered that The Strongest was dating a non sorcerer girl, it would go sour very quickly. It was for your safety, and you understood that very well. This whole world of curses, gore and morbid routine was better away from you, anyways. And no matter how much you tried to put your mind into it, it was hard to understand everything. Even if Satoru tried to explain to you his line of work, and who he was, he on purpose hid some crucial informations. Informations that could have saved you that day, on february 16. But who could have known ? Neither you, nor him. 

But today was a good day. After coming back from his busy day, Satoru made his best to come back to you as quickly as possible. After all, how could he leave you alone at your apartment for too long ? Nah, never.

“Come on, sweetheart. I just wanna play with ya’ ! Don’t tell me you’re afraid to lose ?”, your boyfriend coos, tantalizing. You shake your head, trying to step away, but his arm swings around your waist and forces you to sit down next to him in front of the coffee table.You huff.

“Satoru, I’m not playing arm wrestling if it’s just for you to show off your strength. You’re going to break my wrist !” you retort, firmly. But the way his fingers slide up your skin towards your palm, and intertwine with your hand, and how his puppy eyes are looking at you, it makes you falter for a second.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I know how to control my amazing strength. Be for real, baby. You’re just scared to lose !” He tilts his head to the side, trying to sound challenging to tease you enough to accept.

“You literally are “The Strongest”, or whatever weird wizard shit you are. I, for sure, will lose !” you exclaim, scoffing, frowning your eyebrows. Satoru snickers, a small smile forming on his lips and squeezing your hand in his.

“Sorcerer, baby, not shadow wizard money gang. And I swear, I’ll go easy on ya’. ‘Kay ? Promise !” he insists, kissing your knuckles tenderly at the end of his sentence. You can’t help but explode of laugh at his joke, and his smile grows wider at your face happily giggling.

How cute. It was in those moments that Gojo Satoru loved to bask in the most. Just pure domestic happiness by your side, aside from the jujutsu world. You, and him. No curses, no fighting, nothing. It’s for that he insisted on not showing you the depth of the atrocity of his world. It was better that way, he thought.

“Alright, alright. I’ll play. But only if you allow me an advantage ! That would be only fair…” you calm down and end up accepting, looking into his blue eyes. He seems like he is pondering. Obviously, he wasn't. He just wanted to put some mystery in his answer.

“Greedy girl. Fine, I’ll give you an edge.”

“That would be… ?” you ask, waiting for him to continue.

“No defense on my side. You can use anything to get me to stop and surrender. How does that sound ?” he ends up explaining, raising his eyebrow.

“That would be easy,” you answer confidently. He scoffs, frowns, and lets out a small laugh at your naivety of thinking you could win. He liked that about you.

“Ah, yes. Right. Very easy. Then, what will you get if you do win ? Which you won’t, by the way,” he tsk, playing a bit mindlessly with your hand he was holding.

“You give me a full body massage. If you win, I’ll give you one. Do we have a deal ?” you answer, ignoring his provocative last sentence, deciding to not indulge into his teasing.

“Yes ma’am. We go at the count of three, then. One…” Satoru says as a start, grabbing back your hand and lining it between his own.

“Two,” you continue, “three !” you both end up saying at the same time. You directly put all your strength into your arm even though his hand is much larger and stronger compared to yours. He tightens his grip, not budging at all. This bitch even fake yawns to provoke you. You narrow your eyes, scoffing, and trying to put on more strength. He said he would put no defense on his side, so what could you do ? Tickle him ?

With your other hand, you slide your fingers and tickle his underarm. He shivers and lets out a laugh.

“Oh ? You’re playing nasty here-” he says in between laughs, but then decides to tighten his grip and starts to slowly push down your arm. You realize that making him laugh is no strategy to make him lose. You groan, frowning your eyebrows and directly stop tickling him to concentrate all your strength on one point, but it’s no use. Each second that passes, he makes your arm go down, and down, and down… He even has the nerves to stare at you with his stupid smirk, amused by your whining.

“Adorable.”

“Shut up,” you snap back, serious about winning, your arm almost fully flat on the table now. No, no, no ! You can’t let him win like that ! 

You decide to then, as a last second idea, lean towards your boyfriend and kiss him swiftly. Surprised, his grip falters. Your kisses were indeed his weakness, and you knew it better than anyone else. Wickedly, you take the opportunity to smash his arm on the other side of the table, finally winning. You directly stop kissing him, a big smile on your face as you jump on your feet and laugh.

“I won ! You damn ass loser !” 

Satoru snaps back to reality, and looks at his hand, then back at you. He directly grabs you and makes you fall on the ground, getting on top of you and starts to tickle you restlessly.

“You caught me by surprise ! It doesn’t count !” Satoru exclaims, smiling at the way you squirm and squirm over again, chocking on your own laughs because of the torture your boyfriend is giving you. And oh, oh how pretty you look, with tears at the corner of your half lidded eyes. Satoru just wanted to carve this core memory in his brain, forever. Was it Heaven ? He didn’t need much to feel like ascending to paradise when he was by your side. Nothing, really. Just you. 

“You sore loser, I-I won- ahahaha !” you giggle endlessly.

The moment the white haired sorcerer was about to reply, his phone rang. He rolls his eyes, sighing and doing this grumpy expression that always makes you melt. He grabs the phone in his jean pocket, keeping you pinned on the ground with his other hand. As he answers the call, his nose scrunch up, and he groans.

“Really ?... A mission, now ?... I cleared my schedule today on purpose…” he says, playing with your hair while looking annoyed at the voice on the other side of the line. You stay quiet, smile faltering at what you hear.

 “Ugh- yeah… Yeah. Alright… Just send me the information… I’ll be on my way… Yeah yeah. Bye,” he hangs up the phone, putting it back in his pocket. He sighs, deeply, a long one. He looks back at you and then takes your face in his hands before kissing your forehead.

“A curse appeared somewhere and is threatening citizens. I’m sorry, I gotta go, sweetheart. I’ll give you your massage when I come back,” he softly explained, in a tone of voice that showed just how tired he was. You lift yourself on your elbows, frown deepening. Clearly, he was the one that deserved this massage. 

“I get it, it’s not your fault. I’ll go buy groceries for dinner, then. I’m sure you will be starving, anyways,” you chuckle softly to lighten the mood. He grins at your words, and helps you standing up before putting back on his blindfold.

“You know me so well. Buy cookies too, please. I need my daily sugar intake !” he teases.

“You and your sweet tooth-” you start to answer in a tiny sigh, but get cut off by his lips tenderly and softly pressing against yours.

“See you, I’ll be back in no time,” he finishes. You can’t help but look at him lovingly.

Some minutes later, you were on your way to the grocery store. It wasn’t far away from home, so the walk was quick. Hands grabbing two bags, one full of sweets, for your childlike man, and the other with what you needed to use to cook dinner. But then, you feel like something is passing by you. You frown, a shiver running down your skin, unable to see anything in this half lonely street. It even felt cold, strangely cold. It passes again, and you were sure you indeed felt something. But you have no time to ponder more, when you realize that your bag of groceries, one of them, got cut in two and some of the oranges fell and now are rolling down the street. 

“What ? No, no !” you exclaim, crouching down and trying to put it back together, yet one of them escapes your fingers and rolls and rolls… before stopping in front of the foot of someone. A hand grabs it, and you lift your head to look at the person, or your savior.

It’s a man, with jet black long hair, half tied in a bun, striking purple eyes, and a soft expression on his face.

“Is this yours ?” he asks in such a delicate tone of voice that you just nod quietly at first, not answering with your own words. “Here,” he approaches and gives it back to you. You take it, and then smile a bit nervously as he dust his fingers on his jacket.

“Thank you so much. I- uh.. I don’t know what happened, but my bag suddenly got cut in two ? That’s weird, ahah,” you end up explaining, still unsure on how it could have happened. You look down, and groan at the mess. With a broken bag, how could you bring that home ?

“Yeah, that looks like… a mess. Need some help ?” he asks gently, crouching down too and smiling at you. You swallow your saliva, mesmerized against your will by the way he talks. 

“Oh, that’s very nice of you. But… With a broken bag, and another full one, I don’t think you could help me that much,” you chuckle a bit awkwardly, bringing back all the products together, trying to think of a way to come back home with this inconvenience.

“I have a bag with me. You could put your groceries inside, that would be easier,” he proposes as he lifts his eyes, staring right back at your soul. You think for a second.

“That would be very nice, actually… Thank’s a lot,” you end up accepting, not wanting to lose too much time outside. You had dinner to cook, after all.

The black haired man takes out a tote bag of his jacket, unfolds it, and then helps you assemble all the scattered groceries inside. You keep thanking him, a bit awkwardly, and once it’s done you slide the bag over your shoulder. You stand back up, and he does the same, towering over you.

“I live right by the corner. I’ll give you the bag back, don’t worry,” you explain as you show with your hands the apartment building at the left of the street, and start to walk. His eyes follow you, before looking at where you were pointing at, hands in his pockets. He smirked at himself, but you couldn’t see it. It only lasted for a second.

“You can keep it, I don’t mind,” he retorts, shaking his head and giving you a reassuring smile. You take a stop and turn around to face him, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s alright, I’ll be quick. It’s only normal, after all. You helped me, so..,” you start to answer,  but he cuts you off, “I insist. Keep it.”

You sigh and end up nodding, giving him a small smile, “alright, thank you,” you accept.

