#don’t let anyone tell you it needs to be one way or another

[roancowgirl]

I live in a deep red state, in a small, very red town. My gf and I are out and proud. We both work in blue collar jobs, in male dominated environments.

We’ve met some shitty people, but we’ve met SO many nice people as well. They may not be the most educated, but they’re genuine and they try hard to get along if you try to get along with them.

My favorite was a coworker, who called me a slur. It was a mild one, and there isn’t much one can say that would genuinely offend me. But I cracked a joke about this other guy being mad at me for existing(he can be a bit hot under the collar because the wind changed) and my buddy looked at me, so concerned, and said “do you think it’s because you’re a dyke?” He was so genuine and concerned that it didn’t register what he said until an hour later, and now it’s a running joke.

I would rather have someone like that, someone that’s uneducated but trying, than someone that knows all the terminology but doesn’t really give a shit about me. These people are genuine, and I can list off multiple people in my life like this.

I’ve had prior bosses and friends tell me that if anyone makes me uncomfortable or makes a comment, let them know and they’ll handle it. I can hold my own and never had to take them up on it, but they’re behind me if I need them. That goes for both as a queer person and as an afab person.

I think there’s a massive gap in outreach and fighting for rights, and that’s meeting people where they are. Obviously being called a slur shouldn’t be the expectation and that shouldn’t be the norm that we need to be ok with, but I think it’s important to acknowledge when someone is trying and gently educating goes a long way.

I know for me, with some people I run into I might be the only lesbian they’ve ever met. If they’re willing to work with me and treat me like a person and not make my day harder, I’ll meet them where they’re at and we can all get along. They leave more educated and with a worldview that’s a bit bigger than the town they’ve lived in for three generations, and I might have a new buddy or resource.

Media consumption is another thing that has an affect, most of these people don’t have access to a wide array of media, or even think to seek it out because why would you seek out something you’ve never seen or heard of? That’s been discussed in the democratic circles in my area, people were pro democrat and voting for Kamala but largely uneducated about other candidates on the ballot. Media consumption and the effect it has on worldviews, especially in places that are for all intents and purposes somewhat isolated is its own conversation though.

This is turning into an essay and there’s more I can add, but to try to sum this up I don’t think it’s as simple as city/educated folk are your friend, and rural/uneducated/blue collar folk are your enemy. It’s not that black and white. There’s allies and enemies in every community, and using the level of education or terminology someone uses shouldn’t be the bar. Their actions and their try should be,

"The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I'm not a trannie or a fag so I don't care, just give 'em the medicine they need."

"This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility."

One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.

[angstywaifu]

Treating You Right - Aaric Graycastle

Summary: You and Aaric grew up together, but you never got along. But when you both end up as cadet's in the riders quadrant, he changes. His behaviour for all those years not entirely being how he wanted to treat you. A/N: I had so many requests for another Aaric fic so I kind of just compiled them all into one. So if you sent a request for Aaric, this is for you! Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. Fingering. Unprotected Sex. Use of pet names (sweetheart). Rivals/enemies to lovers. Masterlist | Links

“You’re staring again.” Sloane teases, pulling me from my thoughts or lack there of.

Across the room, Aaric is in the middle of a challenge with another cadet from Third Wing. And as per usual he’s making it look easy. Barely breaking a sweat as he does it. Like he always has. I’m one of the few that knows who he actually is. Cam Tauri. The son of the King. A son I grew up around and never got along with well. He always acted so up himself. Living up to his title. But since being here, he’d changed. Or maybe he was putting on a front all those years.

“I am not.” I snap back as she laughs at me.

”You were. Like you always do. Starting to think you don’t hate him as much as you let on.” She teases again with a knowing smile.

I roll my eyes at her and shake my head. ”Trust me, I hate him.”

”Then why are you staring at him?” She states with a cocked brow. Gods she was too good at reading me. I’d only known her a few weeks and I felt like she knew me better than anyone.

”Figuring out the best way to take him out.” I point out.

She rolls her eyes at me. “I’d believe you if it weren’t for the fact were on the same squad.”

”Maybe I’m waiting till we graduate to take my shot.” I fire back.

She wasn’t wrong though. I had been staring. And not for the reasons I was telling her. If it wasn’t for the fact we disliked each other, I’d be all over Aaric. And I hated that I wanted that. Hated how I’d started noticing him more since we had been here. And being in the same squad, there was no escaping him for the next three years if we both survived that long.

I’m grateful the library is rarely used by other cadets in this Quadrant. It was the one place I could find alone time with all us first years crammed into the same dorm. The one place I could let my guard down and relax. Or so I thought. The sound of the door opening pulls me from the book I’d been reading for Kaori’s class on the different dragons. Footsteps sound around the empty library as whoever it is makes their way further and further into the space. I prayed they were heading towards another spot in the library. But it seems luck was not on my side as the familiar face or Aaric rounds the corner of one of the shelves.

”Oh great, it’s you.” I say with an eye roll, turning my attention back to my book. “To what do I owe this pleasure.”

”Ouch. And here I was coming to you in peace.” He states as he walks over to me and sits down in the chair across the table from me.

”I didn’t say you could sit your highness.” I throw at him, watching as he stiffens at my words before relaxing again. We both know we’re alone, no one nearby to hear me.

”Well someone’s cranky.” He notes, leaning back in the chair as he clasps his hands and rests them in his lap.

I slam my book shut and look up at him. “And someone needs to shut up. I’m trying to study. So unless you need something, you can go.”

”I’m here to apologise.” He tells me as his green eyes pierce into me.

I cock my eyebrow at him. “You? Apologise? Didn’t think you were capable of that.”

He sighs heavily as he turns his head. “Well I am. I had to keep appearances up for my father. Treat certain people a certain way. But I don’t have to anymore. And I wanted to say I’m sorry for how I treated you before we got here. That I wish I could have treated you how I wanted to. Be your friend.”

I scoff and shake my head at him as he turns to look at me again. “Please, don’t pretend you give a shit about me.”

”I’m not pretending. Not anymore.” He tells me as he leans forward, resting his arms on the table.

I just stare at him, unsure how to take what he’s telling me. Part of my wants to grab my things and storm off, not believe a single word he says. But part of me wants to listen to him. Believe what he’s saying. Because part of me knows it’s true. He was never like his older brothers Alic and Halden. They were cruel and harsh, always bullying me. Something Aaric never did. He would say things to me, but nothing like his brothers. In his own way he was being kinder, but doing enough to not arouse suspicion. My family was nothing to his. My father might have been part of his father’s court, but we were nothing to him. And we’re treated as such.

I grab my book, shoving it into my pack before standing up. “Sorry Cam, but I’m going to need more than some apology to prove what you’re saying to me.” I go to walk past him, heading towards the door to take me back into the Quadrant, but he moves quickly, stepping into my path.

”What do you need then?” He asks me sternly as he looks down at me.

”Prove to me you actually didn’t want to treat me that way. Treat me like you actually want to be my friend or ask for whatever it is you want from me.” I tell him.

He furrows his brow. “Why would I want something from you?”

”Because I’m not sure why you have the sudden interest in being my friend after all these years if you don’t have some ulterior motive. Your family hasn’t given me a lot of reasons to want to trust you.” I point out, Aaric nodding his head slowly. “So prove this is not some ploy on your fathers behalf.”

Over the next few weeks Aaric does start to prove it. Not once does he treat me like he use to. Hell, we even manage to have pleasant conversations which come easier to me than I expect, which earns me a few curious looks from Sloane as she takes in mine and Aaric’s new found friendship, if that's what you could even call it. But it doesn’t last long when we’re thrown into chaos. Not even two weeks after we bond our dragons we’re thrown into being part of the rebellion. All of our squad ending up in Aretia with other fliers willing to defend Navarre from the real threat of Venin and Wyvern. And now we all had to rethink everything we’d ever been taught, meaning all of us we’re drained at the end of the day with adjusting to our new routine and relearning everything. Meaning our squad had barely had time to have some down time.

A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. Strange. We’d all gone to bed an hour ago, who the hell is knocking at my door at this hour? I chuck the pack I’d taken on our bonding exercise with the Fliers under my bed and walk over to the door. I pull it open, revealing Aaric whose hand is raised again to knock on my door. His bright green eyes locking onto mine immediately. I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong when he rushes forward, his hands grasping my face as he crushes his lips against mine.

I instantly melt into the kiss, hands grasping the front of his shirt as I pull him into my room as he kicks the door closed behind him. His kiss consumes me, my whole body wanting more of him, giving into the thoughts I’d had over the last few months. His hands leave my face, skimming down my body as they glide over the material of the silk night dress I’d changed into for sleep. His fingers play with the edge where it ends at the top of my thighs before grasping my thighs as he picks me up with ease before turning around. He sits on the edge of the bed, settling me in his lap as my legs settle either side of his.

I break the kiss, giggling as Aaric tries to chase my lips and growls in annoyance. He goes to object but stops when he sees me grasp the edge of the nightdress, his green eyes following my movements as I pull the material up my body, leaving me in just the matching panties as I sit in his lap. I turn my eyes back to him as I discard the material to the floor, my cheeks flushing as he just stares at me in awe. On reflex I go to cover myself up, but his hands reach out and grasp my wrists.

”Don’t.” He tells me, his voice rough and commanding. “Don’t ever cover yourself up.”

I just look at him and nod as I lower my arms, resting my hands on his shoulders as his hands caress my skin, leaving goose bumps where he’s been. I lower my hand to the edge of his shirt, Aaric leaning back to give me room to remove the material from him. I’d seen Aaric shirtless before thanks to challenges and various training sessions in the gym. But I can’t help but stare at the toned and defined muscles of his torso as I trace over them with my fingers, causing him to shiver at my touch.

My eyes meet his again, catching the slight smirk on his lips before he kisses me again. It starts off softer, slower. Almost as if he wants to savour the moment. But it doesn’t take long for it to build in intensity. A moan escaping my lips as his hands grips my hips and pull me down on him is his undoing. His fingers digging into my hip as he tilts his head and deepens this kiss as my hand rests against his neck, the other tangling in his hair. My hips rocking back and forth against his, causing his fingers to grip on to my hips tighter, to the point I’m sure they’re going to be bruised tomorrow. I yelp as he flips us over, my back hitting the bed as he looms over me before gripping the matching panties to my night dress and pulling them down my legs.

”Careful Prince, wouldn’t want someone to think you’re impatient.” I tease as he tosses them to the floor.

His eyes raise to mine as he smirks at me while pulling down the linen pants he wears before getting onto the bed, causing me to scramble back to make room for him as I lean back on my arms. He kneels between my legs, shoving them open as he settles between them.

”Trust me sweetheart, I’ve been patient.” He tells me as he looks down at me.

I open my mouth to reply, but a moan comes out instead as he glides his fingers between my legs before toying with my clit. Fucking hell.

”Seems I’m not the only one whose impatient tonight.” He teases as he continues to smirk at me.

My hands fits the sheets as he lowers his fingers and pushes them inside of me. “Fuck me.” I nearly moan out, throwing my head back as he thrusts them in and out.

”Oh, I plan to sweetheart.” He assures me, curling his fingers inside of me.

The room is filled with my moans and heavy breathing as he continues to thrust his fingers in and out, spreading them wider and wider as he goes. I whimper as he pulls them out, my body sagging at the loss of them. I yelp again as he flips me onto my stomach, grabbing my hips and pulling me into a kneeling position as he settles between them, his cock rubbing against me. I cry out when he thrust in, not wasting any time as he slides all the way in, the position I’m in causing him to hit the perfect spot immediately. I’d already been close from just his fingers. There was no way I was lasting long now he was inside me. I look over my shoulder at him as I push myself up on my hands, watching as he looks down at where he slides in and out of me. His green eyes flicker up and meet mine as he bites his bottom lip. Holy shit, that was more attractive than it should be.

”Doing such a good job sweetheart.” He tells me, praising me as he continues to slam into me. “Feel so good.”

”Aaric… please.” I moan out, lowering my head as my body starts to shake, rocking my hips back and forth to meet his thrusts.

”Please what sweetheart? Use your words.” He tells me, his hands gripping my hips as I start to go limp.

”I’m c-close.” I stutter out as my arms give out, my head and upper body resting against the bed.

My whole body feels like it’s on fire, feels like it’s about to combust as I teeter on the edge. Aaric reaches around, his fingers finding my clit and applying pressure. I cry out as my body starts to shake as I tumble over the edge, Aaric drawing out my pleasure as he continues to thrust in and out while using his hand. A few moments later Aaric’s hips still as he falls forward, bracing himself above me as his hands land either side of my head. Both of us gasping for air as we come down from our high.

”You have your own room, right?” Aaric asks after a few moments.

”Y-yes.” I mutter out, doing my best to nod incase he doesn’t hear me.

”Good.”

I feel Aaric move, the bed dipping to my left before his arms wrap around me, pulling me into his side. My body instantly relaxing at his touch. I barely register him placing the blanket over us before falling asleep with my head against his chest.

[bettystonewell]

TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 2

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 4.1k words

Chapter Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, language, referenced physical abuse, referenced sexual assault, injuries to reader

A/N: I wanted to have this out a few hours earlier, but my brain couldn’t help playing around with things… Enjoy ❤️

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

The way the heat radiated off of you was just as Dean remembered, reminding him of what little memories he had of his mom of all things.

Your softness. The curve of your hips. Your body moulding perfectly into his had his blood thrumming in his ears and down below. Okay, that was nothing like his mother, he hoped, but he was enamoured. Had they been dealing with witches or wood nymphs, he’d say spellbound, struck by a potion or curse and growing soft.

It was hard not to be when his inner alpha acted so possessive over you.

‘Mine,’ it rumbled. Snarling and gnawing away at his resolve piece by piece, even though hours earlier, the responsibility and temptation of a mate was something he didn’t want.

‘She deserves better,’ he tried to reason with himself. Though anyone and anywhere different was an improvement on living here with your alpha in this middle of nowhere cesspool, and ‘We’d never hurt her,’ countered him back.

No, he would not. Nor would Dean ever try to scent or mark you while you were injured. He was determined by that. Knowing if he was gonna claim you, he’d have to wait and do things right. If you agreed and became his, anyone who tried to whisk you away as he had just done wouldn’t live to tell the tale, and…

What the hell was he thinking? Claiming you? Making you his?

How ‘bout where the fuck was your supposed alpha? The one whose stench soured your own. The one he hadn’t bothered looking for, and rather just picked up and took off with you.

Yeah…

Dean would never let you out of his sight. He’d never do this to you in the first place, either though, and his fingers flexed where they held you.

He was quick to release them.

‘Round your side and under your knee, the action caused your thighs to squeeze together and your breath to hiss on its inhale.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said.

He didn’t dare use omega again. Not now. Not to your face. His alpha could call you that term all it wanted, but with your matted hair now feathering the stubble on his chin when you shook yours, his gut churned.

“No. You’re helping me,” you said. “I should be thanking you.”

You may as well have struck him with a blade. Reached right through skin and flesh and into his stomach cavity and assisted the churning; further twisted his insides with your bare hands to yank them out, even. Hell, he’d do it himself. Save some time. Same effect.

“Yeah, well, I let you go back to your alpha before I knew how he’d treat you,” he said. And he should’ve known better, but so should you.

“I told you I—”

“Don’t.” He clicked his tongue. “You know I’ve thrown a lot of punches? Been on the receiving end of them too, and there’s no way those injuries were from a doorknob. So you wanna try me again?”

“I said I fell,” you whispered, and Dean stopped in his tracks, crackling the gravel beneath his boots. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Well, no, he could. You’d used that lie already in the park.

He bent his torso to leer a cocked brow, regretting that decision the second his spine moved. What little light there was above revealed more than he’d bargained for.

Yes, your thighs tightened above his arms. But so did every joint, muscle and nerve ending in his own body along with them.

Your right eye and the opposite cheekbone had distinct patches of mismatched colour, spreading. He’d say you were wearing lipstick. Only the last time he checked, makeup didn’t come with a clear, watery film around it. No. Dean knew an uppercut when he saw one. He knew the strength of an aroused alpha, too.

