#how long can I keep this up before I break and start looking for some job in admin or development

[norikuna]

SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

[pucksandpower]

A Royal Surprise

Max Verstappen x Princess of Wales!Reader

Summary: in which Max 1) forgot to tell his team that he has a girlfriend and 2) forgot to tell his team that the girlfriend in question is the future Queen of England �� oops?

One of Red Bull Racing’s PR officers, Leslie, sits in the back of the conference room, her pen poised over her notepad as she listens to the team debrief. It’s a typical Thursday morning, with engineers and drivers discussing the upcoming race weekend. Leslie’s eyes flit between Max Verstappen and his teammate as they offer their insights on car performance and track conditions.

“The balance felt off in turn three during the sim,” Max says, leaning back in his chair. “We might need to adjust the downforce.”

Leslie jots this down, already planning how to phrase it for the press conference later that afternoon. Just another normal day at Red Bull Racing, she thinks.

But then, Max casually adds, “Oh, and by the way, you might see some extra security around this weekend. My girlfriend’s coming to watch the race.”

Leslie’s pen stills. There’s something in Max’s tone that makes her look up sharply.

“Girlfriend?” Christian Horner raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone seriously.”

Max shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, it’s been a few months now. We’ve been keeping it quiet.”

Leslie leans forward, her PR senses tingling. “Anyone we know?” She asks, trying to keep her voice casual.

Max’s grin widens. “You could say that. It’s Y/N.”

The room falls silent. Leslie blinks, sure she must have misheard. “I’m sorry, did you say Y/N? As in ...”

“The Princess of Wales, yeah,” Max confirms, as if he’s just mentioned dating a local girl from down the street.

Leslie’s notepad slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor. The sound seems to break the spell of silence that’s fallen over the room.

“Max,” Christian says slowly, “are you telling us that you’re dating the future Queen of England?”

Max nods, still looking far too relaxed for someone who’s just dropped a bombshell of international proportions. “That’s right.”

Leslie’s mind is spinning. Images of tabloid headlines and diplomatic incidents flash before her eyes. She stands up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I need to make some calls,” she says weakly.

But before she can escape, Christian holds up a hand. “Wait, Leslie. We need to handle this carefully. Max, how long has this been going on?”

“About six months,” Max replies. “We met at a charity event in London. Hit it off right away.”

Leslie sinks back into her chair, her head in her hands. “Six months,” she mutters. “You’ve been dating the Princess of Wales for six months, and we’re just finding out now?”

Max has the grace to look a bit sheepish. “We wanted to keep it private for as long as possible. You know how it is with the media.”

Oh, Leslie knows. She knows all too well. “Max,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady, “do you realize what this means? The security implications alone ...”

“It’s all been taken care of,” Max assures her. “The palace has been very discreet.”

Leslie laughs, a slightly hysterical edge to it. “The palace. Of course. Because now we’re dealing with actual palaces.”

Christian clears his throat. “Right. Well, this certainly changes things. Leslie, I think we’re going to need to reschedule the rest of this meeting. Can you get started on a press strategy?”

Leslie nods numbly, her mind already racing with potential scenarios and damage control plans.

As the room begins to clear, Max approaches her. “Leslie? Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

Leslie takes a deep breath. “Max, I appreciate you telling us. But next time you decide to date royalty, maybe give us a heads up a bit sooner?”

Max chuckles. “Sorry about that. If it helps, you’re handling it better than your counterpart at the palace did when you found out.”

“Oh God,” Leslie groans. “I’m going to have to coordinate with the royal PR team, aren’t I?”

“They’re actually pretty cool,” Max says. “A bit stuffy at first, but they loosen up after a while.”

Leslie shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is my life now. Okay, Max, I need you to tell me everything. How did you meet? How have you kept this secret? What are the security arrangements?”

For the next hour, Leslie grills Max on every detail of his relationship with you. She learns about secret rendezvous in Monaco, carefully orchestrated “chance” meetings at public events, and the challenges of dating someone whose every move is scrutinized by the world.

“And you’re sure about this?” Leslie asks finally. “Dating her ... it’s not exactly going to be easy for you.”

Max’s expression softens. “I know. But she’s worth it. We’re worth it.”

Despite her stress, Leslie feels a twinge of sympathy. It can’t be easy, trying to nurture a relationship under such intense pressure.

“Alright,” she sighs. “I’ll do everything I can to make this as smooth as possible. But Max, promise me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“No more bombshells, okay? My heart can’t take it.”