“You’re welcome, hum…”

“Y/n,” you say.

“Right. Goodbye then, y/n,” he finishes, insisting on your name, taking out of his pocket one of his hands to wave at you, before turning on his heels and leaving without waiting for an answer. You wave back, saying goodbye, and turn around too to walk back home.

You realize you forgot to ask about his name. Whatever, it’s not like you would see him again. Thankful of his help, you enter your apartment and unpack your groceries. Once everything is where it should be, ready to start cooking, you look at the bag. Curious, you look inside and realize that a name was written with black ink on the tissue. You squint your eyes, half of it erased by the time.

Suguru… Suguru G something, you couldn’t read the last letters. 

So, Suguru was his name.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

After dinner, you and Satoru were cleaning the dishes, him complaining about his mission and how boring it was, that they could have asked someone else to do it since it was way too easy for him. Tipicall whining behavior of your boyfriend, after all. You nod, still having a hard time understanding this whole concept of his hollow purple and red and blue… Unable to see cursed energy, it was complicated for you to fathom this type of things. But you still tried to, anyway.

“So, he gave you his bag ? What a gentleman. Should I feel threatened, hmm ?” Jokes Satoru, raising his eyebrows as he mentions back your little adventure in the street earlier. You chuckle softly, drying a plate and putting it down next to the sink.

“You don’t have to worry about that, he was just being helpful. Hey, without his bag, there would have been no dinner tonight ! Only… your bag of sweets,” you retorts, and Satoru nudges you playfully, still washing a glass of water.

“I don’t mind eating cookies for dinner, you know that,” he muses, and you roll your eyes at his antics. Him and his sweet tooth… 

“What was his name, by the way ?” he asks, rinsing the glass under the lukewarm water of the sink.

“Uh.. Suguru, I think,” you answer, shrugging, not very sure after all. 

The moment you say this, Satoru freezes and tightens his grip on the glass of water before putting it down silently. He suddenly looks tense, and you frown, unsure at why he acted like that.

“Suguru, you say ? Alright,” he ends up humming, keeping his back turned to you and mindlessly whipping the remains of dishes. You can’t see his facial expression anymore, and you get even more suspicious.

“Is there something wrong ?” you question, raising an eyebrow and narrowing your eyes at his reaction.

“Nope, baby,” he suddenly acts back like his cheerful self, giving you a wink when he turns around to face you again. Even though it’s only been 2 months that you were dating Gojo Satoru, you still could sense when he was lying. Even if it was subtil.

“You don’t like the name ‘Suguru’ ?” you ask, stepping closer, laughing a bit nervously. That would be... absurd. Why would he even hate a name ? His smile falters, but quickly gains back its fake silliness.

“Nah, I just knew someone that was named like that,” he explains vaguely on purpose, walking past you towards the living room. Oh, you narrow your eyes even more, twice suspicious now. He clearly wasn’t telling you everything. Satoru was secretive concerning some information about his life as a sorcerer, and about… his past too. Since it’s only been a few short months that you were his girlfriend, you didn’t insist or pressure him to open up to you. Your relationship with him was still young, after all. No need to rush things. You respected his privacy, to a certain extent.

“Someone ? Alright,” you say, not continuing on the topic, sitting next to him as he slides his arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer.

“How about tomorrow we go on a date, yeah ?” he suddenly proposes, changing subjects out of the blue.

“Will it be okay ? Nobody that knows you would see us together, right ?” you question, knowing that your relationship with Satoru had to be kept a secret for your safety.

“Nah, I’ll make sure of that. Don’t worry sweetcheeks,” he muses as he brings your face closer and kisses the hollow of your neck.

You smile at him, teasing him about how he needs to give you a massage since earlier that evening you won the wrestling game. He chuckles, bringing you to the bedroom. But as the night went on, you couldn’t help but notice how his mind looked elsewhere, and how he kept glancing at the grocery bag, and the name “Suguru” written on the tissue…

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

In this cold weather of February, you were walking outside with Satoru. Cold hands, yet they get warmed by his fingers tangling with yours and putting them in his pocket. He gives you a cheeky grin, rosy cheeks and red nose from the freezing wind. You sniff a bit, feeling like you could catch a cold with this temperature.

“How about we go see a movie ? You know, the new horror one that just went out. We saw it yesterday when watching this pastries tv-show,” he wiggles his eyebrows, taunting you. You inhale and exhale loudly, remembering the trailer of this so-called movie that you saw passing by on TV. 

“I’m going to shit my pants ! We could watch something else-” you start to retort, shaking your head, but Satoru rolls his eyes and brings you towards the entrance of the theatre.

“But I want you to get all scared and to cling to me like a damsel in distress, saying “oh Satoru my love, protect me ! I’m so scared ! Kyaaaa !” See ?” he exclaims as he suddenly clings to you, using a high pitched voice that could make your ears bleed and you cringe slightly. You repress a laugh, pinching his side under his thick layer of clothes.

“You really wanna bully me, uh ? I’m sure in the end it would be you that would be terrified, more than me,” you scoff and your white haired boyfriend acts exaggeratedly offended, opening the door to let the both of you enter the building.

“Excuse me ? I’m used to seeing horrifying things everyday, it’s not a horror movie that would scare me, period,” he refutes, the coldness of outside leaving you to instead be the warmth of the inside. You then remember back that indeed, in the line of work of your boyfriend, he was used to dealing with terrifying curses every day. Based on what he described you.

“Well, sorry, but not me,” you complain. After a little back and forth with him, you ended up going to buy the tickets of the movie, while Satoru went to obviously buy the snacks, which meant tons, and tons of sugary food.

As you walk back with the tickets in hand, searching for your busy boyfriend at the candy aisle, your eyes catch something in the crowd. Curious, you snap your head to the side, frowning, before perceiving long black hair tied in a half bun, and purple eyes. You part your lips, surprised to see the grocery guy, Suguru, if you remember well, coming out of the bathroom. He gives you a look, and then the moment his stare meets yours, a smirk draws on his lips.

“Y/n ?” he asks, surprised too.

“Fancy to see you here, humm.. Suguru, is that right ? It was written on the tote bag that you gave me yesterday,” you exclaim, smiling back and feeling quite funny from this situation. It could be destiny, at this point. Nah, too cliche. 

“Suguru, that’s right. I hope yesterday you could come back home safe with your groceries,” he answers in a soft voice, one that makes you think he must be a really calm and nice guy. Not to add how he helped you yesterday. What a mistake. 

“Thanks to you. Are you here to watch a movie ? Or you already did ?” you continue.

“I already finished watching the movie, the new horror one,” he tells you, crossing his arms on his chest and showing you with his chin his ticket in his hand. You barely look at it, not realizing that the ticket was odd, and then back at him.

“No way ! I’m here too, with my boyfriend, to watch it,” you smile answering that, this coincidence being rather unusual. You notice how his eyes narrow slightly at the word ‘boyfriend’, but then he smiles back as if nothing happened. 

“Boyfriend ? I see. Then enjoy, y/n. See you maybe next time,” he waves at you, before quickly disappearing in the crowd, and in no time he already left. 

The moment you join back Satoru that just finished buying all the snacks, arms full of popcorn, candies, and drinks, you shake your head and walk faster to reach him and help him with everything that he is holding.

“Did you really buy all this ? Is it for the two of us or a whole army ?” you chuckle, and Satoru pouts, plopping a candy in his mouth as he slides his hand in your lower back to make you walk towards the employee that checks your tickets.

“Sweetheart… You know I can eat for ten, don’t be ridiculous,” he rolls his eyes answering that. 

“It’s your stomach that is ridiculous, I don’t know how you can keep your abs with all this food” you tease back, both walking towards the theatre room after getting your tickets checked.

“The gods really like me,” he muses.

The moment you sit next to him, putting down the food to get comfortable, Satoru kisses your cheek exaggeratedly to make you embarrassed, like he always does, but then he freezes for a second. He narrows his eyes and lowers his sunglasses, looking at you with so much seriousness that you thought you did something wrong for a second.

“What is that smell on you ?” he asks, not a single hint of a joke in his voice.

“Uh ? Do I smell bad ? I showered and put my usual perfume, though” you retort, sniffing your arm and raising back your head towards him. The scent that was glued to your clothes were the exact same as usual, and confusion takes even more possession of your body.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” he whispers more like to himself, getting closer to you a moment. His face is right on your neck, and you get even more confused. Satoru swore he just smelled the cursed energy of Geto Suguru on your skin, a scent that he didn’t have the chance to smell since… years. But why would there be his cursed energy on you ? If he was there, he would have seen him. Yet, his six eyes didn’t notice anything abnormal in the movie theatre. 

“Uh…”

“Nevermind, love. Give me the caramel popcorns, please !” he suddenly changes subject and shows you back his big goofy smile. Quickly, you forget whatever had happened before indulging him, rolling your eyes with a hint of a grin on your lips. A few minutes later, the movie started.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

On this sunday afternoon, sun high in the sky and birds flying above your head, you decided to secretly meet your boyfriend outside of his workplace. The jujutsu high campus. It was to bring him some documents he needed for his paperwork that he forgot at your apartment. To be honest, you had nothing to do and just wanted to see him, even though he could have come and teleported at your place instead. But Satoru was Satoru, and you were you. Two very stubborn people.