The shirt you wore had ripped more, and though his initials were still sitting right there, they were harder to distinguish because abrasions and puncture marks now covered them.

He felt sick. That churning in his gut would spill over you if he weren’t careful.

How?

Why?

You were his mate. Even without his scent, the swelling that billowed from your neck gave that away.

You weren’t in heat; from the scent, he wasn’t in rut, and that information just made Dean’s blood boil more than it already was. “Did he force his knot on you?”

“Ritchie…is my mate.” And your pause was telling.

“I don’t care who he is. That’s not what I’m asking you. What did he do to you?”

As if a switch had flicked, or in this case, floodgates opened. The stench of your alpha’s sack wafted up into his nose, along with more fear from you.

Your eyes filled with tears. Your limbs scrambled to pull away from him. The added stench of pine and a cheap aftershave that wasn’t his swept through the remnants of cum and sweat. But as much as that recoiled him, Dean still leaned back, taking a firm grip to shift your weight in his arms. He wasn’t letting you go.

He took a deep breath over the shame hitching in his throat, and, “I’m sorry,” he said again. Only this time, it held more than one meaning. He just hoped he could make it all up to you.

When Dean reached the motel carpark, his feet kicked up faster across the ground. “Sammy!” he yelled, not caring who heard him - he’d punch the lights outta anyone who got in his way.

His steel cap boot was raised and ready to strike the chipped wood as he yelled a second time, only for Sam to beat him to it by opening the door. His mouth, just as wide.

“Dean?”

There was no lost puppy in sight. No soft and caring younger brother who could get even a drill sergeant to crumble with one look. His eyes scanned their way across your form, though, widening along with everything else before they narrowed, honing in on where Dean’s initials should’ve been. “What—”

“What do you think?” Dean curled his frame through the door, allowing your feet to enter the room before him and the fluorescent lights to highlight the marring on your skin.

“I’ll get some ice,” Sam said, and swept his way to the fridge.

“Grab the first aid kit, too,” Dean barked back as he carried you over to his bed.

He dipped your toes to the floor, keeping his arms near as you found your footing; lifting a fraction to see the full extent of his claim. The bruising was still forming. Your skin wouldn’t turn black and blue for another couple of days, but the swelling, plus the dried blood and weeping cuts, showed early signs of infection.

His stomach stopped mid flip only to drop like a stone, heavy and solid. It sloshed the bile up his pipes, crashing over that hitch in his throat. It burned. His shoulders shrunk. His knees buckled below him.

How could… No. He could ask that until the cows came home. Until his mouth was black and blue from lack of air, it changed nothing.

“Sit down, sweetheart,” he said. Course, it wasn’t a command, but your hesitation made even his toes clench.

He needed to sit. Chuck. He needed to punch your alpha’s head in - both of them - and he dropped to his haunches, encouraging you down, too. Arms rested on his thighs, holding himself up even though every molecule and thought weighed him down.

He could hunch over this way. Push the acid and lack of self worth back into the pit of his gut and away from you. Close enough to touch when needed - and fuck, he wanted to - his knot still twitched at the thought. Skin crawling with an itch he shouldn’t scratch, just to add on to all the other effects the sight of you did to him.

But what to say? What to do? You still sniffled. Gaze well directed away from him and looking down. It was really fucking awkward, spinning miles ‘round Sammy’s looks in the car.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to see those eyes of yours up close if they were gonna rival the puffiness of your injuries, but he tried getting their attention, anyway. His amber greens flicking over his initials again and running with it. Anything to drown out everything else.

“You know the, ah, the W stands for Winchester.” His boyish chuckle tethered off when your lip curled. “And you’re—”

Dean knew your name from the missing persons sheet, but hearing you repeat it then and there was a much needed do-over. If it weren’t for your injuries staring you both in the face, you could almost class this moment as normal if he tried hard enough. You’d been with him on the hunt after all, and if he just ignored the last two hours, his shower, the park, this could simply be agood old stich-up. Nothing more.

“Right.” He repeated your name, surprised at the way it rolled off his tongue with a pleasurable rumble. It suited you. Hell, it suited him. “Will you let me clean you up?”

“Okay,” you whispered. Nodded. Mouth and body out of sync until he gave you a nod back and your smile spilled a smidgen further into your cheeks.

There you were. Sort of. The omega he’d seen at the nest before he’d touched you and brought all this on.

His fingers flexed. Insides unravelled into a warmth that made his heart thrum faster and his head feel light. “Then we’re gonna need a few things,” he said, and stood up, distracting his mind and knot as he scoured the room for something that resembled a washcloth and a basin. Made easy by the grime and grease before him.

The film on the fridge. The stench of cigarettes competing with Ritchie’s. You didn’t belong with him, but you didn’t belong here either. That became more apparent as he moved throughout the room, collecting what he could.

Coffee-pot, brewed twice with water for cleanliness, then usage. A clean shirt from his duffle, sniff-tested first, and a bottle of Jack he found in Sam’s. By the time Dean returned to sit before you, chair and supplies in tow, he’d returned with the ice, and a compress was made. Dean’s shirt doing wonders.

“Here. Hold this.” He brought the icy bundle up to your mate’s claim and placed it over the inflamed skin. There was that outta sight, outta mind again, except your fingers brushed his on handover and he took pause through your latest hiss.

What the hell was going on with him?

“Ah, Dean, sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to you real quick?” Sam said from behind.

“Can it wait?” Dean could tell by his voice alone that Sam had a meddling look in his eye, though he had that on the daily.

“No, it can’t.”

Dean hesitated. He was determined to help you with your wounds, and the last thing he wanted to do was listen to Sam ramble over something he knew nothing about.

Still, he agreed, leaving the room with an “I’ll be right back,” and the door ajar so he could hear if you needed him.

“What the hell, Dean?” he said as he paced under the awning outside the room. His hands shoved in his pockets, straining them, arms stiff as a board, even though his elbows flapped everywhere like some giant chicken.

“She’s hurt.” Of course, Dean knew full well what he meant - he didn’t need to play dumb. He had planned to come to Sam in his own time after he’d finished helping you as intended. Thanks to the interruption, though, he was now indignant, standing tall even with the messed up insides. They still dragged him down, but he put up a fight. 

More so, when Sam struck the cord, he wished to forget.

“What happened to her being nothing to you?” 

“I wanna help her.” He needed to.

“And I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing. She already has a mate and—”

Dean shook his head. “The son of a bitch raped her, Sammy,” he said, self-blame replacing his usual gruffness and spitfire. He wasn’t at fault for what had happened to you. He understood that, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hold some accountability.

Your alpha had struck you because of him. He’d attacked you. Forced himself on you in what Dean could only presume to be a bout of jealousy, and all he saw was the part he’d played by taking you home to him. 

“You know that’s not on you.”

“Yeah.” Yet his eyes grew dim all the same. He lowered them, focusing on the ground. His boots scraping the pavement, now the most fascinating thing in the world over Sam’s, which widened when he said, “I ain’t letting her go back to him. If she doesn’t want me, that’s her choice, but there’s no way that fucker will ever lay a hand on her again.

“O-kay. Let’s ignore the part about you wanting her for a second. What’re you planning to do about him? If they’re bonded, chances are he’ll be sniffing ‘round here soon.”

Dean was hearing what his brother was saying. He was, and he had a solid point. He’d need a plan to set you free, but bonding? “I don’t think there’s a bond between ‘em. I found her in the park outside their building, and he was nowhere in sight.”

“He could be asleep?”

Dean’s chin receded into his neck. “You realise how ridiculous you sound?” 

“Do you?” 

Those words turned Dean’s body still as if he were made of stone. Eyes stuck and narrowed like the wind had changed. Jaw tight. Maybe he had fallen asleep after popping his knot. The asshole hadn’t filed the report when you were taken, your coworker had, and “I’ll deal with him if he shows,” he said.

“Dean. That’s not what—”

“Are we done?”

Sam sighed. His right hand left his pocket, and he gestured back to the room behind. “I’ll be in the car.”

Dean hadn’t even finished closing the door behind him when the smell of fresh tears flooded his nose. He’d swept across the tattered carpet once again and sat on the end of the bed next to you before his mind had even registered it was happening.

Just as his own instincts had pushed him to you, yours buried your face in the crook of his shoulder. His flannel soaked up your tears.

He wanted to ease your pain, but what could he say? He didn’t have the right to comfort you because he hadn’t protected you when you needed him. His soulmate. Not that he understood what that meant.

He was a grunt, with nothing to his name, and you were, well, he still had no fucking clue besides knowing you had his initials on your skin.

The norm was for him to want you. The scary thing was, he did. Far too much for his liking.

He had lusted over you and continued to do so even now, when he was supposed to be helping you. If your mate’s jealousy was dangerous, Dean’s instincts were more so.

They swooped his arm behind your back, letting your fingers grip his shirt. Letting your tears soak into it. He even had the audacity to brush his lips through your hair and place a chaste kiss, only to feel disappointed when your body tensed and you let him go.

“I’m sorry.” You sniveled and swiped at your eyes. Only to wince when your palms got too close. “Where’s your brother?”

Of all the things you could have said, your concern for someone other than yourself had him more smitten. There was seriously something wrong with him.

“He’s sleeping in the car tonight.”

Your hands wiped at your eyes, and you pushed yourself out of his hold. “I don’t want to put him out.”

He should’ve been happy you’d considered Sam, but his inner alpha snuck through, rough and a little snappy. “He’s sleeping in the car tonight.”

“I don’t want to put him out.”

“You’re not,” he muttered, reaching down to pick up his now wet shirt that had dropped to the floor below. He didn’t want to talk about Sam. He didn’t wanna talk about your mate either, though he knew it was inevitable. “Let’s get more ice on your neck. We gotta stop that swelling.”

He stood up and moved to the table where Sam had left the bucket earlier, and after refilling his makeshift compress, came back and took your hand again. “Here.” He positioned it over the icy bundle to hold it in place. “You’ll need some on your eye too, but that bite is a priority at the moment.”

Of course, there was still that ulterior motive to keep the offending section of skin covered, but as selfish as it was, Dean hoped that by forcing his own scented item over the top of it, you might form a bond with him.

Yeah. He was delusional, so he set the internal struggle aside, and got to work.

His hand reached for a piece of gauze floating in the now tepid water and squeezed the excess back into the coffeepot, while the other cupped your chin and pulled you to face him. With steady fingers, he brought it up to your cheeks and dabbed as gently as he was able.

“Sorry,” he said when you hissed at the touch. He needed a recording if it would save his throat some pain and allow that lump to heal. “If you wanna do this yourself, I’ll help you to the bathroom.”

“No.” Your head jiggled more than shook. “It’s bad enough I can feel it.”

Dean could understand that. Not that he feared what he saw. For him, what he couldn’t grasp was seeing your face marred that crushed him, raising the question of how.

He knew the logistics of it. You’d been struck a number of times, and while he still suspected jealousy was the cause, it made no sense. Why would your mate do this to you?

“Do you love him?” He knew he was crazy to ask, but truthfully, he wanted to know if this douchebag did or not.

“What?”

It was a simple question, and very telling that you answered that way.

“Your alpha. Do you love him?” He repeated, waiting for any unspoken clues you might give.

You took your time. For Dean it was agonising, but when you did speak, his heart panged with relief and dismay. “I thought I did,” you said. “But I didn’t think he’d do this either.”

Dean’s eyes glassed over your neck. Your claim didn’t swell like that earlier. It seemed unusual to him for an Omega not in heat. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“I met my soulmate.”

He swallowed hard. “So he did do this because of me.”

Your head moved against him. “He didn’t believe me when I told him you didn’t want me.”

You had struggled to finish your sentence, but you didn’t need to for Dean to understand. Though he couldn’t see your face, the room was now flavoured with rejection, and while it relieved his doubts of self-worth, it upset him to know you thought that.

“But I do want—”

“Please don’t. That’s not you doing the talking. Your instincts are.”

Just as you’d said, your neck and the punctures that formed a ring around it continued to draw his eyes. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. Mine are affecting me, even though I have a mate. If you had wanted me, you wouldn’t have taken me home.”

Dean often struggled with words, spitting out whatever came to him at the moment, whether they were full of shit or something else. But he wouldn’t let that thwart him. Not when the stakes were this high.

He dropped everything and adjusted his arms to scoop you up into his lap.

Your chest heaved, your brow grew sweaty, and his sharp senses heard the blood as it flowed to all the correct places in your body. Inside his, it did the same.

“You’ve got it all wrong.” Dean’s fingers moved on their own accord, pulling the hand and arm that attached to them to trace over the scratches and cuts that covered your shoulders. “I thought you’d be safer with him.”

“So did I,” you said. And it sliced him deep.

You hadn’t meant it that way, but Dean’s psyche was so full of self-loathing that even though he wished you weren’t, he had already decided you were fearful of him.

Depleted and forever quick to act, he lifted you with ease and set you back onto the bed. “I should get you some more ice.”

He picked up his shirt and moved to stand, but before he could, your gentle touch gripped his arm. “Alpha?” The pleasant sound warmed his ears and tugged at his chest. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not scared of you.”

You were more perceptive than Dean thought.

“Well, you don’t need to be scared of him anymore either,” followed the smirk that curled his lips as his back turned away from you. He really did need ice.

Four hours later, Dean was still wide awake while you slept under a pile of blankets in the bed next to him. Wearing sweats instead of his jeans, he sat up against the headboard. His ass, purposely on top of the covers. His knot just as alert as he was. 

Morning wood had never been more painful.

It hadn’t taken long for you to go down for the count after the first-aiding was done, no doubt exhausted as well as sore, but he worried about how your body would react when it woke up.

Last he’d seen you walking, your step held a jockeys gait. All movement, purposeful and slow. 

You’d had no issues showering. It had just taken some time. Maybe if he’d helped, things would’ve gone faster, but he didn’t dare offer. Even though his inner alpha wanted him to.  

You’d also had no issue stealing his jacket, having taken it when you thought he wasn’t looking. The washed-denim sleeve poked out, as did your toes next to it. The sight of both bringing out his biggest grin. 

No wonder he couldn’t sleep. It was just a shame he had to confront your mate. 

He wasn’t scared at all. Nope, far from it. He couldn’t wait to punch the fucker’s lights out. But you were still his, and a small fragment of Dean’s mind feared you may choose him, even after the horrible treatment you’d endured at his hands.

With a groan, he leaned over and fished for his phone. It was close enough to six to not be too early for coffee, and he swung his bow legs to the ground, stretching his arms out wide; gaining two large cracks from his neck and shoulders as muscle and bone satisfyingly pulled away from each other. 

He then braced himself to stand with his hands on his thighs, but the sound of blankets shifting and a fresh wave of omega scent laced with undertones of him flew under his nose, stopping him in his tracks. It brought another smile to his face and another rush of blood to his groin.

But he had a job to do. A mission. A quest. And without further ado, he jumped to his feet and shuffled towards the bathroom, keeping his morning wood pointing in a direction he hoped you couldn’t see if you were to rouse. There was no way of hiding it when he was standing.

He was quicker about things behind the closed door. No one could argue Dean Winchester wasn’t a multi-tasker. From brushing his teeth to taking a much needed leak, he accomplished it all under the icy stream he’d chosen to cool himself off with.

Thoughts of you, Ritchie, and what he was going to do plagued him while he washed. They continued to follow him as he dried off, then carefully slunk through the main room to further afield outside, where he found Sam cramped on Baby’s back seat.

The deep brown mop of Sam’s hair rose behind the matte black paint of the Impala’s side, sticking up against the window from the static that came with a cooler morning’s air.  

“Rise and shine, Sammy.” Dean fisted the glass above his brother’s head for added effect. Sam was lucky he hadn’t opened the door on him, because that had crossed his mind. 

He wasn’t that cruel. Mediocre at best.

“I need you awake, man,” his voice hissed through the cracked open window.

“Dean?” Sam’s startled head flayed around the Impala’s cabin.