Max grins. “Well, actually ...”

Leslie’s eyes widen in alarm. “What? What is it now?”

“Her father ... he’s a big F1 fan. He’s been hinting that he’d like to attend a race.”

The room starts to spin. The last thing Leslie hears before everything goes black is Max’s concerned voice saying, “Leslie? Leslie, are you okay?”

When Leslie comes to, she’s lying on the conference room couch, with Max and Christian hovering over her anxiously.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Christian says, relief evident in his voice. “You gave us quite a scare there, Leslie.”

Leslie sits up slowly, her head still spinning. “Please tell me I dreamed all of that,” she mutters.

Max shakes his head, looking apologetic. “Sorry, it’s all real. Are you okay? Should we call a doctor?”

Leslie waves him off. “No, no, I’m fine. Just ... processing.” She takes a deep breath, her PR training kicking in despite her shock. “Okay. Let’s take this one step at a time. First, we need to draft a statement.”

Christian nods. “Good idea. What are you thinking?”

Leslie stands up, pacing as she thinks out loud. “We need to confirm the relationship without making too big a deal of it. Something like ... ‘Red Bull Racing confirms that driver Max Verstappen is in a relationship with Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. We ask for privacy as they navigate this new chapter.’”

Max frowns. “Isn’t that a bit ... formal?”

Leslie sighs. “Max, you’re dating the future Queen of England. Everything’s going to be a bit formal from now on.”

“She hates that, you know,” Max says softly. “All the formality. It’s why she likes being with me. I treat her like a normal person.”

Leslie pauses in her pacing, struck by the vulnerability in Max’s voice. “You really care about her, don’t you?”

Max nods. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. She’s ... she’s amazing. Smart, funny, kind. When I’m with her, I forget about all the titles and protocol. She’s just ... her.”

Christian clears his throat, looking uncomfortable with the display of emotion. “That’s all well and good, but we need to think about the bigger picture here. This relationship could have major implications for the team, for Formula 1 as a whole.”

Leslie nods, her mind already racing ahead. “We’ll need to coordinate with the palace on all public appearances. Security will need to be completely overhauled. And the media ... oh God, the media is going to have a field day with this.”

“Hey,” Max says, placing a hand on Leslie’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. You’re the best in the business, Leslie. If anyone can handle this, it’s you.”

Despite her stress, Leslie feels a rush of affection for the young driver. “Thanks. I appreciate that. Now, let’s get back to work. We have a lot to do before this news breaks.”

As they settle back into planning mode, Leslie can’t help but shake her head in disbelief. A Formula 1 driver and a princess. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale or a cheesy romance novel. But as she watches Max’s face light up when he talks about you, she realizes that sometimes, reality is stranger — and more romantic — than fiction.

“Oh, and Leslie?” Max adds as they’re wrapping up. “About the King wanting to attend a race ...”

Leslie holds up a hand. “One crisis at a time, Max. Let’s get through announcing your relationship before we start planning any more royal visits to the paddock, okay?”

Max grins. “Fair enough. But just so you know, he’s particularly interested in the British Grand Prix. Says it would be ‘jolly good fun’ to present the trophies.”

Leslie closes her eyes, already imagining the logistical nightmare. “Max, I swear, if you’re joking ...”

“Would I joke about something like this?” Max asks innocently.

Leslie looks at him for a long moment, then turns to Christian. “I’m going to need a raise. And possibly a personal team of therapists.”

Christian chuckles. “I think that can be arranged. Welcome to the new era of Red Bull Racing. It’s going to be an interesting ride.”

As Leslie gathers her notes and prepares to face the whirlwind that’s about to engulf them all, she can’t help but smile slightly. It’s going to be challenging, stressful, and probably more than a little crazy. But as she watches Max’s eyes light up at the mention of your name, she realizes that maybe, just maybe, it might all be worth it in the end.

After all, who doesn’t love a good fairy tale?