Squeezing your bag against your left side, you follow the itinerary he gives you while you are on call with him. Left, right, turn here, go straight until the grey wall, turn there, etc… It felt like a damn maze. But oh, you insisted on meeting at the front red door of the domain, wanting to be able to have a glimpse in real life of where he works, instead of the pics he showed you on snowy nights, talking about his life.

“Baby, I can teleport right where you are, you know ?” Satoru urges you, a pout in his voice.

“Satoru, I can walk. I have nothing else to do, whatever. So wait for me at the rendez-vous place,” you repeat again for the second, third, no, fifth time. You hear a huff coming from the other line of the phone, and you imagine him rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Geez, alright, alright... Well, now, you need to climb the stairs all up to the top, and I’ll be right here,” he continues to explain, looking at where you are from the location you sent him on your phone. The little red spot on the map flickers, showing your position.

“No other sorcerer is around, yeah ?” you ask to be sure. That was risky, after all, coming here. You wouldn’t want anyone to catch you coming, but you still wished to see this place with your own eyes, even if slightly from far away.

“Uh-uh, don’t worry. All clear. I will be able to kiss you senseless without any prying eyes !” he muses happily, as if it was the sweetest treat he could ask for. You snicker at his words.

“Who said I would let you ?” you mock sarcastically.

“Awww, don’t be so mean…” he whines dramatically.

You chuckle and continue to walk. You look up at the sky. There are no more birds, nor the sound of their voices. The forest surrounding the stairs is quiet all of a sudden. That made you look around for a second. Suddenly, a squall of wind makes you shiver head to toe, and you squeeze your jacket tighter against you. It gets stronger, and you feel like you could fall from where you were standing. Your heart brutally stops, before starting to beat dangerously fast all over again. You have a hard time breathing, each inhale being ragged, your whole body tensed and screaming at you to run, and fast. You step back, when squinting your eyes, you see what seems like a shadow some meter away from you. Tall, looming, eerie. It was the first time you saw something like that, and you end up utterly terrified, shaking like a leaf.

“Y/n, are you okay ? You stopped moving…” mumbles Satoru in a sudden more serious voice, looking at your location. Some wind makes his hair move in the air, and he directly narrows his eyes. Something is off. He could sense it, smell it. 

“Satoru-...” you manage to whisper, stepping back again, horrified by this shadow slowly becoming clearer to you, looking like a… monster. Were you crazy ? A hallucination ? Or was that… a curse, like your boyfriend described them to you. Why is it scarier than you imagined, worse than the horror movie you saw two weeks ago. Way worse, to be honest. You couldn’t even fathom the fear that was running down your veins.

“Y/n, run as quick as you can, I’m on my way. ” The voice of Satoru snaps you back to reality, and you shiver head to toe as you directly spin around on your heels and dash towards the opposite way. You didn’t even need to make him repeat twice, or to have the time to understand what he asked, no, ordered you to do. Just by the simple word “run”, you were already running.

You breath heavily, racing as fast as you could, and the moment you check behind you to see if that curse was following you and tracking you down, you almost fall when the answer is yes. You let out a scream, the monster smiling in such a feral and unhinged way, opening its mouth wide with big crooked teeth, ready to jump you.  Horrible ! You then stumble on a rock, a damn rock that was coincidently on your way, and you scratch your knee as you fall down on the ground, making you bleed. You yelp, closing your eyes, not wanting to see an ugly curse as the last thing before dying. Everything was going way too quick for you to have the time to stand back up. 

The moment it’s about to reach your body, you hear an explosion meters away.

“Domain expansion, infinite void,” a cold and unwavering voice echoes in the depth of your being.

A scream of despair, and then… nothing. Just the quietness. A second pass where you slowly bat your lashes, ears ringing and feeling dizzy. The moment your vision is back to normal, you directly are facing your boyfriend scooping you in his arm without waiting any more second. His blindfold is down on his collar, a mad expression on his usual cheerful face. 

“Are you okay ?” he asks, six eyes analyzing you up and down with a hint of fear in them.

“I… I guess…” you whisper, still shaken from what happened.

“You’re bleeding, I’ll get you to Shoko,” he announces, turning around and starting to walk, squeezing you against him. You open your eyes wider, remembering that this woman was a friend of Satoru, and a jujutsu sorcerer.

“Will it be okay ?!”

“Don’t worry, I can trust her to not say anything about it. Let’s not lose any more time,” he finishes. And it’s only now that you realize how much your knee is painfully throbbing, all your adrenaline dying down to just let the suffering in your veins. You hiss, biting your lower lip to not scream.

Satoru then teleports, and in the first time of knowing him, you enter the Jujutsu campus. For the best, or for the worst. 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

“Here you go, all good now,” exclaims Shoko after finishing to heal you, stepping back and sliding a cigarette in between her lips. Amazed, you look at her. How could that be possible ? Your knee was as new as before, only your jeans were ripped at the mid section. You move your leg a bit, realizing that it’s really not hurting anymore. Indeed, it was like magic.

“Wow, thanks a lot,” you whisper, and she winks at you, saying that she does this type of trick everyday.

“How come a curse attacked me ?” you ask, still scared of what you saw. Satoru is sitting next to you and having his arm wrapped around your shoulders, thumb softly caressing your skin as a way to calm yourself, or maybe it was for himself, you didn’t know.

“It was awfully close to tengen’s barrier, so that is the question. It almost never happens, unless the campus is under attack,” starts to ponder Satoru, sighing and massaging his temples as a way to smooth away his starting headache. It reminded him of what happened years ago, with the star plasma vessel mission, and Toji. The man that he killed with his own hands. 

“Yet nothing to signal, campus is safe for now,” adds Shoko, ready to light her cigarette, but Satoru snatches it away, making her glare at him.

“Don’t smoke, I already told you to stop that shit. Even more in front of my girl !” he complains, acting like the scent of the cigarette in his hands could make him throw up. Shoko takes it back and puts it again in its box, sighing.

“You’re a pain in the ass. But anyway, I’ll go tell Yaga that a curse appeared in front of the barrier and got dealt with by you. Don’t worry, I won’t mention the presence of your girlfriend,” she announces before giving you a smile, and then leaves after you thank her again.

Back alone in the infirmary room of the school, it’s quiet. Satoru is lost in thoughts, a guilty expression on his pretty face. He takes a deep breath, and then inhales longly.

“I don’t understand. Was it targeted against you specifically ? That could be a possibility, but how and why, that’s what I’m trying to get here,” he starts to question, frustrated.

“You think someone or something knows our secret ? But we hid it so well so far !” you retort, and Satoru stands up, walking in circles, thinking about the possible answer.

“That would be surprising. As far as I know, I always made sure that no one could discover, aside from Shoko, but that doesn’t count. She met you after the attack. So it’s maybe a coincidence. Let’s hope it is. If not… I’ll have to deal with our problem.”

“You mean… killing someone ?” you whisper, and he stops in his track to look at you in the eyes.

“Yeah. I already killed sorcerers in the past. Obviously, bad ones that went against ethics and the law. Not every person born with cursed energy uses it for the good, you know ? It’s my job to protect people, not only from curses, but including sorcerers too. It would be the same for someone that would target your life,” he affirms, no budging in his voice. You swallow thickly. You already knew what Satoru had to deal with, but as a non sorcerer, a normal human, it still felt weird to hear such things coming out of the voice of someone, even more from your own boyfriend.

“Yeah, I get it…” you sigh. He sighs too, and wraps his arm around you softly, cradling you against his chest and kissing the top of your head affectionately. 

“It’s for that it’s better to keep it a secret. For your safety… having a bounty on your head would mean exterminating any menace that would come your way,” he finishes, looking at you, and you stare at the shine in the blue of his iris, showing all the seriousness in the world. After all, since the minute he was born, Gojo Satoru has been chased down with deadly bounties on his head. He knew better than anyone else the feeling of constantly being tracked down. Each.minute.of.his.life. 

“I know, now let’s go do something that would occupy my mind. I don’t want to think back about what happened. I’m sure I will have nightmares…” you whisper and groan.

“Let’s go eat mochis downtown !” Satoru jumps back on his feet, all smiling now.

“Ah, but wait, you still have work to do. I literally brought you the documents you needed,” you disagree all of a sudden, yet Satoru still takes your hand to coax you to stand up.

“Screw that, you’re at the top of my to do list,” he shakes his head, insisting. You end up smiling, and follow him.

You didn’t know this day, how he meant his words. ‘Exterminating any menace that would come your way.’ 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

You were just finished with your day. Satoru would come to pay you a visit later in the night, since he was busy with missions and only available starting 10 PM. Taking the metro, you try to think of what you could eat for dinner tonight. Ordering food or cooking it ? That would just depend on how exhausted you are, at this point. You hold your ground as the train starts to move again once people are finished to enter the wagon and the door closes. You see a glimpse of someone tall with long black hair in a half tied bun.

Wait. Is that... Suguru ? You frown, and the moment you look at the silhouette better, he disappears. You were sure that for a second he was standing right in front of you. Were you hallucinating ? Yeah, you were tired… Why would you even hallucinate about this guy, anyways ?

As you leave the metro some minutes after, you pass by the small streets towards your apartment. When looking at the window of a store, you swear you saw in the reflection of it the damn grocery guy again ! You squint your eyes, stepping back. Nothing. Only you, and the passersby.

“I’m fucking crazy…” you whisper, shaking your head and continuing your walk.  