He stepped back to give his brother space to get out, throwing the room keys at him when he surfaced with no warning. 

Sam’s large hands fumbled as they landed on his chest. The silver tumbling through his knuckles like a creature come alive. “What’s going on?” 

“I need you on babysitting duties.”

“Babysit—Where are you going?” Sam stared at him dumbfounded until Dean flashed his best smirk.

One could say he was being cocky, and maybe he was. But in this instance, he needed all the confidence he could muster.

“To deal with Dick,” he said.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Are we feeling the connection? Do we hate her mate? Did I name him Ritchie just so I could make a tonne of Dick jokes? You bet I did! Have I used it enough? Eh, time will tell, but I sure had fun with the next one!

Chapter 3 - Confronting - 07/03

Inside, Dick’s every movement was under his scrutiny. He wanted him to fuck up. To say or do something stupid. That way, Dean had probable cause. It would make whatever he ended up dishing out sit better on his conscience if he heard Dick admit it himself.

So Dean poked the bear. Outright asking him, “Did she say that while you were raping her?”

“I marked her as mine.”

Those words were Dick’s second mistake. He’d just given Dean the chopping block.

“And I suppose she didn’t ask you to stop when you hit her and tried to scratch my initials out of her skin, either?” Dean’s voice remained void of all emotion, even as the anger bubbled in his gut. If he held a mirror to his soul, Dick’s face would have been its reflection.

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[schemmentigfs]

any WIPs?

A little preview for Under Her Nose. (mel x reader + ava.)

the complete story will drop soon. i just need to finish some requests. 🤍

“Hey, man,” she greeted her roommate, trying to sound casual, even though her heart was pounding.

Jacob looked up from his smartphone, raising an eyebrow. “Mel. Didn’t see you at the lounge today. Long day?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, sliding onto the plastic couch beside him. She rubbed her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

“So... I’m guessing it’s not just the usual school stress you’re dealing with?” the young boy asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern. He had a way of reading his work mom, seeing right through the tough exterior she worked so hard to maintain. And for some reason, she trusted him with things she couldn’t trust anyone else with.

She chuckled bitterly. “You could say that.”

Jacob turned his body to face her fully, setting his phone down and giving her his undivided attention. Melissa could feel the weight of his stare, like he was waiting for her to spill everything.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said quietly, bitting her nails.

He blinked in surprise. “Wait. Who? Another firefighter or the guy from the hot tub?”

Melissa let out a frustrated breath, sinking into the couch. “No! Y/N.”

Jacob’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re... seeing Y/N. The same who is the fourth grade teacher and Ava’s sister? The one you’ve been saying is a rookie for the past year?” He let out a small laugh, clearly trying to process what she’d just said. “This is... something else, Mel Mel. You sure about this? I didn’t knew you were into women!”

The green eyed woman rubbed her hands over her face. “I am bisexual, you prick. And for the record, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It’s just...everything’s different when I’m with her. But it’s complicated. We can’t tell no one, J. If anyone finds out, it’ll be a disaster. Coleman will kill me. And I don’t know what to do with all of this. It feels like I’m walking on a damn tightrope.”

[kaxserlvr]

You knew this day would come eventually. You had spent years by Sae’s side—first as his best friend, then as his manager, always supporting him through every match, every exhausting training session, and every grueling press conference. But somewhere along the way, you realized you had forgotten how to live for yourself.

Sae Itoshi was already a star, a prodigy who didn’t need anyone to hold his hand. He was strong, talented, and destined for greatness. And you? You were just… there. Maybe even holding him back.

So, you planned to leave. You didn’t tell him—you weren’t sure how. You figured he’d be fine without you. But Sae found out anyway.

It was another worker who spilled the news, the one who had been flirting with you lately. He had casually mentioned to Sae that he was planning to ask you out once you quit. The moment the words left his mouth, something in Sae snapped.

Sae wasn’t the type to panic. He wasn’t the type to beg. But the idea of you leaving? That was unacceptable.

So now, here he was, standing in front of you, his sharp eyes narrowed in something you had never seen before—desperation.

“You’re quitting?” His voice was cold, but there was something beneath it, something unsteady.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I just… I want to enjoy my life more, Sae. You don’t really need me anymore.” You start fidgeting with your hands

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “That’s bullshit.”

“Sae—”

His hands gripped your wrist, not rough, but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away. “You think I don’t need you? You think you don’t matter to me?”

Your breath hitched. His face was closer now, his usually calm expression darkened with something raw, something you weren’t sure you could handle.

“Sae, you’ll be fine without me,” you tried again, but your voice wavered.

His grip tightened slightly, and before you could react, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a declaration.

Sae was never good with words, but this—this was everything he wanted to say.That you were his strength. That no matter how much he achieved, no matter how far he went, you were the one thing he couldn’t bear to lose.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re not holding me back,” he murmured. “You’re the only one keeping me together.”

Your heart pounded, your thoughts spiraling. You had thought he didn’t need you. That he’d let you go without a second thought. But the way he was looking at you now, like you were his greatest weakness and his only salvation, made your resolve crumble.

“…What am I supposed to do with you, Sae?” you whispered.

His lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, a plea disguised as a kiss. “Stay.”

And that you did.

[graveyard-stray]

Burn Bright / Jealous!Padawan Anakin x Padawan Reader

Anakin is obsessed with you, and when he sees you talking to an older Jedi knight, he isn’t very happy about that.

1 use of Y/N, gender neutral reader, random made up Jedi knight character

Anakin Skywalker had always been intense, but with you, it was something else entirely. From the moment you had met in the Jedi Temple as Padawan, he was very fond of you. Over the years he had felt something inside him shift—an attachment to you, one so fierce it bordered on dangerous. You were his, whether you realized it or not.

You trained together often, sparring in the temple’s sunlit courtyards, everytime you needed some practice you went to Anakin. Even when you weren’t training together you’d be hanging out. Or he’d be watching you from afar.

He studied your ever move, he knew every detail about you—the way you bit your lip when concentrating, the way your eyes darkened when you were frustrated, the way you laughed, bright and wild, the way it made him feel was like twin suns igniting in his chest.

So when he entered the training hall and saw you laughing—laughing—with another Jedi, something dark twisted inside him.

It was Zander Korr, a skilled knight only a few years older than Anakin. He was taller, broader, and had a smirk that grated on Anakin’s nerves. And worse, you were smiling at him, your hand brushing against his as you adjusted your training saber. Anakin saw red.

Before he could stop himself, he was between you both, his presence crackling like a storm.

“(Y/N),” he said, voice tight, ignoring Zander entirely. “Let’s spar.”

You blinked at him, tilting your head. “We just finished warm-ups, Anakin.” A confused tone in your voice.

“I wasn’t asking.” His blue eyes flicked to Zander, who raised an eyebrow.

You sighed but nodded. “Alright.”

Anakin barely waited for you to ignite your lightsaber before attacking. His strikes were aggressive, precise—possessive. He pushed you back again and again, his heart pounding too fast. Every time you blocked, he countered harder. It wasn’t just training anymore. It was a warning.

“You’re distracted,” you huffed, parrying a particularly vicious blow. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Why were you talking to Korr?” He hissed

You hesitated, stepping back. “Because we’re Jedi, Anakin. We train together.”

Anakin clenched his jaw, breathing hard. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

You stared at him, then sighed, lowering your saber. “Anakin…”

He didn’t lower his. His pulse roared in his ears. “Tell me you don’t like him.”

You frowned. “This is ridiculous.”

“Tell me.” His voice was raw, desperate.

You studied him for a long moment before stepping closer and lowering your voice, placing a hand over his. “You’re the only one I like in that way, Anakin.”

His breath hitched, and his grip loosened. The fire in his veins didn’t disappear, but it dimmed, just enough.

Zander was still watching from across the hall, but Anakin didn’t care anymore. You were his. You always would be.

And if anyone tried to take you from him…

Well, he wouldn’t let that happen.

Never.

[minxmut-cafe]

BEAR WITH ME ?? | 02.

Pairing: Bear hybrid Namjoon x Ferret hybrid reader

Word count: 10k words.

Authors note: HERE IS THE CONTINUATION !! LET'S GOOOO.

Warning: Smut, Vaginal sex, oral sex (M & F receiving), hybrid sex, mentions of death, mention of heat, feral Namjoon, size kink, spanking, mating press, mentions of various sex positions, reader being a menace, Namjoons a gentle giant, rough sex, cunnilingus, idiots in love, reader is immature, Namjoon is suffering, HUGE size difference (Imagine gyomei and shinobu). Masturbation, Namjoons a boob guy. Titty analysis :)

Synopsis:

"Namjoon spots a Tiny ferret hybrid getting pushed around by a bunch of hyena hybrids and decides to intervene. Little did he know that would lead to a series of interesting, traumatising and hilarious memories, some of which he's convinced were attempted murder attempts."

Namjoon frowned at his phone, staring at the empty notification bar.

Nothing.

Not a single text. No missed calls. No chaotic voice messages filled with unhinged rambling.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

At first, he was relieved.

After the hell he went through last night, he figured maybe some space would be good.

Give him time to reset, to push certain thoughts out of his brain.

But as the hours passed, that relief slowly turned into something else.

Unease.

By the time another day rolled around with still no sign of you, Namjoon was officially concerned.

You never went this long without contact.

Were you sick?

In trouble?

Or worse—avoiding him?

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

No.

No, that didn’t make sense.

If you were mad at him, you’d tell him—probably in the most dramatic way possible.

So where the hell were you?

Frowning, Namjoon pulled out his phone and dialed your number.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Then went to voicemail.

Namjoon’s stomach twisted.

Something was wrong.

And he was going to find out what.

The moment Namjoon opened the door to her place, the scent hit him, Namjoon froze.

His brain short-circuited.

Because fuck.

Fuck.

This wasn’t sickness.

This was something else entirely.

A deep, primal part of him recognized it instantly.

Heat.

The realization slammed into him like a truck.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

The disappearance. The radio silence. The way his instincts immediately reacted.

Because he wasn’t just a man.

He was a bear hybrid.

Territorial.

Possessive.

And, when faced with the scent of a fertile, needy female—

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the soup container tightened.

He needed to leave.

Right now.

Before his instincts did something stupid.

Namjoon didn’t even get the chance to think.

One second, he was frozen in place, brain malfunctioning.

The next—

She was on him.

Tiny arms wrapped around his waist. A small, trembling body pressing flush against his.

Namjoon locked up.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

Because fuck, she was burning up.

"J-Joonie," you whimpered. "It hurts..."

His breath hitched.

His instincts screamed—urging him to hold you, soothe you, claim you.

But he couldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

"I—I couldn’t find anyone," you continued, voice thick with frustration and something dangerously close to desperation. "No one I trust. No one I want."

Namjoon swallowed thickly.

His heartbeat was a thunderous roar in his ears.

But then—

Then you curled into him, fingers gripping his shirt, voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m scared, Joonie..."

His entire world stopped.

"If I don’t mate..." You shivered violently. "I could get sick. Really sick. Aplastic anemia can—"

Namjoon growled.

Deep.

Instinctual.

Dangerous.

Because no.

No, no, no.

That wasn’t happening.

Not to you.

Not on his fucking watch.

Namjoon moved before he could think.

The soup was forgotten, placed on the nearest surface as he bent down and lifted you into his arms.

You gasped softly, fingers clutching at his shoulders, but you didn’t fight him. If anything, you melted into him, whimpering as you buried your face against his throat, your whole body trembling.

His jaw locked.

Fuck.

He had to be careful.

Because he could smell you.

Feel you.

And his instincts were howling.

But he shoved them down and carried you to your bedroom, placing you gently on the bed.

Then he stepped back, inhaled sharply, and forced himself to focus.

"Do you want me to mate you?" His voice was low, steady—but beneath it was something rough. Something dangerous.

Your breath hitched.

"J-Joonie—"

"Listen to me." His gaze locked onto yours, serious and unyielding. "I’ll do it. I’ll take care of you. But you need to understand—"

He exhaled sharply, fists clenching at his sides.

"I’m not doing this just to get you through your heat."

His voice was softer now, rougher—tinged with something real.

"I have feelings for you," he admitted. "I want you. Not just because of this. But because it’s you."

Silence hung between you, thick and heavy.

Then—

"Do you understand?”

Namjoon barely had time to react.

One second, she was sitting there, eyes wide and dazed.

The next—

"Oh, fuck that—"

You lunged.

Straight for his belt.

Namjoon caught your wrists just in time.

"Whoa—!" He gritted his teeth, barely managing to hold you back. "Answer first."

"Joonie, please—" you whined, struggling against his grip. "It hurts—"

His jaw tightened.

Fuck.

You were desperate. Burning up.

And all he wanted to do was give in.

But not like this.

Not without your words.

"Say it." His voice was low, rough—his patience hanging by a thread. "Tell me you understand.”

Your breath was ragged, your body trembling. But this time, it wasn’t just because of your heat.

"I understand," you whispered. "And I feel the same way."

Namjoon’s grip on your wrists loosened.

"I’m not just saying this because I’m—" you exhaled sharply, biting your lip. "—because I’m horny beyond saving."

A muscle in Namjoon’s jaw ticked.

"I’ve felt this way for months," you admitted, voice dropping to a whisper. "Ever since you—"

You swallowed hard.

"Ever since you dry-humped me in your sleep."

Namjoon froze.

His brain short-circuited.

"It took everything in me not to ride you stupid," you continued, eyes blown wide with lust and something deeper. "And now I can’t take it anymore—"

You yanked her hands free and lunged again.

This time, Namjoon let you.

Because his instincts?

They snapped.

Your fingers fumbled with his belt, desperate and shaking.

"Come on— Fuck—stupid thing—"

Namjoon exhaled through his nose, watching as you struggled. Your whining only made it worse, your heat-drunk frustration making his instincts snarl.

When you finally got it undone, you yanked his pants down in one go.

He barely had time to step out of them before you were reaching for his boxers.

He shed his flannel and shirt, tossing them aside.

And that’s when you froze.

Your breath hitched.

"Oh..."

Namjoon clenched his jaw, fighting every instinct screaming at him to grab you, flip you over, and—

You pulled his boxers down.

And your mouth dropped open.

You practically drooled.

"Holy shit."

You barely had time to blink before Namjoon moved.

A startled whine left your lips as he pushed you back onto the bed.

"Joon—!"

Your protest died the second his mouth crashed against yours.

He kissed you deep—messy, desperate, sucking on your lips and tongue like he was starving.

You whimpered into his mouth, arching into him as his hands tore at your clothes.

Fuck, this was so much better than he had ever imagined.

Namjoon barely had a second to breathe.

He pulled back, panting, about to say something—

And then you moved.

Before he could react, your mouth was on him.

"Fuck—" His entire body jerked.

You were a menace.

And you were perfect.

Your body, your sounds—everything about you made his instincts snarl.

His hands trembled as he buried them in your hair, hips twitching at the feeling of your hot, wet mouth—

This was so much better than his imagination.

And he never wanted it to stop.

Your mouth stretched wide, barely able to take half of him.

The rest you palmed with both hands, fingers stroking up and down his thick length while your other hand squeezed his balls.

Namjoon groaned, head dropping back, his massive hands tightening in your hair.

"Fuck—" His voice was wrecked, deep and ragged.

But what really did him in?

The way you looked up at him.

Big, glossy eyes, lips stretched around his cock, cheeks hollowing as you bobbed your head—

He twitched in your mouth, barely restraining the urge to thrust deeper.

Namjoon let you have your way, let you suck him just how you wanted—until he couldn’t take it anymore.

With a deep growl, he tore you away, a strand of spit connecting your lips to his cock.

You whined, eyes dazed and needy.

"Joon—!"

"Baby," he panted, cupping your jaw, thumb stroking your wet lips. "This is your first time. Your first heat." His voice was wrecked, strained. "I really don’t wanna blow my load before I even get to fuck you."

You whimpered, squirming, but he shushed you gently.

"Spread those pretty legs for me," he murmured, eyes dark. "Let me stretch you out first."

His fingers traced down your trembling body.