[bxnfire]

let’s break the internet!

synopsis: just some good ol hcs/drabbles for cyber sex ft. various jjk characters!! purely based on what i think they’d do the most if they got freaky otp

content/warnings: minors dni, phone sex, nudes, OF, masturbation, pet names, established relationships, just smut. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, + choso!

a/n: i love cyber sex by doja sm!!! maybe even actual cybersex. enjoy <3

✮ s. gojo - nudes

he loves seeing you, and being the prideful bastard he is, he knows damn well the effect he has on you; it’s kind of hard to forget how pretty you looked the first time you saw him fully naked: your beautiful, curious eyes wide open, scanning all over his body, your cheeks reddened and your mouth slightly open. even after being together for so long, you never fail to get flustered at the sight of him, so whenever he’s feeling needy or perceives that you are, he’ll send a little sneaky pic, the more you react to it, the more obscene they get.

the concept of time and place is completely foreign to him. business trip? a quick stop by the bathroom will do! get ready to receive all kinds of things, ranging from a picture of his raging boner, leaking tip tainting his underwear, to nut videos when he’s laying all alone on his bed without you. long day at work? don’t be surprised to find a cute little video of him playing with himself in his office, the longer you take to respond the longer he’ll tease himself for, so please be nice and send something back! you won’t regret seeing his pretty dick shoot ropes of cum as he strokes himself through his orgasm, your name being said like a broken record, his pretty voice oh so breathless for you.

don’t worry though— he always reminds you he’ll never feel as good as you make him feel, and if anything, you can always go back to these anytime you’d like! satoru trusts you, so he lets you keep ‘em.

💬 my toru 🩵: baby i miss you so much

💬 my toru 🩵: [IMG]

💬 my toru 🩵: see how hard you make me sweetheart?

💬 my toru 🩵: get here so you can help me out

surely enough, the second you open up your phone and read satoru’s lewd messages your pussy is quick to react the way she would if he were there, right in front of you, telling you all of this. luckily, you were at home, so you sit on the sofa and start rubbing your clit. taking your phone out to take a video for satoru, it doesn’t pass 2 minutes before you receive one in return.

in the video, satoru’s hair is ruffled, his skin glowing thanks to a light coat of sweat over it, you assume he’s been at it for a little now, and as the camera lowers you can admire his beautifully pale, sculpted body, veins popped on his arms, hand, and dick, who’s head and a couple of inches still manage to stick out from his big hands.

glossy, red, and throbbing, his dick is moving quickly as his hands frantically move up and down his shaft, balls moving just as fast, making your mouth water.

“f-fuck sweets, you s-see what you d-do to me? i should’ve be-been long sleep by now, but this one’s hard t-to ignore, heh,” he pants, referring to his dick as he continues to stroke himself. “wanna help me some more? i-i really m-miss you, wish ‘twas your h-hand as you k-kiss me.”

as if you weren’t already soaking, you get even wetter at his explicit words. being unable to not comply to his wishes, you take a video from an angle in which your thighs, pussy, and the underside of your tits are on display. mimicking his motion from memory, you pump two fingers in and out of yourself as your other hand grabs some of your slick to lubricate your nipples, with whom you play with by lightly pulling and pressing the way you know he would. limiting your dirty talk to moans of his name and a couple of “i miss you’s” here and there, you end up sending a 2 minute video.

your phone goes dead silent for a whole 5 minutes. worried that maybe you had overdone it, you open you and satoru’s chat just in time to see his video pop up. he’s there, white hair falling messily on his forehead as his blue eyes go from looking at the camera to looking at his dick, stroking it at an awfully quick pace as he plays with his balls, the way he knows you would.

“y-you’d do it s-so m-much better a-angel,” he moans, “b-but f-fuck! you l-look s-so gorgeous, i-i can’t h-help myself.”

he barely manages to get the sentence out before you catch a sight of the creamy ropes leaving his tip, firstly tainting his lower abdomen to somehow covering your view, the mess so great he even got his phone screen.

“sorry baby, guess you can’t say i lie when i say you make me dump the biggest loads huh?”

you really want to reply, but you’re fingering yourself through your orgasm, the dirty little video on a loop as you cum, once, twice, before replying.

💬 you: sorry for not replying but uh

💬 you: we may need a new couch

💬 you: [IMG]

satoru had thought you were asleep, but he chuckles as he sees your purple suede couch stained with a big, dark spot in the center. the thought of fucking you in it makes him hard again, so he just replies:

💬 my toru 🩵: sure sweets

💬 my toru 🩵: i’ll get us any couch you like

💬 my toru 🩵: but you’ll let me fuck you in this one for every dollar i spend in our next one

✮ s. geto - video call

suguru is a sensual man. he’s not a fan of doing it over the phone really— he can’t see you. nudes aren’t his thing because he’d rather see it as it’s happening, and even though thirsty texts could be the start of it, they’ll never suffice, therefore, he loves facetiming you whenever you text him all hot and bothered. finding you blushing, eyes watery, and breathing heavily is utterly addictive, and who is he to deny his pretty girl?

of course you can’t get off as well by yourself as you could if he was there to take care of you.