You look at your phone, and now you find yourself alone in the quietness of the night. Each step echoes in the silence. It’s too silent, you think. The light lamp of the alley illuminates your way. You put back your phone in your pocket when a cold wind caresses your neck, giving you goosebumps. You shiver, from head to toe, as if ice was rubbing against your skin. You snap back your attention, remembering oh so well this feeling. This same feeling that you had not so long ago… And here, standing in front of you, another shadow, a taller, much much taller one, compared to last time. Its eyes were yellow, and weird substance was emanating from its skin as an eerie high pitched voice murmured words that you couldn’t understand or make out.

Your stomach drops on your heels, and you stumble backwards, ready to scream of fear and run away. The moment you open your mouth, your back bumps into someone. You turn around sharply, only to be met with purple eyes.

“Are you okay…? Oh ? Y/n ? Is that you ?” asks the voice, and you can’t help but feel reassured to not be alone anymore. But quickly, still in panic, and afraid for your damn life, you exclaim as you directly step away.

“No, run ! It will attack you, otherwise-” 

“What are you talking about ? There is nothing here,” answers Suguru, grabbing your jacket to stop you from running away. Your breath gets caught in your throat, ready to yell at him, but when you spin around you realize that indeed, nothing or noone else was here. The shadow disappeared, and your heart slowly beats at a more normal pace.

“What ? But- I swear I…” you stutter.

“Ah, you must be tired. Maybe you should go back home. Is your boyfriend here to help you ?” he raises his eyebrow when softly answering, letting go of his grip on your clothes. You look at it then back at him again, and you feel reassured.

“No, he arrives later…” you whisper. You felt like what you saw wasn’t just you dreaming, but reality. It was here, in front of you. How could it have disappeared like that ? 

“Are you okay ? Want me to call him for you, to ask him to come get you ? What’s his name ?” he questions, eying you down.

Still in panic, you continue to look around frequently. Wanting to make sure that the curse really wasn’t waiting for any moment to come back and get you. Flashbacks of what happened before, how it was running after you, and if Satoru was one second late, how you would be probably six feet underground. You dig your nails in your palm, breathing heavily, unable to calm down.

“I… Uh... his name is Satoru,” you start to answer, and you see how the look of Suguru darkens, but quickly comes back to normal. “I’ll call him myself, it’s alright,” you finish.

“Want me to stay until he arrives ? It wouldn’t feel right to leave you in such a state, alone…” he hums, shaking his head as he crosses his arms over his chest while staring at you. 

“If you don’t mind, yeah…” you answer as you lean against the wall, and with a shaky hand you dial the number of your boyfriend in front of the purple eyes of your savior. He quickly answers, and you can hear how he is fighting at the same time some curse, but still decided to pick up the call.

“Yeah baby ? I’m dealing with some shitty low grades at the same time, hope you don’t mind !” he exclaims cheerfully, and in the background you can hear sounds of objects breaking. You put the phone tighter against your cheek, making sure only you could hear him. Well, that’s what you thought.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but can you come, please. I think.. it appeared again. I’m scared to the bones, not gonna lie. That shit is making me feel crazy,” you answer, turning your head as you sniff, biting your lower lip nervously and eyes roaming around, quite everywhere, sometimes landing on the black haired male that stares at you.

“What ? Alright, send me your location, I won’t take long. Are you alone ?” suddenly asks seriously Satoru, more grave now in his tone of voice. At the same time, you send your location as asked.

“No, I’m with, you know, Suguru, the guy that helped me last time. I bumped into him,” you explain, looking at him and he smiles as his eyes meet yours. 

Suguru. The moment this name left your mouth, Satoru froze. In one go, he activates his technique, done with fooling around, and hollow purple his opponent. In a ragged breath, he replies : 

“I’m on my way, don’t move.”

He hangs up, and you realize that he must have teleported. You face Suguru, and you try to give him a reassuring smile. Well, you should be the one to get reassured in this situation, actually.

“He’s on the way, he will soon be here, don’t worry,” you resume.

“I don’t worry about me, but more for you. Are you feeling better ? Was someone following you ?” he shakes his head answering that, tilting his head to the side.

“Something, yeah, I don’t know ? It’s complicated..” you try to say vaguely. After all, you couldn’t say to someone you barely knew that a curse was probably after you. Barely one year ago, before meeting Satoru, you had no idea about the existence of such things. Suguru narrows his eyes, letting out a hum.

“Looks like you are cursed, y/n,” he simply states, staring back at you. You shiver, and snap back your head at him.

“Cursed ? Ahah, what do you mean ?” you frown, replying with a quivering voice. Shit, you looked even more suspicious. But hey, wait, that was his answer, that was suspicious. Rather than yours.

“Don’t play dumb, y/n. I’m talking about curses,” he steps closer, smiling at you as if it was funny, and that this whole situation was just dumb. Where you dumb ?

“What ? Wait, hold on, you-”

“Looks like your boyfriend Gojo Satoru is back,” he cuts you off.

You directly turn around, snapping back towards the street. Meters away you see indeed the white haired male looking around, and when he spots you he rushes, you do too, and he catches you in his arms. His grip is tight and comforting, keeping you safe in the crook of his chest.

“I’m here, it’s alright. I sense no curses anymore, you’re safe,” he whispers in your ear, gazing around, blindfold off his eyes scanning the area.

“Anymore ? So it was here earlier, I wasn’t crazy ?” you ask with both fear and hope at the same time. A weird mix of feelings, to be honest. A horrifying duality.

“I sense its presence very faintly, as if it vanished,” Satoru continues to whisper, caressing your back to soothe you down, allowing your breathing to slow calmly back.

Talking about vanishing, you lift your eyes, only to realize that the black haired male disappeared, leaving only the two of you alone in this gloomy alley.

“Where is the guy ?” questions your boyfriend, lifting his head off your neck, hand on your cheek.

“Suguru ? He left already, I guess…” you reply, staring at the empty spot, and you sigh. Satoru narrows his eyes, humming, eyes scanning the area again.

“Let’s get you back home, ‘kay ?” he ends up saying, deciding to investigate this on his own. After all, he did sense again the faint smell of Suguru’s cursed energy. Geto Suguru, more exactly. And that couldn’t be a coincidence anymore. The Suguru you met was 99% sure the Suguru he knew. Satoru wasn’t an idiot. But he couldn’t let you know.

“Alright.. Thanks for coming, love,” you smile and he kisses softly your lips as a light peck. 

“Anytime,” he answers, before bringing you back home. Satoru wasn’t joking as usual, or teasing you as much as he does. He seemed preoccupied with something, surely about what happened, but it felt odd. The evening goes on, and Satoru stays at your side all night long.

As you cuddle your boyfriend in bed, half asleep and basking in the warmth of his body spooning yours, your eyes snap back open.

Hold on. Suguru said Gojo Satoru earlier. But you only remember giving him his name, and nothing more. How could he know his last name ? Did you imagine things ? 

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

A whole month and a half passed. You quickly managed to forget about what happened, thanks to the help of Satoru, and forgot the weird things that Suguru said that night. It was even easier, since you didn’t see him again. In this month of february, you were covered in thick layers of blankets, keeping you warm as you drink hot chocolate in your cup. Satoru comes back from his shower, hair damp and changed into comfortable pajamas. With time, he ended up putting more and more of his personal stuff in your apartment, slowly becoming an important part of your life as your boyfriend. 

“Lemme take a sip,” he whines, suddenly sitting next to you on the couch and wrapping his cold arms around you. You shiver head to toe, yet he keeps his hands tightly against your skin.

“You’re freezing cold !” you exclaim, and he nonetheless takes a sip from your cup, smiling and licking his lips as he puts it back down. He squeezes your stomach, kissing your neck.

“Warm me up, then,” he coos, and makes you lie back down on the couch, straddling you as he continues to snuzzle your chest and draping the remaining blankets over the two of you.

“Don’t get too cozy, I’ll have to leave in 20 minutes,” you say, and he huffs, butterfly kissing your throat before biting your cheek smugly.

“Why do you have to go ? Can’t you stay here with your amazing boyfriend ?” he complains, and you squirm but he bites your cheek again, the left one this time. Not too hard, obviously.

“I promised my friend I would come, and hey, stop biting me-” you retort, and it results only in the chuckle of Satoru vibrating against your skin. He kisses it softly, as a way to make himself forgiven.

“I’ll wait here then, like a good househusband,” he muses and pecks your lips. You grin against his mouth, cool fingers caressing his face and looking at him in the eyes.

“You wish you were, uh ?” you tease him.

“Hmm, that would be a nice change from the constant draining work as The Strongest…” he whispers, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand under your shirt, and moving his lips against yours. You let out a breath of pleasure, his tongue licking your lower lip to allow him access. You slightly open your mouth, and start to make out with him in an affectionate and loving way. He lifts himself on his elbow, deepening the kiss to make it considerably more heated. His knee slides and gets in between your thighs, parting them inch by inch and pressing against your core on purpose. You moan slightly, and he smirks as he breathes more heavily, clearly getting turned on at your oh so sweet voice doing such noises.

You graze your nails against his undercut, making him shiver. He massages your breast, thumb caressing your nipple while his knee grinds against you. It hardens, and you arch slightly your back. He smiles even more, using his other hand to grab your hips to press you more against his grinding knee. The pleasure is slowly heating up, but before it gets too ahead of yourselves, you break the kiss.

“Satoru, I need to get ready,” you whisper. He pouts, slowly letting you go, and sighs before leaving you some space, doing a last final peck on your nose.