"You’re so fucking tiny," he muttered, voice thick with desire. "I’m gonna have to be real thorough to make sure this cunt can take me."

And then, with a wicked smirk, he pushed you down and spread your open.

Oh, you threw a fit.

Because of course you did.

"Excuse you—!" You tried to sit up, indignant. "I was having fun, you big fucking—"

Smack.

A sharp gasp ripped from your throat as Namjoon's palm cracked against your ass, the impact sending a delicious sting through your body.

You froze.

Namjoon, towering over you, let out a low, dangerous rumble.

"Behave," he ordered, voice deep, dripping with authority.

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

You gulped.

Maybe... maybe you could let him have his way.

For now.

You pouted up at him, lower lip jutting out in protest. "Meanie," she mumbled, but still, you spread you legs for him.

Namjoon chuckled darkly, large hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. "You’ll survive," he murmured, gaze locked onto the slick mess between your legs. "Now be good and let me take care of you."

And then—

You choked on a gasp when he pressed a single finger inside.

What the fuck.

"Joon—" your back arched, nails digging into the sheets. "Why the fuck are your fingers so big?!"

Namjoon only smirked, gripping your hip to hold you still as he worked his finger in deeper, watching the way your tiny hole stretched around it. "And you think you can take my cock just like that?" he teased.

Before you could snap back, he pulled you to the edge of the bed, got on his knees, and lowered his mouth to your soaked cunt.

You barely had time to react before his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking hard.

"Ah—!" You jerked, hands flying to his hair.

He licked, sucked, kissed you like he was savoring his favorite meal.

And then—

Another finger.

Your gasp turned into a whine, legs trembling as he slowly pushed it inside alongside the first.

"It hurts," you whimpered, hips twisting as you tried to adjust.

Namjoon growled against you, sending vibrations through your core. "Shh, baby," he soothed, lapping at your clit. "Let me make it better."

Namjoon was a menace.

He sucked you clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the swollen bud, then gently bit down, just enough to make you jolt.

"J-Joon!" You gasped, thighs trembling around his head.

He only hummed, sending another shudder through you.

Your poor clit—already abused from your own desperate attempts to get off before he came over—was throbbing, overstimulated, but he showed no mercy.

His fingers worked in tandem with his mouth, curling, scissoring you open as he stretched you out.

You were still so tight, sucking his fingers in with every push, every thrust.

"Shit, baby," he groaned, kissing your clit before looking up at you with lidded eyes. "Did you play with yourself the whole day?"

You flushed, trying to turn your face away, but he curled his fingers just right—

"Ah—!"

"You did, didn’t you?" he murmured, smirking against your thigh. "Poor thing. Still wasn’t enough, huh?"

You mustered up whatever bratty energy you had left and threw a weak, "Fuck you," his way, breathless and trembling.

Namjoon chuckled—a deep, dark sound that sent a shiver down your spine—before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

"Wrong," he murmured against your skin, licking over the fresh bite mark possessively. "It’s me who’s about to fuck you."

You whimpered.

And he grinned.

Namjoon was merciless.

His fingers pressed against that devastating spot inside you, curling, rubbing, pushing just right as his tongue tormented your clit. His pace never faltered, never slowed, dragging you higher and higher until—

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—!"

Your back arched off the bed, eyes rolling back as your orgasm crashed through you.

It was soul-crushing.

It left you shaking, thighs trembling around his head as wave after wave of pleasure wracked your body.

Namjoon growled against you, pinning your hips down as he dragged out every last aftershock, licking you through it, savoring the way she twitched beneath him.

When you finally slumped against the bed, boneless and panting, he grinned.

"Good girl," he purred, lips brushing against your inner thigh. "Now, let’s see how many more you can give me before I fuck you open."

Namjoon wasn’t satisfied with just one.

He added another finger, stretching you out further, making you whimper at the burn.

"Shh, baby," he cooed, kissing the inside of your thigh as he slowly thrust them in and out. "You’re taking me so well."

His fingers worked you mercilessly, curling, scissoring, fucking you open as his tongue never left your clit.

The second orgasm hit faster than you expected—your breath hitched, your back arched, and you cried out, body shaking as pleasure wracked you.

"That’s it," Namjoon groaned, voice thick with arousal, watching the way you clenched around his fingers. "Give me another."

And you did.

By the third orgasm, you were a mess, tears pricking at your eyes as you gasped and whined, your body overwhelmed but still desperate for more.

Only then—after you were a twitching, overstimulated wreck beneath him—did Namjoon finally consider fucking you.

He smirked, kissing your inner thigh one last time before murmuring, "Think you’re ready for my cock now, baby?"

Namjoon kissed you deeply, swallowing your soft whimpers as he sucked on your tongue, making her melt beneath him.

His lips trailed down, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and neck. He focused on every little spot that made you shiver, nipping, licking, savoring the way your breath hitched.

All the while, his fingers never stopped—still scissoring you open, still stretching your tiny, tight cunt, making sure you were as ready as you could be.

"You’re so fucking small," he murmured against your throat, voice husky with need. "Gotta make sure you can take me, baby."

You whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, aching to finally feel his cock inside you.

Namjoon groaned at your desperation but took his time, gently pushing you back onto the bed, adjusting you until you were comfortable.

Then, with a tenderness that almost contradicted the heat in his eyes, he grabbed a pillow and slid it beneath your hips.

"Gotta get the angle just right," he rasped, running his hands up your thighs as he settled between them. "Don’t want you hurting, sweetheart."

He pressed a kiss to your knee, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

"You ready for me?"

Namjoon groaned as he pressed your thighs to your chest, spreading you open completely beneath him.

"So tiny," he murmured, voice thick with awe and restraint as he lined himself up with your entrance. "Gotta go slow, baby. Gotta stretch you open real nice for me."

He started by rubbing your clit with his tip, letting it glide against your sensitive bundle of nerves. The soft, teasing friction had you squirming, thighs trembling as you whined beneath him.

"Shh, just relax," he soothed, replacing his cock with his fingers, circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. "Let me in, sweetheart."

And then, he pushed.

"Fuck—" you gasped, eyes widening as the head of his cock finally slipped inside.

Namjoon gritted his teeth, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.

"Shit—so fucking tight," he ground out, barely able to move. "Baby, you gotta—fuck—loosen up for me, okay?"

You tried. You really did. But it wasn’t just the length—it was the thickness that had your brain spinning.

Namjoon exhaled sharply, sensing her struggle. He paused halfway, his breath shaky as he reached down and resumed rubbing your clit, slow and careful.

"You're doing so good," he murmured, pressing gentle kisses to your ankle, your knee. "Breathe, baby. Relax for me."

You whimpered, eyes fluttering as his fingers worked you over, coaxing your body to ease up.

And when you finally did—when you gasped and you walls fluttered, relaxing just enough—Namjoon took advantage.

"Good girl," he groaned, slowly sinking the rest of the way in.

Bottoming out in one, deep thrust.

Namjoon squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep, measured breaths as he stayed completely still inside you.

Fuck.

You were so tight, so unbelievably warm around him, clenching down like you were trying to keep him locked inside you forever. If he moved—if he so much as twitched—he might embarrass himself and blow his load way too soon.

So he focused.

Okay, Namjoon. Think of something else. Think of anything else.

One bear paw. Two bear paws. Three—

Fuck, she’s so tiny.

Four bear paws. Five bear—

Shit, the way she’s squeezing me—

Six bear paws. Seven—

“Joonie…” you whimpered, shifting slightly beneath him.

His jaw clenched.

“Baby, don’t—” he warned, voice strained.

You blinked up at him, dazed and needy, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders as you squirmed.

“Feels so good…” you mumbled, dragging your nails lightly down his back.

Namjoon choked. His arms trembled as he barely held himself together.

Eight bear paws. Nine—

Your walls fluttered around him, and he felt it.

FUCK.

He dropped his head to your shoulder, panting heavily as he groaned, voice muffled against your skin.

“Baby,” he rasped, “you gotta—give me a second—”

You giggled breathlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in deeper.

Namjoon whimpered.

Whimpered.

Like a bitch.

Your giggle was downright wicked. Even in the throes of pleasure, you were still a menace.

Namjoon’s entire body tensed when you clenched around him on purpose, her tiny hands dragging down his back, teasing him, taunting him. He could feel the way you were testing him, pushing him to his limits.

“Joonie,” you whispered in his ear, your breath warm and teasing. “Are you… whimpering?”

He growled.

A low, deep, guttural sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your skin.

Your laughter immediately cut off.

Namjoon lifted his head slowly, eyes dark and filled with something feral. You swallowed hard, realizing maybe—just maybe—you had pushed him a little too far.

“Baby,” he said, voice thick with restraint. “Do you want to walk tomorrow?”

Your ears twitched, and you suddenly remembered that oh yeah, you were currently impaled on a massive bear hybrid’s cock, and antagonizing him might not be the smartest decision.

But then again…

You grinned.

“I mean… do I really need to?”

Namjoon lost his last shred of self-control.

His hips snapped forward, knocking the breath out of your lungs as he buried himself deeper than you thought was even possible.

Your laugh morphed into a strangled moan.

“J-Joon—oh fuck—!”

He pulled back slowly, deliberately, before thrusting into you again, his thick cock stretching your walls to the limit. You screamed, fingers scrambling for purchase on his broad shoulders.

“T-Take it back—!” you gasped, eyes wide, already overwhelmed. “I take it back—!”

Namjoon chuckled darkly, leaning down to kiss your neck, sharp teeth grazing her sensitive skin.

“Too late, baby,” he murmured. “You asked for this.”

And with that, he fucked you.

Namjoon fucked you stupid.

He pulled out almost all the way, just leaving the tip in before slamming back inside, his thick cock stretching you open over and over again. Your walls clenched around him so tightly, so hot and wet that it made him see stars. His grip on your thighs tightened, nails digging into your soft skin as he fucked you into the mattress.

His cock hit your g-spot every time, his thick tip pressing against your womb with every deep thrust.

You we're gone.

Eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open as breathless moans and little whimpers spilled from your lips.

Namjoon grinned, breathless and wrecked, leaning down to take a stiff, sensitive nipple into his mouth.

The tits he had so carefully analyzed just days ago? Yeah. He was all over them now—sucking, licking, teasing with his tongue before switching to the other, his free hand kneading the soft flesh like he was trying to memorize it.

Between sucks, he grinned against your skin and murmured, “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

You whimpered, legs trembling around him.

Namjoon chuckled darkly. “What happened to all that attitude?”

His thrusts quickened, hips snapping against yours, the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting echoing through the room.

You tried to respond—maybe to sass him back—but all that came out was a pathetic little moan.

Namjoon groaned, feeling primal at the sight of you beneath him, completely wrecked.

“Aw, is my filthy little girl too dumb to talk now?” he taunted, sucking another mark into her skin. “Too stupid to tease me anymore?”

You whimpered, back arching, nails scratching down his back.

Namjoon grinned wickedly.

“You must be real dumb to tease a bear hybrid when you’re this tiny,” he murmured, thrusting deep and holding it, making you squirm. “Did you forget what I could do to you?”

You clenched around him so tight he nearly choked.

Namjoon growled.

Oh.

You liked that.

His instincts snapped.

He pinned you down, laced your fingers together, and fucked you senseless.

You were in actual heaven.

This was everything you had dreamed about, everything you had fantasized about late at night with your hand between your legs. But this? This was so much better.

Namjoon’s sheer size overwhelmed you, his massive frame towering over you, caging you in, making you feel so small beneath him. His thick arms flexed as he held himself up, his weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress, your fingers laced together above your head.

His cock stretched you open, filling you so perfectly that you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—just feel.

Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, his pace brutal, his thrusts deep and overwhelming.

“You’re so small,” he gritted out, staring down at where they were joined, mesmerized by the way you struggled to take him. His cock was glistening with your slick, and the sight alone nearly made him lose his mind. “How the fuck are you even taking me?”

You moaned, tightening your fingers around his. “I—I don’t know,” she gasped. “But don’t stop—don’t stop—”

Namjoon growled, burying his face in your neck as he fucked you harder, hips slamming against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the air.

“Don’t plan on it,” he murmured against your throat, nipping at your pulse. “Not until I make sure this tiny cunt is properly bred.”

Your brain short-circuited.

B—Bred?!

You clenched around him so violently that he choked, thrusting deep, his breath stuttering.

Namjoon groaned, pulling back to look at your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Oh,” he purred, grinning. “You liked that.”

Namjoon chuckled darkly, his voice dripping with amusement as he thrust deep and stayed there, grinding his hips against yours.

“Does my pretty little darling girl have a breeding kink?” he murmured against your lips, his breath hot, teasing.

You let out a pathetic little whimper, your hands clawing at his back. “Shut up,” you gasped, but your body betrayed you—clenching down around him like you desperately wanted him to fill her up.

He smirked, kissing you softly—too soft for how brutal his thrusts had been, the contrast making you dizzy. “Oh, you do, don’t you?” he purred against your lips. “You want me to breed this tiny cunt of yours, huh? Fill you up nice and full?”

You whined, trying to move, but Namjoon wasn’t having it.

“Uh-uh,” he growled, pulling you up against his chest, his thick arms caging you in. He wanted to see you. Wanted to watch your face as he wrecked you.

He knew you were close. He could feel it.

And fuck—so was he.

Your constant clenching had him rutting into you like a feral beast, barely holding himself back.

“You bounce on my cock so perfectly, baby,” he groaned, guiding your hips. “Come on, cum for me—milk my cock like a good girl.”

And you did—so perfectly.

Your body tensed, then trembled as you came, your walls squeezing him like a vice, pulsing around his cock. You were so tight, so warm, and fuck—he could feel every little flutter, every little tremor as you moaned his name, you voice breaking into little gasps and whimpers.

Namjoon cursed, his grip tightening on your hips as he chased his own high, rutting into you like a man possessed. “Fuck, baby—just like that,” he growled, his voice wrecked, his restraint snapping.

His thrusts became sloppy, desperate, his cock twitching inside you. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in, his instincts screaming at him to fill you up.

And then—he did.

Namjoon groaned, long and deep, as he came inside you, spilling himself into you with shuddering, wrecked thrusts. His cock throbbed with every pulse of his release, and he made sure—fuck, he made sure you took all of it, staying deep, pressing his hips flush against you.

For a moment, all that could be heard was y'all heavy breathing, your soft little whimpers as you trembled in his hold, completely wrecked.

Namjoon chuckled breathlessly, pressing a lazy kiss against your temple. “Told you I’d stretch you out, baby.”

Namjoon slowly pulled out, groaning at the way your walls clung to him, reluctant to let him go. And fuck—that was the prettiest creampie he had ever seen.

His cum dripped from your swollen, twitching hole, glistening as it leaked onto the sheets. And the best part? You were gaping, your tiny cunt stretched open, still pulsing around nothing, as if begging for more.

Namjoon groaned, his cock twitching at the sight. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, running his fingers along her inner thigh, watching as his release slowly dripped out of you. He was mesmerized, transfixed, and so fucking tempted to stuff it back in—

You whined, shifting slightly, and Namjoon immediately snapped out of it. He chuckled, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your trembling thigh. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You blinked up at him, dazed, cheeks flushed, lips parted. And then—you smirked, albeit weakly.

“Dunno,” you mumbled. “Kinda feel like I just got rearranged.”

Namjoon huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the nearby towel. “You did just get rearranged.”

You giggled, wincing slightly when you tried to move. Namjoon gently shushed you, cleaning you up with soft, careful touches. His eyes softened as he watched you, brushing a few damp strands of hair from your face.

“Rest, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

And you did—without a single complaint—because, really, after getting fucked that good, what else could you do?

Namjoon chuckled as you climbed onto him, your tiny body latching on like a determined little koala. He barely had time to settle against the pillows before you were smooshing her face right into his chest—burying yourself in his tiddies like they were your personal pillows.

He huffed, amused. “Comfortable?”

You let out a pleased little hum, rubbing your cheek against his warm skin. “Mhm. Very.”