“Yeah yeah, my beautiful wife is getting taken away from me,” he whines dramatically. 

“Okay you dramaqueen,” you roll your eyes, and leave the warmth of the cushion to stand up and go take your bag and put on your coat and shoes. Satoru trails behind you and suddenly gives you his wallet. You raise an eyebrow, surprised.

“Use my card while you are out, and please yourself. In that way, it’s as if I would be with you. I mean, my wallet and money will, actually…” he explains his train of thoughts, and before you can answer he puts it inside your back. You were about to protest, but he started to push you outside towards the main door.

“Satoru that is so sweet, but you didn’t need to-”

“Nuh-uh, I insist. Spoil yourself, but don't drink too much, ‘kay ?” he interrupts you. You smile softly once you are two feet outside, and then bring him in a close hug. He wraps his arms around you too in return, and you go on your toes to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you, ‘toru. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back home, alright ?” 

“Go have fun !” he waves goodbye at you as you step back, and you give him one last glance before walking outside.

The evening goes by, and meeting with your friends to drink was upgrading your mood. You did use the card of Satoru, but still made it on purpose to not drink too much alcohol. After all, you wanted to come back home safe. And not like a drunk mess.

In the dim light of the bar, you lay back against the chair, looking at the ceiling after paying your final consumption. While you put back the card into your boyfriend’s wallet, you accidentally make something fall. You catch it on your thighs, and squint your eyes when you realize it’s an old picture of Satoru. He was in the company of who you recognized as Shoko, thanks to the mole and the cigarette in between her lips. But then the person to his other side strangely feels like his looks are familiar. Black hair tied in a bun, purple eyes, and ear piercings… Wait wait wait. Is that… on this pic... grocery guy, aka Suguru, with your boyfriend ? No way, no fucking way.

That’s crazy. No. Are you even sure ? Slightly panicked, all the dots connecting together, you turn around the picture and read what is written in small letters behind “Satoru, Suguru, Ieri, 2006”. You blink, once, twice.

That is Suguru. The Suguru you met multiple times, is the Suguru of the past of Satoru. This so-called “someone” he once knew. A strange feeling takes place in your gut, as if something was wrong, damn wrong. You swallow thickly, and now you understand how and why he had said all these weird things before, his reactions too. But, why… Why didn't Satoru tell you more about him ? All you knew is that they knew each other in the past. Nothing more, nothing else. Gojo was secretive, very secretive about this. It was apparently for the better, but right now, it was for your worst. 

Oh oh, you can’t shake off that nagging feeling, starting to be nervous and panicked. Something definitely was wrong in whatever happened this past weeks.

“I’ll go outside to get some fresh air,” you suddenly annonce to your friends, trying to smile to reassure them as they look concerned. You barely put back your coat, keeping in your hand the picture as you step out without waiting for an answer.

You lay against a wall, looking at the people passing by. You take deep breaths, trying to put some order in your mind. As you look up, seconds pass while you stare at the sky, but then, it’s as if everything got even darker than the night. It was like a veil was falling around you. You look back around, and you are now alone in the street. Your breath catches in your throat and you directly decide to go back inside the bar, not liking this at all.

The wind, cold and freezing, caresses your neck. Your heart jumps in your thoracic cage, and you feel sweat rolling down your forehead of nervousness and fear slowly creeping down your back. You decide to walk faster.

“Y/n, where do you think you are going ?” announces a familiar voice behind you.

You directly turn on your heels, and you are met with Suguru, his hair down, and in a different attire that you were used to seeing him. His presentence was far more gloomy, and the monk clothes he was wearing made him look like someone else. More like… the real him. And you knew at this moment that you were in danger. No matter how and why, you were in danger.

“Suguru ?! What is happening here ?” you snap, on edge.

“Satoru didn’t explain it to you ? I casted a veil. It’s only us in here,” he answers as if it was mock evidence, eying you up and down. He suddenly didn’t look as friendly as before. You step back, squeezing the picture in between your fingers.

“What the- are you a sorcerer too, then ? I just saw this picture and... Fuck. What is going on right now ?!” you start to panic, looking around again and again. You felt trapped.

“I guess he didn’t talk much about me. Even though we were best friends. Well, it’s understandable. You are a non sorcerer. It’s not like you would get it, anyways,” he sighs, shaking his head as if he was disappointed. 

“No, he didn’t. But that’s... for now it’s not the most important. I want you to tell me why you are here, casting this veil, and what are your real intentions. Because I doubt now that each time we met, it was from pure accidents or coincidences” you deduce, your gut screaming to you that it was right. You weren’t that dumb, after all.

“You’re smarter than I thought, for a non sorcerer,” he chuckles dryly, slowly walking towards you and circling you. You keep your eyes on him, feeling cornered.

“See, the problem here, is that I would have never expected that the grand Gojo Satoru would be dating a normal human. Imagine my surprise ! You just are a weakness, a big weakness for him, at this point,” he explains, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes as he caresses his chin. 

“How did you discover that ?!” you exclaim, stepping away, not answering the way he pathetically described you. 

“I wasn’t sure at first. Because of my way of life, I always have to keep an eye on Gojo Satoru. One of my curses reported to me that he saw you frequently at his sides when he was being as a civilian outside. I had to see it for myself... That was easy. Well, you were the one that told me yourself that you had a boyfriend, named Satoru. It didn’t take me much, actually.”

Oh, poor you. You didn’t know who Geto Suguru was, aside from the past best friend of your boyfriend. How could you have the clue that he deflected Jujutsu Society years ago to become a wanted criminal, creating a cult, despising non sorcerers to his soul. How could you, really ? Satoru should have told you, and maybe, more likely surely, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into this situation. 

“So all along… it was to get an answer… Did you staged all this ? From the very beginning ?!” you almost stutter, utterly shocked and feeling like a mouse getting played by a cat. 

“Yeah,” he simply responds casually, as if it wasn’t the most mind blowing thing you heard today. You gasp, eyes wide open.

“What is wrong with you…” you whisper horrified.

“Oh no, the only wrong thing here is you, y/n. Do you really not know who I am aside from your boyfriend's past best friend ? That could have maybe helped you out there,” he sighs and gets closer, menacing.

“You’re a goddamn devil in disguise, that’s what you are,” you add, narrowing your eyes and clenching your hands, angered. 

“Close. I’m just doing what I think is right, getting rid of the filthy things that stench this world. You’re part of that, actually. But well, I started to get attached to you, you see ? Funny when I despise you at the same time. Too bad you’re a non sorcerer, and the girlfriend of my now nemesis,” he ends up brutally, face suddenly becoming as cold as ice and then raising his hand up, a black spiral forming on his palm.

In utter fear of what could happen, you quickly try to run away, not wanting to lose any more time, knowing what would occur next would be bad, very bad for you, if you didn’t exit quickly. But the moment you rush towards the end of the veil, a big, more like gigantic bird, as huge as a dinosaur, appears before you and opens his mouth wide. Masked men jump out of it, and suddenly grab you and one yanks you brutally towards them. You try to squirm, like a wild and feral animal, but they drag you with them back towards the bird without much difficulty, threatening you. You just have the time to scream, that it swallows you in its mouth, and then all you see is pitch black before the void. 

The curse vanishes, as soon as Suguru Geto does as well. The veil is gone, and the only thing that is left is the old picture of the trio on the cold ground of the lonely street.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

Back to the present. February 16, 11 : 26 PM, Gojo Satoru exterminated 7 upper grades curses. 

12 : 06 AM, Gojo Satoru killed 5 sorcerers.

It wasn’t hard to trail back to you, actually. The moment you disappeared, your friends didn’t take long to notice your vanishment. They tried to contact at first people that they were sure would know maybe where you were. Going on your phone and on your emergency calls, they contacted your boyfriend. As soon as he came, being as quick as possible and dread consuming him, he knew. He knew because he saw the picture on the floor, grabbing it in his hand and staring at it in the void. Your vanishment wasn’t something what normal humans would think, and maybe he didn’t like that idea as much, knowing it could be worse, way worse than you just running away. 

Following the cursed energy, he arrived in an abandoned building. Bit by bit, like a rat following the smell of cheese, he went to each place and corner where he could slightly feel your presence. Satoru knew it was a trap, but your safety was his top tier priority.

Minutes passed, and everytime he faced an opponent that didn’t give him any proper answer, annoyance took over him. It was maddening, frustrating. Satoru was going crazy at the idea that you could be dead right now, somewhere lifeless, and how it probably was his fault. His eyes were cold, as freezing as ice, having no more patience left anymore.

“Who’s next ?” he asks, each step echoing in the corridor, searching for you, but too for someone else to rip their damn head off if they go on his way. 

He senses the presence of another sorcerer, but they run fast, fearful, not wanting to live their last seconds on earth being exterminated by The Strongest in a monstrous way like their other comrades.

“Pathetic,” he whispers, about to go after his new found victim, an unhinged smile forming on his lips, but he stops dead on his track when he senses your presence faintly.

With no other thoughts, he teleports there immediately. He appears suddenly in front of a door, and bangs it open brutally, breathing heavily. Time stops the moment his eyes meet the purple ones of his best friend, his nemesis, his one and only. And then his smile drops, when he sees you unconsciously laid in his arms while he sits lazily on a tatami.

 12 : 31 AM, Gojo Satoru found you back. But not alone.

“Satoru ! Long time no see,” exclaims Suguru, smiling at him like he used to in the past.