Namjoon shook his head, wrapping his arms around you, his large hands rubbing up and down your back. You were so small compared to him, his shirt swallowing you whole. It was kind of adorable—annoyingly so.

“Feeling better?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You nodded, sighing contentedly. “Mhm. You’re warm.”

Namjoon smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled. Then, after a beat, “And your tiddies are great.”

He groaned, head thudding against the headboard. “Oh my god.”

You giggled against his chest, the sound so smug it made his ears burn. But he didn’t push you away. If anything, he held you closer, letting you cuddle up as much as you wanted—because, well...

You were his now.

And he wasn’t letting you go.

Namjoon felt his heart clench as you looked up at him with those big, expectant eyes, your lips brushing against his chest in the softest, sweetest kiss.

“I’m really happy you feel the same way, Joonie,” you murmured, your voice smaller than usual. “I was... worried you didn’t. That’s why I ignored you for two days.”

His brows furrowed, a pang of guilt hitting him square in the chest. “You—what?”

You pouted, rubbing slow circles over his pec absentmindedly. “I didn’t know if you liked me back. And if you didn’t, I was gonna have to move on, y’know?”

Namjoon stared at you, utterly baffled. “Are you serious? You thought I didn’t like you?”

You blinked up at him. “Well… yeah?”

He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand over his face. “Baby, I’ve been down bad for you.”

Your ears perked up. “Wait—really?”

“Yes, really!” He groaned, sliding his hand down to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I literally lost my mind over you. I was suffering.”

You gasped, scandalized. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Namjoon gave you a flat look. “Says you, the one who ignored me for two days instead of talking to me.”

You opened your mouth to argue—then promptly shut it, realizing he had a point.

“…Fair,” you mumbled, sheepishly nuzzling back into his chest.

Namjoon sighed, shaking his head before pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re a menace,” he muttered.

You grinned against his skin. “But I’m your menace now.”

He chuckled, hugging you tighter. “Yeah… you are.”

Namjoon nearly choked on air when you poked his chest, looking up at him with that mischievous glint in your eyes.

“So… when can we do it again?”

His face heated instantly. “What?”

You grinned, propping your chin on his chest. “I mean, I’m all stretched out now. I think I can finally ride you properly.”

Namjoon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “honey, give me five minutes to recover before you start planning round two.”

But you were relentless.

“Oh, oh! Or you could, like, manhandle me,” you continued excitedly, completely ignoring his suffering. “Maybe a full nelson or doggy—oh, you have to mount me at least once before my heat’s over!”

Namjoon felt his dick twitch, and he swore he saw his life flash before his eyes.

“And,” you added, dragging a finger down his chest, “you should let me actually suck you off properly this time. Y’know, since you were being a big ol’ meanie and stopped me.”

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose. “I stopped you because I was two seconds away from busting before we even started.”

You snickered. “So now you can last, right?”

Namjoon groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You giggled, looking entirely too pleased with yourself—then tilted your head, suddenly thoughtful. “Oh! Wait—does this mean you’re my boyfriend now?”

Namjoon blinked. “I—”

You gasped dramatically. “Namjoon! Are you telling me you knotted me but you won’t date me?”

His jaw dropped. “I DIDN’T KNOT YOU—”

“Oh my God, you used me for sex—”

Namjoon grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together to stop your nonsense. “I’m your boyfriend, you menace,” he grumbled.

You hummed happily, looking way too smug despite your squished cheeks. “Good. Now let’s talk about the full nelson.”

Namjoon let out the most suffering sigh.

[gorbo-longstocking]

Cover It Up | Modern!Caracalla x GN!Reader

Summary: Every few nights, like clockwork, Caracalla shows up at your door, drunk, or high, or both. There is so much that he says, and so little that you can bring yourself to tell him. It’s the same now as it always is.

Tags: Modern AU, GN!Reader, references to drugs and alcohol, implied past child abuse (Caracalla), implied addiction problems (Caracalla), so much yearning, reader is a medical student, kind of sad and angsty, this is technically an side story to my main fic Do Not Blame the Sea but it can be read as its own thing, Caracalla and Reader’s relationship here sort of parallels how it is in the main fic

Word Count: 1.7k Words

Song: Lost Kitten - Metric

Do Not Blame the Sea Masterlist

Before the door even opened, you knew who was standing on your doorstep. Who else would visit you in the late hours of the night when the moon was drifting lower on the horizon in order to make way for the sun? You couldn’t name another person in your life who would dare bother you during the few seconds of solitude you so desperately craved. No one else would expect you to be awake. Not your parents who would lose their minds if they discovered you were doing anything but sleeping or studying, and certainly not your fair-weather friends from college who knew nothing of your insomniac tendencies. It was always him. The one you’d drop everything for, no matter what it was.

It was always Caracalla who knocked on your door.

“Good morning, doctor.” He leaned on your porch railing, his feet unsteady. The stench of booze radiated off of him in waves, nearly suffocating in its intensity. On his chin, vomit was crusted to his skin, and you let out a sigh.

“Caracalla, I don’t think anyone would consider it morning yet. Come in.”

You always thought he was beautiful with the night sky behind him. While your apartment was nestled too far in the city for there to be stars, the midnight blue complimented his eyes perfectly. His imperfections were hidden during the day when you saw him on campus, that was when he was far too fixated on hiding them. It was only at this hour, when sweat made his makeup run, revealing acne and pockmarks, and the humidity made his red hair curl, did you think he was more handsome than you had ever seen him. Caracalla would never believe you if you told him. If anything, he would believe your words to be a joke. So, like all thoughts in regards to your affections for him, you kept them to yourself.

Reaching out an arm, you opened the door wide to help him inside. His hand was clammy, far too warm to match his drunken flush. Judging by the size of his pupils, alcohol wasn’t all he had gotten into. You had known Caracalla long enough to know his drug of choice tended to be cocaine, though with a frustrating tendency to indulge especially when he didn’t know what he was taking. The likelihood he simply ate a random pill he found on the floor of a frat house was annoyingly high. He giggled as he clumsily made his way in the door, pressing his body against yours. Despite his rancid state, you found yourself craving his warmth. You always did.

“Doctor, doctor, I need my doctor,” Caracalla slurred as you led him to the couch. When he flopped onto the cushions, his eyelids fluttered shut before he forced them open again. That made it easier to guess what was in his system, it meant whatever he took wasn’t an upper. “Need you to take care of me. Get to it.” He was always so demanding, and a bit of fondness fought with your exasperation. Before you left to get him a glass of water, he reached out to wrap delicate fingers around your wrist. “I’ve missed you.”

You missed him too. In order to keep the words from spilling out, you gave him a tight smile and pulled away. His glassy eyes flickered with a familiar frustration you paid no mind. Once you were in the kitchen, you fell into a routine. Water to hydrate him, a wet towel to wipe the vomit from his chin, and some tylenol for the morning. Like every night Caracalla came, you would tell him to sleep on the couch, and like every night since you met him, he would find his way into your bed. You set the medicine on your night stand.

“Tell me you missed me too,” He demanded once you were in his line of sight. His eyes were squinted, unable to open them any wider than they were. When you handed him the water, he drank greedily, and before he could wipe his chin with his sleeve, you crouched down to wipe him clean. Caracalla hummed, nearly a purr, as you steadied yourself with a hand against his cheek, leaning into your touch. “I know you did, I can feel it.”

“I’m surprised you can feel anything aside from how badly the room is spinning,” You grumbled.

Caracalla laughed, high-pitched and sharp. His gold tooth glinted in the dim light. “I must be dreaming, but I see four of you, doctor. Surely one must want to soothe my aches.”

“Those aches better be the urge to sleep.” The wet rag you were using caught on his bottom lip, dragging it down. Over a year of yearning made you stare, though you would never dream of taking advantage of him in this state.

Caracalla followed your gaze to his mouth and he smirked. His voice fell into a whisper, breath hot against your face. “The urge to fuck.”

“My answer is the same as always, Caracalla.” Before you removed your hand from him, you gave him a firm pat on the cheek. Disappointment made his face scrunch up. It was a cute expression, and maybe it was a quarter of the reason you kept turning him down. The other half being the fact he was only ever intoxicated when you were together, and the final quarter being your parents inevitable disapproval. “It’ll never happen.”

Caracalla stood, swaying in place for a moment. Once he found his balance, he stumbled the memorized route to your bedroom to curl into his side of the bed. It was embarrassing to realize that he had his own spot in your home now, but with how often he showed up, it only made sense.

A year and a half ago, you wanted nothing to do with Caracalla. You barely knew he existed outside of the rumors that followed him like a plague. Of his pet monkey that made him a miserable roommate in the dorms, of the fact he was a walking petri dish of STDs, his promiscuity, his tendency towards hedonism over his grades, and most of all, the fact his daddy knew the dean personally, so it wasn’t as if he could get in any lasting trouble for any of it. He was in your biology class three semesters ago. Like most people he considered below him, he paid you no mind until you were stuck together on a group project. You intended to do all of the work if only to avoid him, and he seemed content to let you.

You hadn’t meant to find him hysterical and barely coherent in his dorm, nor did you mean to endear yourself to him as entirely as you by calming him down. Apparently, his father had left him quite the nasty voicemail. You didn’t listen, you deleted it the second you got ahold of his phone, but you could put the pieces together well enough. Especially with the half-sobbed pleas for mercy Caracalla cried into your chest.

After that, Caracalla latched on, and like mold on bread, he grew on you. During the day, he barely paid you any attention. It was only at night did he make his affections known, drunk, or high, or both, always showing up when the rest of the world was asleep. You didn’t know why he bothered. If he truly meant what he said, surely he wouldn’t ignore you as he did during the day. When he kissed other people, he made sure you knew, watching your expression out of the corner of his eye. There was a lot about Caracalla you didn’t understand, and you were certain you never would. You wanted to, though. That was why you buried yourself against his side, slinging his arm over your shoulders to help him into your bed.

This was how the night always ended, Caracalla in your arms, snoring away. This time, however, he remained awake, staring up at you. It was obvious it was taking everything he had to stay awake. He took turns closing each eye, one resting while the other bored into you.

“Go to sleep,” You muttered.

Caracalla whined and rubbed his cheek against yours. “I don’t want this to end.”

The admission made your breath catch in your throat. You didn’t want this to end either. He was always gone by the time you woke up.

“Then don’t leave.”

His fingers tightened in the fabric of your pajamas. “It’s better that I do, my doctor.”

“Caracalla.” Licking your dry lips, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “Why do you always come back? If you’re not going to stay, why do you look for me like this?”

He hummed, and for a moment, you didn’t think he’d respond. Finally, clumsy and slurred, the words tumbled out of his mouth and burrowed into your chest, “You make me feel safe.”

You wished he could say it when he wasn’t on some pill when it actually meant something. Still, you couldn’t help the flutter your heart gave. Your eyes burned as you tightened your grip on his body. “I hate it when you’re like this.”

“I hate it when I’m sober,” Caracalla sleepily replied. “I remember too much.”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you let yourself ask, “Do you forget these nights too? Is that why you hardly look at me when we’re on campus.”

“I could never forget you.” He was drifting now, and with a deep breath, he forced himself to hover over you, his palm planted on the mattress beside you. With a desperation you shared, he pressed his forehead against yours. “Kiss me.”

It took everything you had to turn away. “Not when you’re like this. When you're sober, I will. I promise.”

Defeated, Caracalla let himself slump back against you.

“I’m never sober.”

“Then you know what my answer is.”

With him curled around you, you barely heard it, the same confession he made every night, spoken with the conviction you tried to ignore. “I love you.”

You didn’t respond.

A minute passed in silence, the only sound in your small bedroom the sound of your mingled breathing. Gently, you shook Caracalla to make certain he was asleep, and when he didn’t move, you told him what you’d been hiding since the first day you held him. Your own declaration that made your stomach churn with fear.

“I love you too.”

And, like every night, Caracalla didn’t hear.

A/N: I know I said that I wasn’t going to do DNBTS oneshots, but I listened to Lost Kitten by Metric and saw visions of this. This is sort of a tumblr only fic, I dunno if I’m gonna out this on AO3?? I gotta think on it. Like I said in the tags, this is supposed to sort of mirror where Caracalla and Alga are relationship wise in DNBTS, just a smidge angstier. Caracalla unable to truly be with Alga in the way he desperately wants due to public perception, but until he can, Alga will continue to push him away despite wanting him too. Cue insane amounts of yearning. Also something, something Caracalla is incapable of change.

For those who don’t know what Do Not Blame the Sea is, it’s my main fic! So, if you liked this, go check that out, hehe. I don’t have much to say here, really, so this author’s note will be short. Bye-bye! I hope you enjoyed this little thingy, please like, reply, or reblog if you did! It’ll encourage me to indulge in more side stories and AU’s <3

[tommiib]

Taboo: Yeosang x Reader

Y/N thought Yeosang was the perfect escape from the chaos of her life—intense, captivating, and everything she wanted in a man—but as their connection deepens, so does the tension. Beneath his charming smiles and soft-spoken words, Yeosang harbors secrets that threaten to unravel everything Y/N has come to trust, and she finds herself questioning if he’s truly the love she’s been searching for or if he's slowly becoming her biggest enemy. As the lines blur between passion and betrayal, Y/N is torn between the desire to let him in completely and the growing fear that the man she’s falling for might not be who he seems at all. The question remains: Will he be her savior or the source of her downfall?

content warnings: swearing, party, alc, smoking, kissing, suggestive but nothing crazy.... yet

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This is my first time uploading to Tumblr so sorry if the layout is a bit weird! This is chapter one of a series ive been working on for a bit! I hope you enjoy

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“Please, Amira, we have to go to this party!” you groaned in frustration, your pleas falling on deaf ears as she remained too heartbroken to consider going out. “Don’t let that asshole get the best of you! Yoona and I will be there for moral support,” you urged, trying to reason with her.

You weren’t exactly a party person, but when you were in the mood, you knew how to have a good time. Tonight was no exception, despite the fact that your best friend/ roommate had been dumped by some guy she’d been seeing a week ago. She hadn’t left her room since. You never met him, but he must’ve been something special to leave your friend this devastated.

With her gorgeous looks and bubbly personality, Amira never had trouble finding or keeping a guy. She wore her heart on her sleeve, but she’d never been this torn up over anyone, let alone someone she’d only been seeing for three months. Skipping classes over it was unheard of.

“I’m just not feeling it, Y/N. Please, don’t stay back because of me. I know Wooyoung is dying to see you. I’ll be fine.”

Ah, Wooyoung—your other best friend, who you’ve known since childhood. You recently reconnected when he transferred to your university at the beginning of the school year, and since then, the two of you had been inseparable.

Before you could protest, your other roommate and close friend, Yoona, chimed in. “It’s fine, Y/N. You already told Woo you’d be there. I’ll stay here with Amira. Besides, I don’t think Yunho will be at the party anyway, so I’m okay with sitting this one out.”

Yoona, the peacemaker of the group, had the kindest heart you’ve ever witnessed. For nearly three years, you’ve watched her harbor a crush on your mutual friend, Yunho. It was obvious they both liked each other, yet neither had the courage to take the first step. The situation was painful to witness, as their mutual shyness kept them apart. 

“I can literally text Wooyoung right now and tell him I can’t make it. Then we can all watch movies and cry together over some birthday cake ice cream,” you sigh, trying one last time to convince them. You’re definitely the stubborn one in your friend group,  always speaking your mind. No wonder you’re majoring in criminal justice.

Suddenly, Amira perks up and stares directly at you. “You’re going. You’ve been looking forward to this party since Wooyoung invited you last week. There’s no way you’re backing out because of me. I’ll be fine here with Yoona. Trust me.” Her tone is serious. “Plus, you need to get laid. It’s making you grumpy,” she mumbles, and you gasp in mock outrage.

“Okay, it hasn’t been that  long,” you defend yourself.

This time, both Yoona and Amira give you a look like you’ve grown two heads.  

“Girl, it’s been, what… a year?” Amira remarks.