“Suguru…” whispers the white haired male, standing almost lifeless, body feeling limp.

“You were quicker than I thought. Even if I know you’ve been knowing for weeks now. I’ve enjoyed the chase, right, Satoru ? Yet, we still didn’t reach the end, you and I. And you know that very well,” he hums, his hand softly touching your unconscious face before looking back up at your boyfriend. 

“Suguru, don’t involve her into that,” he simply says, voice firm as he wipes some of the blood off his face.

“I never thought you would date a weakling, you, that always said they were a pain to protect. Look where it brought you. It’s a weakness that I can use against you, and I’m doing it,” he states, narrowing his eyes while he taps his fingers against his thigh. Tap, tap, tap.

“I changed, you made me change. You were the first one to say we had to protect the weaker for the best,” answers Satoru, stepping closer and being tense, ready to attack at any second. The dim light from the candles next to the black haired man illuminates your unconscious face. At least you didn’t look hurt, just asleep, as if everything that happened was just a dream, or a living nightmare.

“Well, I changed my mind. I learnt my lesson, and you know that it’s too late to make me think otherwise,” sighs Suguru, replying with a colder tone. Some seconds pass in silence where they just look at each other in a heavy silence.

“... Suguru. Let her go, she has nothing to do with our little game of cat and mouse,” continues Satoru, more calmly, almost pleading.

“Don’t tell me you are that attached ? If I hurt her, kill her, would you finally kill me ?” scoffs Geto.

“Yes.” That was the simple answer of The Strongest, raising his hand and positioning his fingers, ready to activate red or blue any moment now.

“At least we think the same,” ends up answering Suguru vaguely in a quiet voice, looking at the fingers of his once best friend. A moment passes. Then, he puts you down on the floor, and stands up slowly, now facing the white haired male. 

“Poor thing. There is no curse more twisted than love… Next time, curse me too a little bit in the end,” adds Suguru, letting out a mocking laugh, staring into the soul of Satoru through his eyes. 

Satoru doesn’t answer, not knowing what to answer. He keeps his fingers up, shaking, and then he grabs you with his free hand, using his technique to make you not fall and glued to his palm. He tried to control his breathing, feeling in between numb and overwhelmed. Both in a strange duality.

“You killed an awful amount of my curses and mercenaries. Well, at least I can keep the money of the bounty for myself, since they can’t reclaim it anymore,” he starts to say, raising his eyebrow and then invoking a curse next to him. Satoru’s eyes snap towards it, ready in case it attacks.

“But don’t rest easy, I’ll make you pay back in kind. I like that new student of yours, Yuta Okkotsu…” the black haired male continues, and then a void slowly appears under his feet, created by the curse.

“Leave the kids alone, Suguru,” snaps Satoru, frowning, and stepping menacingly closer. But he had to be careful, having you with him meant he had to be extra cautious.

“Then kill me now.” These single words made the heart of The Strongest sink, and his fingers tighten. He grits his teeth, feeling like he was 18 again, surrounded by a crowd and unable to stop his best friend after finding out he deflected and massacred a whole village.

Satoru couldn’t kill Suguru, not yet.

“Right. Next time, maybe. Goodbye, Satoru. Say hi to y/n too,” finishes his best friend, before vanishing in the void created by the curses. It disappears too, leaving only the two of you alone. The candles slightly waver at this change of atmosphere, and Satoru breathed again. He brings you up in his arms, scooping your asleep self against his chest. He cradles you, burying his face in your hair and inhaling your scent.

“Y/n, I’m sorry. So sorry…”

Gojo Satoru feels a tear rolling down his cheeks, and it’s the first time in a long time that he breaks character and his fake bravado.

જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ

“Satoru, I swear I’m good now. Shoko already checked me up. Well, maybe I would need some therapy, but trust me, I’m not hurt,” you try to reassure your boyfriend, as he sits next to you on the bed, making sure you were okay. His hand slowly caresses your cheek, and you lean on his palm, appreciating his touch.

He had dark circles under his eyes. Satoru didn’t sleep for 56 hours. After what happened, he didn’t close his eyes aside from blinking, making sure you were okay, paranoid and on edge that something else could happen to you. He sighs, staring at your face and rubbing his thumb against your cheek.

“Y/n, it’s for your safety… You know I can’t rest,” he insists, shaking his head and gripping slightly your cheek.

“Satoru, love, you need to sleep. I’m with you, nothing will happen,” you reply, sliding your fingers against his, and interwinning them together, kissing his knuckles. 

He looks at you in silence in the quietness of the night.

“I can’t sleep, not after what happened,” he continues, passing his free hand against his face, trying to wipe the tiredness away. 

“You need to,” you answer, frowning, clearly concerned. He doesn't answer, looking at the window instead. He looked so drained, almost like the living dead that crawled back from the cemetery. You felt like that if you blew on him, he could break. The Strongest would damn break. 

“Satoru, you’re going to drop dead if you continue doing this. You can’t keep up, please, for the love of God, listen to me,” you add, tugging on his hand to make him look at you, a hint of despair in your voice.

“Y/n, it was all my fault, I-” he shakes his head, biting his lower lip.

“Stop saying that !” you snap.

“You don’t get it ! If I didn’t protect my own peace, If I decided to open up more to you in the past and told you about Suguru, and everything that happened, maybe nothing of this would have happened. This is all because of my own fear of vulnerability, of thinking it was better like that, to keep you safe, and keep myself safe from remembering the past. I don’t know anymore. I messed up badly, and I’m not allowed to mess up. I don’t know. I’m so tired from all this. Fuck, I… I can’t even think straight right now,” he exclaims at first, but ends up laughing nervously. He surely was becoming more and more crazy as the hours passed.

Your heart sinks, and you look at him sadly.

“Shhh… come here, come here,” you whisper, and bring him towards you. You wrap your arms around his body and he immediately hugs you back close, squeezing you strongly as if his life depended on it. He shakes, big hands covering your back and keeping you in the crook of his heart. He kisses your lips softly, like an anchor to reality.

“It’s alright. Maybe, if you start to tell me about it, it’ll help you sleep better at night ?” you propose after some seconds. He looks at you in the eyes, not answering at first, debating inside his head.

“Alright…” he ends up saying. He sighs deeply, and then takes a long breath to gather the strength he needed to talk about this, to open up his heart, to expose his vulnerable past and mistakes.

“Suguru and I, back in the days, we both were The Strongest. Nothing could stop us, really. He was my best friend, my one and only, actually. But everything went downhill when we got assigned the star plasma vessel mission…”

Satoru starts to explain, laying back down on the bed against you. While he talks, you look at him and gently caress his back to sooth him down. As the minutes passed, his eyes started to close against his will, and he found himself fast asleep in your arms.

You kiss one last time his head, bringing him closer to share all your warmth, and love.

For once, you’ll be the one to look over him tonight.

You were his to protect. But he was yours to protect too. 

And that, no matter what would happen in the future. 

THE END

[rafescvntyclubgf]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 - 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 𝐨𝐟 𝟑

𝟿.𝟼𝙺 𝚃𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝

2.9K

+18 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓓𝓝𝓘

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚟𝙵𝚛��𝚝!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 1

⚠️ spoilers in the warnings ⚠️

swearing, Stalking, pet names, degradation, namecalling, public masturbation, dark!rafe, mean!rafe, perv!rafe, mentions of cum play, mentions of unprotected P in V, ownership kink, mentions of rough oral, violence, threats, blackmail, fighting, blood, gore, mentions of sextortion, Rafe sneaks into the reader's room, panty stealing, panty sniffing, takes pictures of the reader's private images, cum tasting, oral male receiving, oral female receiving, twist dark reader, mutual obsession, rough oral, gagging, kissing, reader doesn't ask rafe if he wants to go further than oral but he does and she starts anyway, messy sex, squirting, praise, drinking, smoking, mentions of drug use

𝓫𝓮𝓽𝓪 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓶𝓬𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮

Rafe’s POV:

I look out into the sea of college students piled on the road and grass. Booze, smoke, and sex hang heavily in the air. The fact that we haven’t got busted yet is a borderline miracle, the type of miracle I need because I – a fuckin’ idiot – didn’t ask for her number.

I stand near the kegs, not close enough to work them but close enough to see it as well as the front door of Phi Mu. Three hours and still no y/n. Where’s my girl? I take a pull from the bottle as my nerves start to creep in. What if she’s with Billy? What if she never left the house?

I swallow thickly, looking toward the sorority.

All of the lights are off. A soft glow of light shines from the side of the house, making my heart sink. No.

Pushing through the party, I make my way toward the house, my heart ramping up as I think about her and Billy not leaving. My jaw coils tight, teeth gritted.

What am I gonna do if he is? My threats weren’t enough. I’m gonna need to do something drastic. All my thoughts come to a screeching halt as I go to the window, looking into her empty bedroom. I turn fast, breaking into a trot, peering into Billy’s window.

Empty.

I can feel my heart rate slow, my tense shoulders falling. She’d never do that to me. Who am I kidding? She wanted me at the coffee shop. I pretty much sealed the deal at the car wash. She’s lookin’ for me. Fuck. ‘Course she is… I walk through the grass and head back to the party. The bass-heavy music thunders through the night air, making it hard to think about much more than the task at hand… Finding my girl.

I shove through the dense crowd, my head swiveling as I scan the crowd. My breathing is shallow, my heart rate climbing with every passing second, leaving me all but suffocated.