You throw your hands up in defense. “I’ve been busy focusing on myself, and all these guys on Hinge are ugly or just looking for a quick hookup. I’m not going through another two-minute disaster,” you groan, recalling last year’s hookup that lasted all of two minutes, literally. A total waste of a night.

And it’s not that you’re against hookups; you just have standards. Which, apparently, are unattainable with the current dating pool. You physically roll your eyes at the thought. All you want is someone who’s hot, clean, smells good, friendly, good in bed, and doesn’t have a sketchy reputation. Is that too much to ask for? It’s not. But yet, it seems impossible to find, especially since getting out of your “serious” freshman-year relationship with this dude named Miko. He was sweet at first, but quickly turned possessive and insecure, practically confining you to his dorm for all of freshman year and half of sophomore year. Since then, it’s just been casual hookups and situationships—you’re not looking to commit until you graduate next year.

“Uh huh, well, go focus on yourself and make sure you get some dick,” Amira says, getting out of bed and practically pushing you toward the door.

“OR PUSSY!” Yoona shouts from the other room, laughing as she watches Amira drag you out of your shared apartment.

You sigh and turn around, only to be met with Amira shoving your purse and phone into your chest. “And don’t even think about coming home tonight. I don’t care if you have to crash at Wooyoung’s.”

Resigned, you slip on your heels and grab your stuff from Amira. “And you people call me stubborn,” you grumble, earning the first laugh you’ve heard from Amira since the breakup. You can see Yoona cracking a smile and giving you a thumbs-up from across the room.

“Okay, fine! But if I come back without getting laid, please let me back in the house,” you pout.

Amira chuckles before saying, “Well, no!” and promptly shuts the door in your face. Rolling your eyes, you quickly book a Lyft to Wooyoung’s, where you’d pregame and head to the party together.

—----------

“WOOYOUNG, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” you yell at your best friend, who’s lounging on his bed with a smug, knowing smile.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea! Amira asked me to do you a little favor!” he defends himself.

“So, you invite me to this party and then tell San that I’ve been crushing on him? Which, by the way, IS NOT TRUE!” you huff in frustration.

“Well, you did have that little crush on him,” Wooyoung points out.

“DURING SYLLABUS WEEK OF FRESHMAN YEAR?” you exclaim, rolling your eyes as he laughs at your irritation.

“That guy has a reputation, a bad one. All he does is hook up and break hearts. Even if it’s just a quick fuck, I’m not that desperate,” you say, looking Wooyoung square in the eye.

“You’re right… I shouldn’t have stirred things up, ” he admits with a genuine apology, despite the shit eating grin on his face.

“Seriously, when did everyone start caring so much about my sex life?” you mutter, making Wooyoung laugh.

“When it started making you grumpy,” Wooyoung quips.

“I am not grumpy.”

“That’s what they all say—until they get laid. Then it’s all peace, love, sunshine, and rainbows,” Wooyoung teases, grinning.

“Yeah, maybe for you, Mr. ‘Can’t Keep It in His Pants.’ Your reputation is worse than San’s!” you retort, making Wooyoung clutch his chest in mock shock.

“Okay, that’s a bit extreme. San’s a whore. I just like to have fun! And at least I don’t string people along!” he defends himself.

“Yeah, yeah, but your body count is higher than our area code, which is a little concerning,” you tease, laughing as Wooyoung protests.

“It is not!” he insists.

“I’m just messing with you. But still, my point stands, I don’t need sex to be happy. If it happens, it happens. I’m not going to force it. So you and Amira can especially stop pushing it on me!” you huff.

“Ugh, I guess you’re right,” Wooyoung concedes, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just have fun, get drunk, and look sexy while doing it, okay?” he says with a smile. You roll your eyes but nod in agreement.

You do look hot tonight, as you check yourself out in the full-length mirror in Wooyoung’s apartment. You’re wearing a low-cut, halter-neck black top that accentuates your cleavage, paired with a tiny, flowy black skirt that barely covers your ass. Thin heels, medium-sized silver hoops, and a simple star necklace with your initials carved into it complete the look. Your makeup is bold, with smoky eyeliner and a glossy lip combo that stands out. 

You glance over at Wooyoung, who’s casually scrolling on his phone as he orders your Lyft. He looks just as good.  

Wooyoung has always been attractive, everyone knows that. Tonight, he’s rocking a natural look, his hair grown out to its natural black color, now shoulder-length. His new eyebrow jewelry stands out, having just healed, allowing him to shorten the bar. His lips are glossy and plump, and he’s wearing a black button-up with most of the buttons undone, paired with form-fitting blue jeans adorned with black crosses. He’s accessorized with silver earrings, a silver chain, and his usual array of bracelets and rings. It’s no wonder both guys and girls fall for him—if it’s not his looks, it’s his outgoing, infectious personality.

“Why are you staring at me?” he chuckles, catching you in the act.

“I just think we look hot as hell,” you reply nonchalantly, giving both yourself and Wooyoung a double-take in the mirror as he gets up and stands behind you.

“We do look good, don’t we?” he teases.

“Alright, don’t make it weird now,” you joke.

“Says the one who was eyeing me down like I was her last meal three seconds ago,” he quips. 

“I wasn’t eyeing you down,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “I was checking out your outfit—I can’t have you embarrassing me.”

“As if I could embarrass you. It’s always you doing the weird stuff, not me!” Wooyoung retorts.

“Says the guy who got way too drunk and stripped in the middle of Mingi’s birthday party, only to throw up in the flowerpot at our Airbnb—while in his underwear,” you fire back.

“Hey! We promised not to bring that up!” Wooyoung whines, and you burst out laughing.

“I’m just reminding you! I can’t let that ego of yours get any bigger than it already is.”

Wooyoung scoffs as he heads out of the bedroom. “Whatever. The Lyft is two minutes away, let’s head down.”

“Wow, that was fast.”

“It’s a Friday night in a college town; it’s impossible not to get a Lyft within minutes,” Wooyoung says, slipping on his shoes.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you agree, spraying some perfume before following him out of the apartment and down to the lobby.

—------ 

You enter the party with Wooyoung by your side, taking in the buzzing atmosphere. It’s not the biggest party you’ve been to, but it’s far from small—probably around 200 people packed into the frat house. The music is loud, and the lingering smell of sweat makes you wish for a drink already.

“Let’s dance!” Wooyoung exclaims, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the dance floor.

You follow his lead, eager to let loose. The crowd is already moving to the beat, and the energy in the room is electric. As you and Wooyoung find a spot near the center, where the bass hits hardest, Lil Wayne’s "Lollipop" blasts through the speakers.

Wooyoung immediately starts to groove, his body moving with a smoothness that makes you laugh. He’s always been a great dancer, and tonight is no exception. You join in, matching his rhythm, placing your hands on your knees and moving your hips against him. It's all fun and carefree, the perfect way to start the night.

“I missed this!” you shout over the music, throwing your hands in the air as you spin around.

“Me too!” Wooyoung shouts back, grinning from ear to ear.

Just as the song shifts to a more upbeat track, "Ayy Ladies," you spot Mingi making his way through the crowd, a familiar swagger in his step. He’s wearing a black tank top that clings to his toned chest and shoulders, accentuating his broad frame. A silver chain gleams around his neck, catching the light as he moves. His jean shorts sit low on his waist, exposing the band of his designer underwear—Calvin Klein, of course. And, in true Mingi fashion, he’s wearing sunglasses inside. It’s corny, but it’s part of his charm, his signature flair.

“Mingi! Get over here!” Wooyoung calls out, waving him over.

Mingi breaks into a wide smile and strides over, seamlessly joining the dance circle. He starts dancing with the two of you, his movements smooth and effortless. Despite the sunglasses, you can tell he’s having a blast.

“You look ridiculous,” you tease, gesturing to his sunglasses as you continue dancing.

“You know you love it,” Mingi shoots back with a playful grin. He turns to Wooyoung, “You look nice tonight, man!”

“I know!” Wooyoung laughs, giving Mingi a playful shove. “Where’ve you been? Haven’t seen you all week.”

“Just busy with some stuff, you know how it is,” Mingi replies, still moving to the beat. He then glances over at you, “Wow, Y/N, looking stunning as always.”

You feel a warmth spread through you at the compliment. “You’re not looking too bad yourself, Mingi,” you say, eyeing his outfit. “But the sunglasses? Really?”

He chuckles, adjusting them with a smirk. “It’s all about the aesthetic.”

The three of you dance together, catching up between laughs and compliments, the music fueling the good vibes. Mingi’s presence adds an extra spark to the fun, his easygoing nature and corny flair making the night even better.

You’re glad you came out tonight; the night is already off to a great start. You notice Mingi glance down at his phone as he receives a text, then lean over to whisper something into Wooyoung’s ear.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” you shout to Wooyoung over the noise. “Want anything?”

“Nah, Mingi just told me they’re playing truth or dare downstairs. I’m gonna head there. Wanna come?” he replies.

You shake your head, remembering the last time you played truth or dare at a party. Let's just say it didn’t go well, and you’re not eager for a repeat.

“Suit yourself!” Wooyoung grins before heading off with Mingi.

You part ways with Wooyoung and make your way to the kitchen. Once there, you pour yourself a hefty serving of the mystery punch, the strong scent of alcohol hitting you immediately.

“Damn, did they add any juice to this, or is it straight liquor?” you mutter after taking a sip. It’s easily 90% alcohol, 5% ice, and 5% juice. This punch alone is going to mess you up.

“I don’t think they added any juice, to be honest,” says a deep voice behind you. You turn to see one of Wooyoung’s friends, what was his name again?

“I’m Yeosang, by the way. Sorry if I startled you,” he says, noticing your hesitation.

Yeosang! You remember now, the hottie who had to leave Mingi’s birthday party early! Family issues or something. You’ve only ever seen him in passing, and from what you’ve gathered, he doesn’t talk much. But he’s definitely close to Wooyoung, always hanging out with him, San, Mingi, and their other friend Jongho.

It piques your interest that you don’t really know much about him. With looks and a body like that, you’d assume he’d have a reputation as strong as Wooyoung’s or San’s, but no one ever really talks about Yeosang—not in that way, at least.

“My bad, I’m Y/N,” you say with a smile, letting out a little laugh. His strong eye contact and deep voice are making you a bit nervous. Not to mention, he’s wearing a white tank top that shows off his chest and abs beautifully, paired with a black jacket and loose-fitting blue jeans. His slicked-back blonde hair, with black roots peeking through, and the bright diamond studs in his ears complete the look. His hands are adorned with bracelets and rings, adding to his effortless cool.

“Oh, you’re Wooyoung’s friend!” He lights up, and you nod.

“Yeah, we met briefly at Mingi’s party, but you had to leave early,” you say as casually as possible.

“I remember that! It’s nice to see you again,” he smiles. “You look amazing tonight.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks as you try to hide a smile by taking another sip of your drink. “So do you,” you respond, and he lets out a deep laugh. You don’t quite get what’s so funny, but you don’t mind—it’s a rich, deep laugh, and honestly, it’s hot as hell.

“Thank you,” he replies. “I assume you came here with Woo?” he asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, but that jerk ditched me to play truth or dare in the basement,” you say, and Yeosang chuckles.

“The downside of being friends with someone who knows everyone—you get left behind a lot,” he smiles, taking a sip of his own drink.

“Yep, I just don’t understand how he knows half the damn campus when he just transferred,” you say, already feeling a bit warm from the drink, taking another sip.

“I can’t understand it either. It seems overwhelming,” Yeosang chuckles, and you nod.

“Oh, definitely. Have you seen his phone? Over 4,000 unopened messages. It’s insane.”

“I’ve seen it. He really needs to clear that out,” Yeosang agrees, making you laugh.

A comfortable silence follows between you and Yeosang, silently sipping on your drink before Yeosang speaks up. “Wanna go dance?”

“I would love to,” you smile, grabbing Yeosang’s hand heading back onto the dance floor, keeping your drink in your hand. 

His hand is calloused but soft and welcoming. He leads you to the dance floor, where the two of you start moving to the song “Don’t Tell ‘Em” by Jeremih. Yeosang still hasn’t let go of your hand, holding it up in the air as your back presses against his chest, his free hand wrapping around your waist. You feel warm, and you’re not sure if it’s from the heat between you and Yeosang or the punch kicking in. 

“Oh, Yeosang, I’m impressed,” you tease, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to have this much rhythm.”

He chuckles before speaking up. “Why? Do I look like I can’t dance or something?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

You shake your head with a playful smile. “No, it’s just that most guys can’t keep up.”

“Yeah?” he says, sounding all smug, and you can’t help but roll your eyes jokingly as the two of you continue to move together. As the song ends, you’re still pressed against Yeosang, his hands resting politely on your waist while you take the opportunity to sip your punch. The next song, “Wild Thoughts,” starts playing, and you hear Yeosang hum the melody, his hips naturally finding the beat. You two quickly fall into rhythm, and he buries his head into your shoulder, his cheeks tinted a light pink, a sure sign he’s just as tipsy as you are.

“I didn’t expect this from you,” you whisper into his ear.

“Expect what?”

“You to be so smooth. I never see you with any girls at parties,” you say, which earns you another chuckle from him. And God, could you listen to him laugh all day.

“So you’ve had your eye on me?” he smirks, his voice teasing.

“Not necessarily,” you reply, trying to keep his ego in check. “You and your little friend group just tend to attract attention, that’s all.”

He chuckles again, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I’m very different from my friends. You don’t know anything about me.”

Though his tone is playful, there’s a hint of teasing that sends a pulse of excitement through you. He suddenly turns you around so that you’re facing him.

“You’re so pretty. I want to look at you while we dance,” he says, and you try to hide your smile by turning your head away.

“I didn’t take you for such a flirt. Do you compliment every girl you dance with, or am I special?” The eye contact between you two is intense, even though you’ve just met. 

He smiles before replying, “I always try to be a gentleman and compliment people. But I don’t just dance with anyone. I’m a little scared of strangers y’know.” 

You laugh as you continue dancing with the handsome man in front of you until the alcohol and the heat make you feel a little too stuffy. Tapping Yeosang's shoulder, he leans down so you can whisper in his ear, "Gonna step outside, wanna come?" He nods, and you take his hand, leading him into the backyard.

Surprisingly, you find Wooyoung and Mingi along with their other friends Jongho and San, deeply engaged in an intense game of beer pong. Mingi is about to take his shot, with Jongho looming over him, clearly frustrated by Mingi’s poor performance so far.

"Mingi, if you miss this one, you're sleeping on the lawn tonight," Jongho threatens.

"Hey! I'm only missing because I'm already drunk. Wooyoung just got here; it's not fair," Mingi huffs, making Wooyoung laugh.

"Just admit you suck," San teases.

"Fuck you," Mingi mutters before throwing the ping pong ball—and missing the cup yet again. Judging by Jongho’s expression, this isn't the first time.

"Bro, I want a new partner!" Jongho complains.

"Nope, not happening," Wooyoung says mockingly.

Jongho rolls his eyes, finally noticing you and Yeosang walking down the steps toward the hammock set up in the yard. 

"OH SHIT, YEOSANG! COME HERE, I NEED YOU!" Jongho shouts.

"Yeosang? Where? I thought he was staying home with Yunho tonight," Wooyoung says, scanning the yard until he catches sight of you and Yeosang holding hands. His mouth drops slightly. "Y/N??"

"Oh, don't act so surprised—you left me alone," you say, rolling your eyes as you and Yeosang approach the beer pong table, still holding hands.

Wooyoung gives the two of you a once-over before returning his attention to the game. 

"Yeosang, please switch with Mingi. I'm begging you—I can't lose to these two idiots," Jongho pleads, but Wooyoung quickly protests.

"Sorry, no can do. It’s against the rules. Gotta just take your L," Wooyoung mocks, making Jongho lift his fist in a mock threat, causing Wooyoung to dart behind San for protection.

You and Yeosang laugh, watching the antics, until another voice speaks up.

"Wow, Y/N, you look hot as fuck," San comments, earning an eye roll from you.

"Thanks. You don’t look terrible either," you reply, deliberately avoiding giving him any indication of interest.