My head snaps to the side, catching a glimpse, nearly missing her as she gets swallowed up in the crowd. Or was that her? Am I seeing shit now?

I reach up, tugging at the collar of my t-shirt as my breathing tightens.

What if she found someone else? What if Billy was the least of my worries this entire time? My hands curl into my fists at the thought.

Billy’s looking for her, too. I know he is. If he wasn’t, he’d be out here. That fucker is always somewhere near the kegs. I told him y/n was off-limits. I thought I made that shit crystal clear. The coffee shop, the car wash… She was clearly interested in me.

She’s mine.

Even if she doesn’t know it yet, I don’t think these boys know how far I’d go to get what I want.

I want her.

I see another flash of hair to my left. Princess? I push through the crowd, following her just like I was this afternoon on campus, swerving and pushing through the crowd. “Y/n,” I call over the music. She turns around… Just some girl. Shit. A fuckin’ gut punch as she turns back around and joins her group of friends.

“Rafe!” One of the underclassmen calls out. “Bro – you good?” Clenching my jaw, I look over and nod, barely sparing them a glance as I continue to search.

I watch a couple disappear between the frat and the sorority, falling into the darkness. The boy pushes her against the wall before their lips lock, and for a split second, I think it’s her. My nerves ramp up, painting the worst-case scenarios: y/n’s face on her body and Billy’s on his. I rub my clammy hands against my jeans, my stomach turning. “Dammit,” I hiss, brushing my fingers through my hair nervously, my breathing erratic.

“The fuck are you on, Cameron?” Those same boys chuckle, pulling me out of my downward spiral. God, I must look like a fuckin’ mess.

“E,” I lie as I roll the tension out of my neck.

“E?” One of them asks with a wolfish grin. “You sharin’ or what?”

“Money talks, man. I’m sure as shit not sharin’ anything with you,” I snicker as I lift the liquor to my lips, drowning some more. The party grows louder as I stand there, trying to think of my next move.

I hear a familiar bubbly laugh. Cassie. Y/n’s sorority sister… Her face is plastered all over Y/n’s Instagram. If there’s someone who knows where she is, it’s her. I stalk to their group, frantic.

“Have you seen Y/n?” I interrupt them before I can think about it for another moment. Cassie blinks a few times, taken aback. I mean, we’ve never fuckin’ talked before.

”Uh, no… I don’t think so…” She watches me cautiously. “Why?” She asks curiously.

Jesus fucking christ. This is gonna get me nowhere.

I turn on my heels as my frustration mounts; I walk back to the underclassmen at the keg. The plastic trembles as I fill it to the brim with lukewarm beer. “…yeah, I’m supposed to buy some coke off Billy, but that fucker said he was lookin’ for someone.”

“Who?” The other boy asks, making my blood boil because I already know the answer.

“That Phi Mu girl he’s always talkin’ about. I don’t know. She’s hot as fuck.” I feel the liquid trickle down my forearm. Looking down, I realize I cracked my cup from my grip. Fuck, he’s a tough learner, isn’t he? My threats went in one ear and out the other.

That bitch probably thinks I’m a joke. He’s probably walkin’ around right now. Stalking her like she’s a fuckin’ animal.

I take a deep breath, looking down at the beer still leaking down my arm. I close my eyes, trying to calm down and gather my thoughts. You gotta be smart about this, Rafe.

I clear my throat, making my face passive before I make my first move.

“Hey,” I call out to the guys that were talking. “You guys got Billy’s number? Yeah?”

”Mhmm,” one of them hums. “‘Course.”

I lift my phone, feigning nonchalance. “Got shit service out here. Tell Billy his girl’s at the frat.”

One of them jabs the other in the side, gesturing for him to pull out his phone and send it off. His face glows in the light, the underclassmen quickly shoving it in his pocket as I swallow the rest of my beer, trying to remain uninterested, just hoping that he didn’t mention anything about me being the one to say I saw her.

“Thanks, buddy,” I smile, slapping him on the shoulder as I step toward the party's fringe, leaving the chaos behind to focus on watching for him. Billy thinks he makes the rules. He thinks he can disrespect me? No one fuckin’ disrespects me.

Billy.

That smug bitch struts toward the frat house, cig dangling from his lips, his head tilted down as he checks his texts. I can’t help but smile as something goes my way. Finally. Thankfully, I’ll get to take care of him first.

Billy sucks down the rest of his cigarette before flicking it into the dewy grass. He reaches up, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt and raking his fingers through his sandy blonde hair before setting his backward cap back on.

His lips curl upward the closer and closer he gets, no doubt thinking about ruining my girl in his room. He has no clue what he’s walkin’ into. I take a deep breath, moving toward the frat house, pushing through the crowd on the front lawn. “Billy! Hey, man, I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Billy turns over his shoulder like he had been caught, and he had. “What’s up, Cameron?” Billy asks, stuffing his phone in his pocket. I fight the urge to eye it. He’s texting my girl, I’m sure.

“Heard you got some yayo,” I smirk. “That true?” Billy stands there for a moment, running through scenarios in his head. His expressions ebbing between confusion and annoyance as I ask him for shit he knows I already have.

I shrug casually before continuing. “You holdin’ out on me, man. C’mon. I got cash. You got the shit, buddy. M’not trying to hold you up. Just need a bump,” I soften my voice on purpose to make it harder for him to hear me. Billy furrows his eyebrows, leaning closer to me.

“What?” He shouts. “Can’t fuckin’ hear you, man.” I nod over to the billiards room, making him roll his eyes and suck his teeth. Billy shoves his hands in his pockets, making his way toward the pool room without a fight. It’s not like he could tell me where he was goin’ or who he was lookin’ for… We were both puttin’ on an act.

I reach back, pulling the large wooden door shut behind me. Billy looks over at me, his eyes narrowing on mine, and at that moment, I swear he knows why he asked him in here, and it has nothing to do with a sale. He knows I’m here to settle the score. The music muffles to an eerie quiet as the tension between us builds. We both know if shit happens in here, no one’s hearin’. This is between him and I. No one’s stoppin’ this fight.

Billy’s arms flex as he crosses them over his chest, growing impatient regardless. “What’s this about, Rafe?” He asks annoyedly as he scratches his chin. A wicked smile plays on my lips; I turn slightly, clicking the lock into place, letting him know that his suspicions are valid and the threat is real. “Holy shit. Say somethin’, you fuckin’ psycho.”

“You know exactly where we’re in here, Billy. Why don’t you tell me? Huh?” I ask as I shove him roughly, sending him deeper into the dark room. “I made myself clear. She’s mine. And here you are, goin’ behind my back, lookin’ for her.”

Billy’s eyebrows shoot up, shifting his stance to make himself look bigger. He wasn’t gonna let this go without a fight. That’s fine – neither was I.

“Oh, I heard you, Rafe,” Billy chuckles smugly, his tongue gliding along his bottom lip

“I’m not gonna say it again. Aight. She’s mine. Stay. Away. From y/n,” I warn with a casual dominance.

Billy chuckles, his wild blue eyes glinting, inviting the challenge with open arms.

“Or what, Richy Rich? You gonna throw a tantrum every time you don’t get pussy. Run that mouth of yours every time a girl chooses me over you. She made it clear who she wants, and it ain’t you.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s why she’s texting me this, huh?” He asks as he takes out his phone, showing off a picture of Y/n from the car wash. Her beautiful body is soaking wet as she gives him a look that would have had me cumming all over my phone again and again. The looks that’s only meant for me.

“Bitch-” Billy hisses as my hands grip the front of his shirt, shoving him against the pool table. Billy pushes me off, making me stumble back into the wall. ”Careful,” Billy barks, “you’re gettin’ yourself into shit you can’t finish. You’re not scaring me, bitch boy, Get the FUCK out of my way.”

He pushes me, but the contact is all I need. I grab him by the arm, throwing him off his feet and onto the floor. The impact echoes through the room as he hits the ground hard, fighting for the breath he lost. Billy quickly scrambles through his feet, charging fast.

I put my full weight into my punch, swinging for his jaw. He dodges, delivering a quick, brutal jab to my ribs. I land a punch, the blow plowing the side of Billy’s head, making him stumble back and onto the pool table, sending the pool balls scattering.

I grab him by his shirt, ripping the material in the process, tossing him to the ground like trash. “You don’t get to win. You don’t fuckin’ get her,” I shout as I stand over his body, lifting my foot to stomp on his chest, making him recoil in pain.

“And you think you do?” Billy grunts, kicking out my feet, making me stagger. He rises to his feet, chest heaving with effort. “Y/n doesn't even know you, Rafe. You met here once.” He scoffs. “One fuckin’ day. One. You’re just some obsessed fuck,” he spits as blood bubbles out of his mouth.

”Obsessed?” I laugh, shaking my head at him. “Obsessed. Maybe I’m just givin’ her what she deserves. Huh? She doesn’t need some weak pussy playin’ the long game. She needs a man who takes what he wants,” I reach down, grabbing a pool stick off the table as the room blurs, anger overtaking my being. I swing the stick, nailing Billy’s face, sending his head snapping to the side before his body tumbles to the floor. Blood spurts from his face, gathering in a puddle around his head.

Message delivered.

Billy lets out a small, feeble breath. Still alive. Barely. I roll my eyes, crouching next to his limp body, listening to his labored breaths. "You don't get to even think about her again. You stay the hell away from her, or you won’t be able to get up next time." Billy’s eyes flicker to mine before dropping down in defeat.