"My turn, my turn!" Wooyoung interrupts, bouncing the ping pong ball into Jongho and Mingi’s last cup. "HELL YEAH!" he shouts in victory, high-fiving San.

"Song Mingi, you are a dead man," Jongho mutters before downing the beer. "Rematch?" he pleads, but Wooyoung quickly declines.

"I gotta go back into the party, man, do my thing," Wooyoung says, shaking his hips dramatically, making everyone roll their eyes.

"Yeah, I'm not playing with you again, you’re scary," Mingi admits.

"Like I’d ever choose you to be my partner again," Jongho grumbles. "Fuck this, I need a drink," he says, leaving the table to head to the kitchen. You notice San’s attention has been diverted to another girl you don’t recognize, but frankly, you don’t care, as long as you aren’t his next target.

"Wanna head to the hammock?" Yeosang whispers in your ear, and you nod, following him over.

Over in the hammock, you and Yeosang talk for what feels like hours. Whether it's the alcohol or just the vibe between you two, you're having an amazing time. You didn’t come to this party expecting to meet anyone, but now you're glad you did. Despite his quiet nature, Yeosang is extremely funny, witty, and surprisingly good at holding a conversation. You can't help but wonder how in the world this man is still single.

“But yeah, after that, I swore off cooking forever. I still have the burn mark on my arm,” he laughs, finishing his story about how Wooyoung forced him to cook, nearly causing him to blow up his apartment.

“How do you even eat?” you laugh.

“My roommate, DoorDash, or ramen,” he says with a smile. He’s such a man, but it’s endearing.

“Maybe one day I’ll cook for you,” you say, watching his eyes light up.

“For real?” he asks, sounding genuinely excited.

“Maybe,” you tease. “I only cook for people I really like, so you’ve gotta prove yourself first.”

He pouts, his full, glossy lips forming an irresistible expression that you’ve been trying not to stare at all night. He definitely notices but doesn’t say anything, both of you are a little more than tipsy.

“What, you don’t like me?” he pouts, leaning in closer.

“I didn’t say that,” you reply, trying to keep the teasing tone.

“Oh, so you do like me?” he smiles, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Have you always been a tease?” you ask, trying to match his energy.

“Only with people I really like,” he says, locking eyes with you. His big brown eyes are so captivating that you find it hard to look away. God, this man is absolutely gorgeous.

For the first time since you sat in the hammock, there’s a moment of silence. But it’s not awkward—just an intense, charged quiet as you both stare at each other. You’ve never felt this kind of connection with anyone before. There’s a magnetic pull between you, and all you want is to lean in and kiss him, just to get a taste . It seems like he feels the same way as he gently cups your face with his hand.

Yeosang’s hand is warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. The world around you seems to blur, the sounds of the party fading into the background until it’s just the two of you in your own little bubble. His gaze flickers between your eyes and your lips, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the butterflies in your stomach going wild.

“May I kiss you?” he asks softly.

You nod, unsure if you can trust your voice to give a verbal response. The anticipation is almost too much to bear.

Slowly, Yeosang leans in, his lips barely brushing yours at first. The kiss is soft and tentative, as if he’s savoring the moment. His lips are warm and tender, moving gently against yours in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. You close your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the sensation, the sweetness of the kiss making your heart swell.

But there’s an undercurrent of something more, something electric that builds with every passing second. You can feel it in the way his hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. Your hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers as the kiss deepens. The soft, tentative start gives way to something more urgent, more passionate.

Yeosang’s other hand slides to your waist, his grip tightening as he pulls you even closer. The hammock sways slightly with the movement, but neither of you seems to notice or care. All that matters is the heat building between you, the way your bodies seem to melt into each other. The kiss turns hungrier, your lips parting to let him in. His tongue teases yours, and you let out a soft sigh against his mouth, feeling the butterflies in your stomach turn into a full-blown storm.

The world outside the hammock no longer exists; it’s just you and Yeosang, your lips moving in sync, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. His hands are everywhere, tracing the curve of your waist, your back, and your arms, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Your fingers find their way into his blonde hair, tugging lightly as you press closer, craving more of him.

Yeosang’s kisses grow more insistent, his lips moving with a mix of tenderness and raw desire that has your head spinning. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin as he moves his lips to your jaw, trailing soft, wet kisses down your neck, making you gasp. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, and you tilt your head back, giving him better access as his lips explore the sensitive skin of your throat.

He pauses for a moment, his lips hovering just above yours as if he’s giving you a chance to catch your breath. But you don’t want to stop. You tug him back down, capturing his lips in a kiss that’s more intense, more passionate than before. He responds eagerly, his hand sliding up your back as he deepens the kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a rhythm that leaves you breathless.

The hammock sways more now, the movement matching the feverish pace of your kisses. Your bodies press against each other, heat radiating between you as the kiss turns into a full-blown make-out session. The intensity of it all is overwhelming in the best way possible. You can feel his heartbeat matching yours, both of you lost in the moment, in each other.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together as you try to catch your breath. Yeosang’s eyes are dark with desire, and you can see the same heat reflected in your own. Neither of you says a word, but the connection between you is stronger than ever, leaving you both craving more. 

“Yeosang…” you manage to whisper, still breathless from the kiss.

Before you can finish your sentence, a loud, familiar, drunken voice interrupts, shattering the intimate bubble around you. Both of you quickly pull apart, startled by the sudden intrusion. 

You can’t help the feeling of possessiveness that washes over you. What just transpired between you and Yeosang felt amazing, something you wanted to explore further. You wanted him—just him—all to yourself. A deep instinct told you to keep this between the two of you.

A quick glance at Yeosang reveals he feels the same way. His expression mirrors yours, but before you can say anything, Wooyoung stumbles over, flopping down between you in the hammock and throwing an arm around each of you.

“I love you guys sooo much!” Wooyoung slurs, his voice thick with alcohol. You chuckle, realizing he’s way too drunk for any of the hookups you assumed he'd be chasing tonight, meaning you’d be stuck taking care of him.

“My god, Woo, how much did you have to drink?” you ask, laughing as he plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

“Way too much of that punch and a couple of body shots,” he mumbles, resting his head on your shoulder.

“Where the hell is San?” Yeosang mutters, and something about hearing him curse sends another wave of butterflies through you. Every little thing he does—from the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he talks to the way he gently pries Wooyoung’s hands off his neck—has you feeling warm all over. You can't tell if it's the alcohol or just Yeosang himself, but you've never been this worked up over a man before.

“He’s with some girl. They left like ten minutes ago,” Wooyoung grumbles before suddenly gagging.

Oh no.

“JUNG WOOYOUNG, YOU ARE NOT ABOUT TO THROW UP RIGHT NOW!” you exclaim, half-laughing with wide eyes. You glance over at Yeosang, who looks just as disappointed as you.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung groans, and before you can react, he’s hunched over, vomiting into the grass right in front of you and Yeosang.

“Well, that’s a turn of events,” Yeosang says dryly, shaking his head.

You wince but smile apologetically at Yeosang. “I think I should take him home.”

Yeosang nods, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly looking a bit shy. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

“He’s so annoying,” you say lightheartedly, gently wiping Wooyoung’s mouth with the bottom of his shirt. “Begs me to go to a party just to leave me and get too drunk to function.”

“That’s Wooyoung for you. But hey, at least I got to meet you.” Yeosang smiles, and you notice the tips of his ears turning red. You can feel your own face heating up at his words. You really didn’t expect to meet anyone tonight—just to chill, dance, and have fun—but Yeosang changed all of that, and you’re not mad about it in the slightest.

Not only is he incredibly handsome, but he’s also kind, respectful, and funny. You don’t want this night to end.

“Hey, totally okay to say no,” Yeosang starts, fiddling with his fingers, which you find adorable considering how bold he was just a few minutes ago. His shyness is endearing; everything about him is just so cute.

You look at him, nodding encouragingly for him to continue. Your eyes meet his beautiful brown ones again, and you unknowingly bite your lip, something he definitely notices. It seems to give him the confidence to finish his sentence.

“Do you mind if we exchange phone numbers?” he asks, his face turning a light shade of pink.

You can’t help but smile, despite Wooyoung still retching beside you. “Of course.” You hand Yeosang your phone, and he quickly puts his number in, texting himself to save it.

You want to say something more, but Wooyoung’s vomiting interrupts the moment.

“Fuck, I drank too much,” Wooyoung groans, coughing a bit. You pat his back, shaking your head.

“Took you this long to realize,” you tease, smiling down at your friend. As annoying as he can be, you love him.

Looking back up at Yeosang, you speak softly, “Thank you for tonight. I had a really fun time.”

“Me too,” he replies, smiling warmly at you as you stand Wooyoung up straight, using his shirt to wipe his face again. Yeosang makes a disgusted face but then looks back at you. “I hope to see you around, Y/n.”

You nod, feeling a little sad that the night is ending. “Bye, Yeosang.”

“Bye, Y/n,” he says softly.

You wave at him before guiding Wooyoung to the front of the house, trying to avoid as many eyes as possible. Despite everything, Wooyoung still has a reputation to uphold. You quickly order a Lyft, paying extra for priority pickup, and set the destination for Wooyoung’s apartment.

On the way there, Wooyoung falls asleep on your lap, groaning and huffing in his sleep. You push some of his hair out of his face, admiring his peaceful expression.

“Fucking idiot,” you mutter affectionately, laughing softly. Checking your phone, you see the message Yeosang left you. It brings a smile to your face, knowing that this night was just the beginning.

"Next time, less interruptions, deal?"

[maxdibert]

While you’re at it, with the pros and cons of dating; can you also give out few opinions on examples of what said characters’ type is? Like, what kind of woman/man meets their standards? What characteristics should one have?

I truly believe that in the case of Lily and James, it’s quite clear why they were a genuinely compatible couple. I mean, Lily is a means for James to publicly reaffirm his political stance by marrying someone socially inferior, thus proving that he "isn’t like the other rich people," not to mention he didn’t just choose any socially inferior woman, but a beautiful, successful, and socially popular one. In other words, someone he could present in society. Similarly, James reaffirms Lily’s need to feel part of a society that excludes her because of her origins, in a way validating her by a member of the elite of that society who rejects her, and by association, gaining a place in it. They both care about their social image, both like to be the life of the party, and both give off the vibes of enjoying the fact that others have a great image of them because, in a way, their self-esteem relies on how others perceive them. So I totally bet they complement each other as a couple.

As for Sirius, I’ve always said that if he can’t be with James, who is basically the great obsession (ahem, love ahem) of his life, then he’d probably end up with some pure-blood witch from a very good, rich family. Because let’s be honest, Sirius didn’t obsess over just any guy, he obsessed over a guy from the same social class as him, rich like him, popular like him, an equal. Sirius is the type of person who would sleep with Muggle-borns or even Muggles just to piss off his mother, and he’d even bring them home to annoy Walburga. But when it comes down to it, if he really had to settle down, and if he can’t settle down with his beloved James because the world made him straight, then he’d seek out a pure-blood girl from a good family whose environment isn’t necessarily against blood purity but also isn’t supportive of it—maybe neutral—and who probably has the same shitty personality as his mother because Sirius has serious mommy issues and probably needs a push-and-pull dynamic similar to what he had with Walburga. I know a lot of people won’t agree with this, but I don’t care because my therapist would tell me I’m totally right lol.

Remus... Well, I don’t know. A person who wouldn’t get pregnant by him? Honestly, I want Remus about 10,000 km away from anyone, because everyone deserves someone in a relationship who isn’t a coward and won’t run away at the first sign of trouble. But, above all, they deserve someone who doesn’t need a teenager to lecture them into doing what any person with common sense would do without even thinking about it. I really wouldn’t wish a Remus as a partner on anyone. Well, maybe on my worst enemy, but that’s it.

And Peter... I think Peter would be happy with someone who could help him climb socially, gain status, and be feared. Probably someone who would take control of the relationship and whom he could admire and feel very proud to have been chosen by. Peter sought recognition through association because he was incapable of getting it on his own, so he’d probably go for someone who could guarantee him that social recognition.

Then there’s Severus, who as I’ve said many times, would probably be with someone who could deal with the multiple traumas he has but, above all, with his awful personality. Because Severus has a terrible temperament and zero anger management. Being with Severus means you have a partner who will certainly be loyal and won’t betray your trust, someone who will be there for you when you need them, but also someone with a lot of unresolved issues that can make him explode at any moment when he feels threatened or triggered, and that’s very difficult to handle. And like I said in another post about this specific topic a few weeks ago, he doesn’t need someone who acts like his mother or nurse and takes care of him like he’s a sick, invalid person, but someone with the guts to stand up to him and tell him to fuck off when it’s necessary, because the reality is that Severus responds best and realizes his mistakes when they’re shoved in his face. I’ve always thought he’d do well with someone who also had their own issues because that way it’d be easier for there to be mutual understanding. But this is very brief; I talked at length about this in another post a couple of weeks ago. This is the very short version, but I hope it’s enough.

[fluemsiie]

our family [ j. ackles ]

synopsis. you need jensen to come back home. notes. 1.3k words, breastfeeding, depression, mentions of ppd, not proof read, happy birthday jensen <3 — comments & rbs appreciated.

jensen’s been filming for a while, and by a while, you mean for freakin’ months. he can’t catch a break and so you did what any sane person does— you moved to vancouver all the way from texas just to be close to him. it took a lot of planning, and way too much money, but you weren’t letting your husband stay at a different country alone anymore, it was taking a toll on both your mental health and your relationship.

not to mention your daughter always asking for daddy, where he is, can she go out with him; it’s breaking your heart as much as it is his and so you decided to settle for a smaller apartment near where they were filming.

you’d say it helped your mental health but that would be a lie. ever since you had your daughter you knew something had been seriously wrong. you’re unmotivated to move out of bed, you try to do everything you need to in your room, hardly go out to see anyone but her. anything you need to go do, you have delivered. if the whole ‘not moving’ thing wasn’t hurting you, then the fact that you let your body go a little is fucking breaking you.

you don’t think anything has ever been so wrong in your life, nothing goes the way it should and it seems like you can’t fix it no matter what you do which is disappointing considering you’re a mother now. a mother. you’re supposed to know everything and have all the answers.

and despite moving to be closer to him, leaving behind your own family, something not a lot of people would do, he still spends some nights at jared’s (because gen is still in texas, like you should be).

except there’s also another thing jensen has no idea about; you got diagnosed with depression shortly before you made the move, it’s a big reason why you did the move in the first place. you thought it was past partum but you made sure to actually get diagnosed before telling jen and since you won’t be harming yourself or your baby girl, you decided he didn’t need to know.

he’s been so busy since he decided to start directing too and you’re insanely proud of him, even if you’re having a hard time. but you don’t wanna risk it so here you are, alone in a city you’ve visited only a handful of times with your two year old daughter.

but today’s by far one of your worst days. you tried taking some pills, just pain killers, you aren’t comfortable taking pills for whatever’s wrong with you, you can’t risk hurting any future babies. it isn’t like you don’t believe in them— you’re a nurse, of course you do, but you also know they could hurt you long term, it’s not worth it.

some days it seems like it’s just not worth it. you pick up your phone to call jensen. it takes a few rings but then he responds and you sigh in relief. you honestly thought he wouldn’t pick up, “hey.”

“what’s wrong? are you okay?” it catches you by surprise but when you recover you tell him you and rhyme are great. “i mean you, sweetheart. you sound off.”

you don’t sound that off. definitely not enough for him to pick it up the second you greet him. not that you’re complaining, maybe if he knows what’s wrong he’ll get home faster. jensen’s always helped you in ways he wouldn’t even believe— he’s your life force at times and you’re not sure what you’d do without him, especially now when you need him.

and he’s not neglectful, he took your first four months off from filming and had his sister stay with you for the other two. he’s always put your needs in front of filming but you don’t want to be overbearing.

“when are you getting home? i’m making your favorite.”