���Fuck you, Rafe. M’gonna tell her everything,” he mumbles, barely audible as he fights for consciousness. His blood continues to spill from his lips, making a grin grow on my face.

”No, you’re not. ‘Cause if you do, that little scandal you thought was long gone will be far from over. I’ll drag that shit out of the dirt and drag you with it, you pathetic fuck. $15,000 to some whore in Vegas after she recorded you stroking your shit online? You haven’t even finished payin’ your debt to me, asshole.”

“You got no fuckin’ proof.”

“Bullshit, I do. She was blackmailing you then, and I’m blackmailin’ you now. You don’t think I don’t have those pictures. Paid that nasty slut $5,000 extra just to keep ‘em in case of emergency and shittt… Look at what we got ourselves into, huh?” I chuckle cruelly. “Checkmate, bitch.”

I stand up, smoothing out my shirt, making myself half-presentable for her. "You can be my brother, Bills, or my enemy. Don’t make me end you.” I turn on my heels, heading toward the door, locking it from the outside. I smile as I take a few more steps, satisfied for the moment, pinching the volume button on the speakers before cranking it up even louder, drowning out any noises Billy dares to make.

I let out a loud breath, returning to my earlier thoughts.

Where the hell is she?

𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 3

[dutiful-wildcraft]

This one is for all my retail pals

John Price has never worked retail in his life and it shows.

Price x reader, meetcute? if this qualifies

-

You're scrambling, have been since you walked through the door. They were already calling your name by the time you clicked your radio on.

From that moment forward you were hustling back and forth across the store, helping who you could, pulling orders for customer pick ups, trying to answer questions for the seasonal team members who got thrown to the wolves with slap dash training. 

You're tired, you're hungry, and you've been listening to the same 5 christmas songs on repeat since the 1st of November. 

You're trying to make it back to the break room for a quick snack, walking at mach speed, head lowered, praying that those you passed could see the sheer overwhelmed energy radiating off of you in waves and not ask you anything.

But there is always one.

“Excuse me!”

Your blood pressure shoots up immediately. 

You stop short, try to school your expression into something friendly. He's a big man, shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway, with mutton chops that strike you as odd, but suit his face. The man hustles toward you, holding an expensive jacket out to you like a toddler.

“Can you tell me the price of this?”

Everyone thinks you have a scanner.

The chops age him, but a closer look reveals that he must only be a little older than you, pretty blue eyes scrunched apologetically. You think this grown ass man should be old enough to see the scanners staged on every other aisle, the big signs attached to the ceiling highlighting their location. Irritation wells up like a geyser as you pull the garment from his hand searching for a tag. 

You search and search, even fishing around in the pocket to see if some kind soul accidentally yanked it off and put it back.

“Must be free!” Chops chuckles, and you think you should be able to pass out one free throat punch a day for simply working under these conditions. 

It takes effort, not to shrivel up like a raisin over the monotonous comment. Trying desperately to focus on finding the fucking price and ignore the way the big bastard bores holes into your face. He could have looked it up on his phone, you're certain, but instead he's standing a little too close, watching you flounder, at least his cologne is nice. 

A painful silence falls between you when you don't even giggle at his joke. But you must have a scrap of patience left in you because the angel of good will tugs on your ear, reminds you that not everyone stares at this shit day in and day out like you do, and he probably would have trouble finding it online anyway. 

You suck in a deep breath, fish out your own phone to pull up your company's website. 

“M'sorry for the trouble sweetheart” he murmurs, rolling almost sheepishly on his heels, hands reaching at his shoulders as if to grab something that isn't there, falling uselessly at his sides as he hovers over your shoulder. 

The pet name should piss you off, but the rumbly timber of it tickles you somewhere in your monkey brain, he is a handsome thing, and something about the way he crosses his arms, peers over your shoulder like this was a problem he's helping you solve is kind of endearing. 

You feel bad immediately for your bitchy attitude toward the fella. 

“Sorry It's taking a second, I'm trying” 

“I can see that, I appreciate you. I know you lot are busy, think I've seen you make a few laps now.” he teases, nodding to the bustle of people about the store, rummaging through once neatly folded tables like it's a yardsale. 

You type in the style number with a little amused huff. “You have no idea, I get in miles trotting around this place” you joke, scrolling through site’s workwear options to match the jacket in your hand. It's one of the nicer one's the store carries, a sturdy brown canvas with a fleece lined collar and interior. You try to make small talk that you're notoriously terrible at.

“You must work outside.” 

“Something like that” he muses, “been meaning to get the house prepped up for winter, I waited a bit late.”

You snort, “Hell me too, I barely have enough wood left for the stove myself, I'm just going to pile on blankets this winter!”

“Well that won't do.” 

The hard tone of Chop's voice breaks you from your searching. A quick glance confirms he's serious, brows pinched as his posture has shifted to looking directly at you. Chin tucked to his chest.

“What?” 

“You've got no one taking care of you?”

Nosy fuck. You don't know why you get defensive. “I take care of me just fine.” you retort confidently, finally pulling up the stupid jacket and telling him the price. 

“Negative.” is all he replies, looking at you with the same stern gaze. You suddenly feel like a child, wanting more than anything to prove to this man you were more than qualified to handle yourself. You work retail for fucks sake.

He cuts you off before you can smart off again. “You're going to write down that number for the coat, and your number, so I can bring a load of lumber by. I won't have a pretty thing like shiverin’ in the night.”

Something inside your brain purrs at the idea. The idea of somebody looking out for you when you barely have time to keep your clothes washed and body fed was…appealing. Especially coming from a pretty gorgeous stranger. And yet?

“I'm not giving my number to a stranger, sir.” you retort with some semblance of authority. 

Chops is having none of it, he makes a pointed show of raking his eyes down to your nametag dangling against your chest before flickering back up to your face. Your name rolls off his tongue easily, and you can't help the little shiver up your spine at the timber of it.

“John Price” he offers after, big paw curling around your own to shake playfully. “Not strangers now are we?”

[suguwu]

part of the last light on series. f!reader who has a child with sae but never told him. minors and ageless blogs dni.

"sae."

that airy warble is gone; your voice has settled into something cooler, the first kiss of winter on an autumn day. there's a slight furrow to your brow, but sae still knows you. there's something sad tucked secret in the corner of your lips.

he says your name. watches the way you cup your daughter (his daughter) closer to you, her little face burrowed in the gentle curve of your neck. you have one hand cradling the back of her head, as delicate as a dove's wing, your fingers splayed like feathers.

"what are you doing here?" you ask.

"looking for you."

something flickers across your face, a fleeting summer storm.

"japan, sae. why are you in japan."

he shrugs. "it's still my home, you know."

"is it?"

your daughter makes a small, musical noise, shifting in your arms. you hush her, humming softly until she falls still again, lulled back into sleep. sae watches the way her little hand curls into your sweater, tiny fingers anchoring her to you.

(he wonders, briefly, if she would hold onto him in the same way.)

"what's her name?" he asks.

"why do you care?"

he sighs. "games don't suit you," he says. "tell me my daughter's name."

something in you hardens, frost spiraling across a river's surface.

"rin," you say quietly, and his brother steps in front of him again, blocking his view of you and his daughter. he flexes his fingers as rin scoops up the little girl; she mumbles something before settling against his lean shoulder. it's easy, born of familiarity, and something in sae grows teeth.

"one brother wasn't enough for you?" he asks.

rin whips around, fury lining him like a cloak, splitting through him like a thunderclap. your hand comes up to rest on his other shoulder, restraining him with the most delicate of touches. an owner pulling her dog's collar.

sae can't help the smirk.

"it's fine," you tell rin. "can you settle her in the stroller, please?"

rin's turquoise eyes are aflame, burning like a comet's tail through the velvet sky. he stares down sae for another breath before he turns back to you.

he leans in close; too close for sae to hear what he says to you.

you nod, and rin sends sae one last glare before he walks away, carefully cradling the little girl in his arms. sae's gaze catches on her small form; he thinks of the sea foam that washes up onto the shore, too delicate to last.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks, turning back to you.

you meet his gaze steadily. "you wouldn't have stayed."

sae shoves his hands in his pockets; he stays quiet. you watch him, your lips curling down at the edges, like wilting leaves.

"what do you want, sae?"

"my daughter."

"you can't have her," you say. "you'll break her heart."

"like i broke yours?"

"you didn't break my heart, sae."

he watches you for a moment. you don't look away.

"yes," he says. "i did."

you sigh. "go home, sae."

"i will," he says easily. "but not without her."

you stiffen. "you'd take her from me?"

"no," he says. "you're coming too."

"fuck off, sae."

he steps in close, until he can feel your body heat, until he can hear the soft breath you suck in. "you miss me," he says. "don't you?"

"fuck off, sae."

"that's not a no."

your hand comes up as he pushes closer; you splay it across his chest. the heat of it sinks through his shirt, like spring sunlight, gentle and warm. he waits, but you don't shove him away. he wraps a hand around your wrist, stroking his thumb over the tender underside.

"you miss me," he says. "say it."

"i miss you," you breathe.

"then let me in."

you let out a shaky breath. "sae—"

"yeah?"

"earn it," you say, finally shoving him away. he steps back gracefully, his face impassive. for a moment, you think he won't say anything, but then he's cupping your jaw with one big hand, forcing you to look him in the eye.

"fine," he says. "i will."