“yeah? ‘m not too sure. twelve-thirty, give or take.” which is code for ‘don’t wait up’ so you wake up and find out he never made it home, just crashed on set or at jay’s

“okay.” you can’t bring yourself to ask him to come home even if you don’t doubt he will. jen’s working because he loves his job, sure, but it’s also to provide for you, he wouldn’t want to hurt you over something he’s doing for you in the first place. and you know all that, you just wish you’d always be logical enough to remember it. 

“is that it?” god, this is conflicting. you know you need him right now, you just can’t get the words out. “sweetheart?”

“yeah.” 

It’s a beat before he responds. “i’m coming home at twelve with dinner. don’t cook anything.” he ends the call and you’re smiling. it’s no surprise he figured you needed him, but you couldn’t be happier to have someone that cares enough to come when you call, despite your call being ominous and downright needy.

+

it’s the third time you’ve started frozen because rhyme doesn’t understand that when a movie ends you start a new one, all while breastfeeding her. it’s gotten significantly easier as she nears two years old, she just sits next to you instead of you having to kill your back, and she honestly does it for ten minutes maximum before she gets bored.

and at this point she’s tried everything from lamb to mashed fruit, milk is hardly a full meal to her. but your doctor said it’s best to try and breastfeed her until she hits the 22 month mark. she’s nearing 20 months now.

when she’s done, and else is singing ‘let it go’ with rhyme as her background vocalist, you get up to get started on dinner. jensen said to not make anything which means he’s ordering take out himself but you should probably make sure the counter is clean and that there’s a salad to go with the food.

just as you’re done cleaning the table, the front door opens and your shoulder fall in relief. you didn’t even know you were raising them. you hear his footsteps all the way to the living room, where rhyme runs into her dads arms and lifts her up effortlessly. 

he turns to you, sees you standing in your open kitchen and walks over to kiss your hair softly. “hey, baby girl.” 

rhyme laughs and hugs him tighter. well, the endearment is yours as much as it is hers, you’re both his girls. 

“thanks for coming home, jen.”

“don’t do that, don’t thank me for that. i should’ve known it bothered you— and you should’ve told me earlier.”

“it doesn’t always! just when i need you and then i wake up and i just don’t find you.” days where the depression is just, god, it’s horrible. days when you can’t take rhyme crying because you can’t find the toy she lost or when she’s hungry and you’ve only slept two hours, waiting for his text to confirm he’s safe and at home. 

“baby, i can’t always read your mind, sometimes you gotta help me out.” you nod quickly and he kisses his daughter before putting her down. 

“foor?” food. he nods, placing the bag onto the table. you’ve been teaching her german so she confuses d’s for r’s. you’re not too sure how that came to be but you don’t question it because she’s been saying words in german.

the smell hits you all at once, and your heart practically squeezes itself. jensen drove to your favourite restaurant thirty minutes away. it makes your home country’s food the most authentically and you’ve always loved feeling at home. 

“jensen, seriously?” he smiles and you’re the one who throws yourself into his arms this time, his little girl, not quite understanding, joins in. and you’re not sure how you would’ve gotten through today without him coming back home to his girls.

[cavillscurls]

hey so this is just a reminder that your one shot doesn’t have to have smut to be “good.” every chapter of your series doesn’t have to have smut to be “good.” your smut doesn’t have to be kinky smut to be “good smut.” you’re allowed to participate in fandom and fanfiction without ever writing or engaging with smut if that’s what you desire, and i promise it’s still just as valuable.

[tonycries]

Madam Gojo - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.9k

A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.

They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too. 

The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.

Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.

Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room. 

Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.

“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”

Ah, right. How could you forget?

You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.

And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.

“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”

“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”

The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.

Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”

“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”

God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this. 

Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”

And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle. 

“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”

“Right, because this clan is that great.”

You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.

Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”

And oh it was like a dam burst open.

“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”

“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”

“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”

You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already. 

Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”

Oh. You’ve done it now.

You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked. 

You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-

“Sit.”

Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”

Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them. 

And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.

“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious. 

The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”

It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.

. 

A weighty beat passes. One. Two. 

He wins.

And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this? 

“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”

What? 

The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face. 

“Wan’ me to kill them?”

“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity. 

“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better. 

So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”

At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”

And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word. 

Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?

Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.

Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.

Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually. 

And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth. 

“Out.” 

It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.

Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”

And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now. 

“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”

“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”

That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.

“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?” 

“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him. 

Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but. 

“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”

Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. 

“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar. 

But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.

Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal. 

Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away. 

“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”

And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.

He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”

You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.

Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan. 

“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”

“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”

At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”

Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his. 

So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-

“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”

Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this. 

“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”

Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.

“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”

“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”

“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth. 

At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”

You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended. 

Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”

You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-

“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.

“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast. 

But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?

So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers. 

Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-

“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”

“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”

Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants. 

You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth. 

And Gojo keeps going. 

Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily. 

“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”

“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”

“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”

You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good. 

And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!

“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?” 

A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”

“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”

And, well, a good husband always shares, right?

Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs. 

“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”

You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-

Shit. 

You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous. 

All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.

Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together. 

Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.

“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”

And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute. 

“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”

And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone. 

Except maybe his cute lil’ wife. 

Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch. 

But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly. 

Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”

“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance. 

“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”

“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”

You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you. 

Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there. 

“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”

A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least. 

Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.” 

“Louder.”

“Like I’m your wife.”

Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear. 

It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side. 

“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?” 

You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him. 

“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find- 

“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”

That.

So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”

Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted. 

“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”

You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.

Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles. 

“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”

And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are. 

“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”

Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices. 

And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-

“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”

So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper. 

Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you. 

But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.

Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes. 

And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his. 

“Clean that room up.” 

Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie. 

But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.

A/N. On my period I’m gonna cry. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[kateschi]

back in action

synopsis: being the wife of bakugou katsuki comes with multiple benefits, one of which is a front-row seat to his scrumptious back.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: i know at least 2/3 of you have seen that figurine

you swear there’s no better sight in this world than katsuki bakugou’s back.

not the view from your honeymoon suite in santorini, not the sparkling ocean from your vacation in okinawa—hell, not even the perfect strawberry shortcake you baked last weekend.

no, none of that compares to the sheer beauty that is your husband’s ridiculously broad, wonderfully sculpted, unfairly muscular back.

the way his muscles shift under his skin when he moves? art.

the ripple of strength as he stretches? divine.

the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his shoulders after an intense workout? a masterpiece.

and, as if the gods of attractiveness hadn’t blessed him enough, the scars that mark his skin only add to his allure.

each one tells a story of battles fought and won, of heroism that the world praises but he humbly shrugs off. to you, those scars aren’t just symbols of strength—they’re proof of his resilience, his dedication, his heart.

so, yes. you are absolutely obsessed with your husband’s back, and no, you don’t care how shameless that makes you.

“katsuki,” you call from the couch, chin propped up on your hands as you shamelessly watch him rummage through the fridge.

he’s in nothing but a pair of loose sweatpants, the waistband hanging dangerously low on his hips, and his shirt? nowhere to be found.

a completely intentional choice on his part, because he knows exactly how weak you are for him like this. “did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got the best back in the entire universe?”

he pauses, a carton of orange juice in one hand and an eyebrow raised in your direction. “you tell me that every damn day.”

“well, I mean it every damn day.”

he rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother hiding the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “you’re such a weirdo.”

“damn right,” you shoot back, grinning when he snorts. “come here. let me look at it properly.”

“what, my back?” his expression is one part exasperation, two parts amusement as he shuts the fridge and leans against the counter, arms crossed. “the hell do you need to ‘look’ at it for?”

“because it’s a work of art, obviously,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “and I haven’t had my daily dose of admiring you yet.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face like you’re the most exhausting person on the planet, but he still walks over to you without another word. you can tell he’s secretly enjoying this, though.

“alright, idiot. knock yourself out.” he turns around, presenting you with the full, glorious view of his back.

your eyes immediately light up. “oh my god, it’s perfect.”

“it’s a back,” he deadpans.

“no, no, no. it’s the back,” you insist, reaching out to lightly trace your fingers along the curve of his shoulder blades.

he tenses slightly under your touch—his body always reacts before his mind can catch up—but quickly relaxes as you continue your impromptu “admiration session.”

“you’ve got no idea how unfair this is,” you mumble, running your hands down the defined lines of his lats. “how am I supposed to focus on anything when you look like this?”

“you’re ridiculous.” he’s shaking his head, but you can hear the way his voice softens, the way the edges of his usual gruffness smooth out when he talks to you like this.

it’s a few days later, and you're lounging on the couch, flicking through your phone when you hear him coming from the hallway, the sound of his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

katuski’s been in the gym for a couple of hours, and you can already hear the deep exhale he lets out as he moves closer, his breath still heavy from the workout.

"guess who's back," you say, looking up just in time to see him walking into the living room, wearing only a towel around his waist, his body glistening with sweat from his workout.

he pauses for a moment when he sees your face—wide-eyed and full of admiration, already zeroing in on that perfect, chiseled back. his muscles tense as he moves, and you feel your heart skip a beat.

"really?" he says, voice dripping with disbelief. "you still on about this?"

“can’t help it,” you say, setting your phone aside and leaning back against the cushions, fully prepared to watch him, unashamed. "I’m just amazed that someone like you exists in the world."

katuski rolls his eyes, but there's a soft chuckle that escapes him, betraying his indifference. "yeah, well, quit starin'."

"I can’t help it," you reply, your voice a playful purr as you look him up and down. "I mean, who else looks this good after a workout?"

he tilts his head to the side, his signature scowl starting to form, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“quit actin’ like I’m some kinda showpiece, alright?” he grumbles, though you can hear the lighthearted edge to his voice.

you laugh, clearly enjoying yourself too much. "sorry, can’t help it.”

later that week, you and katuski are out on patrol, both suited up in your respective hero uniforms.

it's business as usual—rescuing civilians, stopping some petty criminals, and making sure the city is safe.

the sun’s setting, painting the skyline in beautiful oranges and purples, but you're still laser-focused on one thing: his back.

it's a total accident—really, it is—but when you're standing next to him after you’ve just subdued a villain, you can't help but sneak a glance at the broad expanse of his back.

you feel that familiar pull to reach out, to trace the powerful lines of his shoulder blades again.

“don’t even think about it,” he warns, his voice low and gruff as he catches the glint of mischief in your eyes.

you smile innocently, taking a step closer. "what? I was just going to—"

"not here. we’re in the damn public," katuski growls, his sharp gaze snapping to yours as his fingers tighten around his gauntlet. "you really think I’m gonna let you paw at me in front of everyone?"

you laugh, unbothered by his obvious annoyance. "I’m not pawing at you, I’m admiring you. there's a difference, katsuki."

his jaw tightens as he glares at you, his usual frown deepening. "that’s the same damn thing."

you can’t help but grin, even though he’s clearly not having it.

but, deep down, you know that katuski secretly loves it. sure, he’s tough and grumpy in front of the public, but you both know how soft he gets when you're alone, how he indulges you without hesitation.

so, you take one last daring step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, letting your fingers brush along the fabric of his uniform.

he’s about to bark at you to stop, but you just flash him a quick, mischievous grin, and that’s all it takes for him to roll his eyes, muttering under his breath, "unbelievable."

and katsuki was right in his reprimand cause you were breaking the headlines the very next day.

for all the wrong reasons.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[readwritealldayallnight]

(part of the Wife at First Sight series)

In Ghost’s eyes, the first time you smiled up at him was the moment you became his and his alone.

So what if everyone apart from you knew it?

Didn’t make it any less of a fact, as far as he was concerned.

Still though, he wanted to learn more about just who his pretty little wife was, including anything that might make letting you know about your marriage a little easier. And so like the good soldier he is, he goes about it as though it were a reconnaissance mission.

He asks you how you take your coffees and teas, holding his breath as he watches you take the first sip of whichever drink he’s made you that day, pride swelling in his chest when you tell him it’s perfect, even better than when you make it.

The first time he’d done so, your eyes widened in surprise when he put his large, gloved hands over yours where they were wrapped around the mug, leaning forward and bringing the rim to his lips where he took a sip for himself, eyes locked with yours. You were unsure of what to think or say, but he apparently decided for you that this was okay, returning the warm drink to your mouth where he encouraged you to take another sip.

You figured that it was alright, he did make the tea for you after all, right?

You even laughed when he started only serving you in a mug with ‘Mrs.’ printed across the side, certain that it hadn’t been in any of the common room’s cupboards before.

He eyes the book peeking out of your bag one morning as you tuck it away, purchasing his own copy the very same day, curious to know what you like reading. You’re pleasantly surprised, if not a tad confused, when you find the next two books in the trilogy sat atop your desk soon after, a small note written in chicken scratch lain on top reads ‘To : Wife’. He’ll make a point of commenting on the novel if he sees you holding it, slipping in tid bits of information to impress you show he’s read it as well, likes the same things you like.

He’ll joke about how the food on the dining hall is always subpar, trying to casually find out what you like eating, subtly pulling out his phone and typing anything new into his notes app where he’s been keeping track of all your likes and dislikes. He just wants to get things right with you, be good for you, prove he can be the husband you need. You’re already perfect in his eyes, his sweet little soulmate who just doesn’t know it yet.

Though this was the first military base you’d ever worked on, you couldn’t recall anyone having ever warned you about the way Lieutenants apparently like to haze the new hires, never mind the fact that everyone else was apparently in on it.

No one bats an eye when you go to take the empty seat next to him in a briefing, and he wraps his strong arms around you to instead plop you down onto his muscular thighs, carrying on with the task at hand as though this is perfectly normal and professional. Even the Captain hardly glances at the interaction, so you figure it’s okay, some strange form of team bonding?

Not a soul comments on the way the Lieutenant insists on being the one to cut up your food and feed you bites during meals in the dining hall, pretending as though they don’t hear him telling you about how “my wife works hard enough, don’t need to be liftin’ a finger wit’ me around, love.”

They know to move out of the way if you’re approaching a closed door, knowing if the Lieutenant is anywhere near, he’ll be rushing to open the door for you before you can even attempt to do it yourself.

Even Soap has stopped complaining aloud and only rolls his eyes when Ghost drops anything and everything he’s doing- whether it’s spotting the Sergeant in the gym, being out on a morning run, hell even being in the middle of a shower- to send you a good morning text at six o clock on the dot. Every. Single. Morning.

No, you never exactly anticipated this sort of a running gag from a hardened military base, but you’re not exactly complaining either.

Not when you find your heart fluttering every time your fake work husband dotes on you like he really would marry you at the drop of a hat.

Besides, it’s all just playful, innocent fun, right?

Especially when everyone begins to apparently forget your name and instead refers to you only as Mrs Riley.

And when the Captain tells you that your requested time off for a honeymoon has been approved, something which you definitely don’t remember requesting, well that’s all just fun too, right?

[nereidprinc3ss]

hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…

you do you for the rest!

in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.

warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love

a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!

It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied. 

Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details. 

A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name. 

“You in there?”

The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”

“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”

You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror. 

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause. 

“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”

“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”

The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it. 

“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort. 

“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”

He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is. 

“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably. 

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”

He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing. 

“My face freaks you out?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—” 

You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face. 

Oh. He was fucking with you. 

He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer. 

“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.  

“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”

And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.

“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.

For some reason, this offends you. 

“Why not?”

Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.  

“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies. 

“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”

“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”

The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic. 

“Well—”

Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you. 

“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”

As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room. 

“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”

His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder. 

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”

“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back. 

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”

“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately. 

“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”

“See? How hard was that?”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”

“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.

“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”

With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin. 

“I can’t—”

“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are. 

“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer. 

“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”

Something aches in the pit of your stomach. 

Something resembling jealousy. 

It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid. 

Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you. 

You swallow and try to act like yourself. 

“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”

“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”

Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see. 

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”

You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.  

“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”

He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in. 

“H—woah.”

“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively. 

“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place. 

“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”

“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable. 

“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”

“Shut up! You love it!”

His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job. 

You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”

“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it. 

“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”

You frown. 

She makes a good point. 

Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail. 

It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut. 

When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer. 

On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl. 

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen. 

When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.

Funny. 

Maybe that is the right word for what you two are.