“touch yourself for me pretty. caress your thighs the way you know i would,” he coos on the other end of the line, palming himself through his underwear.

“i-i’m so horny sugu, i don’t know if i can take y-your teasing,” you saw in-between moans.

he chuckled, then he says “alright darling, but if you wanna go quicker, you’ll have to match my pace.”

“yes please!” you beg.

“who am i to deny you?” he says, and then he gets rid of his underwear in one swift movement. as he starts stroking himself quickly, hand shifting from base to his pretty, leaking reddened tip and fondling his balls clear for you to see, he starts instructing you. “f-fuck okay, lick two fingers and then go ahead and p-put them inside for me love.”

you do as you’re told. given that you had been edging yourself all day it doesn’t take you long to recognize the buildup of your orgasm. even through the screen, suguru instantly recognizes the familiar look of your pulsing pussy when she’s about to cum. your pretty walls get impossibly wet, your fingers get sucked in too easily, and your legs are shaky. wanting to cum at the same time as you, he starts playing with his tip, the way he knows you would, and he gets particularly quiet to listen to your pretty moans.

“oh my god sugu! please, i can’t wait much l-longer, a-are you c-close?” you ask between pants, trying your damned best to form a coherent sentence.

“just wait a little bit more for me baby, don’t get ahead of yourself now,” suguru replied, not wanting to miss out on your orgasm.

“f-fuck, i c-can’t wait much longer,” you say, fingers starting to get tired from bullying your dripping cunt at his command.

your moans, pleas, and barely cohesive words put a spell on him. his cock was a mess, red from his obscene throbbing and stimulation from his hands, veins on the verge of popping, and sticky from his precum, and even though he had kept you there for 10 minutes, you and him both were close to hitting your climax. bucking his hips into his hand as he tries his best to patch the pace of his strokes to the one at which you were fingering yourself, his usual praise or instructions go away completely as he’s stroking himself silly, mind only being able to take in the view of you pleasuring yourself and directing his hands to finish off his aching dick.

before he knows it, the screen of his phone is creamy, along with his hand and his pants under him. he had just nutted a messy load and the cum in his screen aligned itself perfectly to make it seem like he had taken a little long to pull out and your entrance and thighs were coated. of course, the sight alone made his dick wake back up and take place on his hand.

“baby… you wanna try something new?” he asks.

“mmm?”

“go ahead and get the condensed milk for me… why don’t ya put on a show?” he says, flashing the camera down so that you could see his newly hardened cock along with the mess he had just made.

“greedy aren’t ya?” you purr, getting up to walk towards your kitchen.

“only for you,” he says, genuinely.

and with that, you knew it’d be a long night, not that the sticky mess on your sheets or exhausted self found to work next morning wasn’t a price too high to pay, there’s nothing in this world you wouldn’t do to watch your pretty boyfriend moan and cum over and over for you, veiny hands stroking his matching veiny dick a sight to behold, especially when his loads were so heavy, and the best part? you knew he felt the same.

✮ t. fushiguro - OnlyFans

he’s just trying to have fun. not fond of all that online bullshit because he cannot be bothered with it! if he’s horny, he’ll deal with it with you and you only, not his incompetent hands when he could have your lovely hands instead or your beautiful and skilled mouth.

now, he’s always down to record your little fuck sessions. it didn’t really occur to him to make those a side gig until you suggested it one night, knowing you both could use the money, and that toji would hate to overwork you to get something he feels he should be providing. being the absolute nasty man he is on the sheets, he didn’t even have to think it twice before agreeing, after all, who is he to say no to his hot girlfriend, let alone if it’s a pleasurable way to get money?

and that is how you found yourself in this predicament. you were in all fours, back arched, pussy wet and in display for all of your followers to see. toji was feeling up for a stream tonight, and thanks to your followers and your boyfriend’s nature, you’re just hot and bothered, begging for his touch, because all he’s doing is teasing you for the camera.

“look at you horny fuckers,” he says to the camera, “bet y’all wish ya were me aren’t ya? i guess i’ll you some mercy and let you choose what happens to her next,” he says as he slaps your wet cunt for the nth time.

hxrnynbxthered: eat her out!

pussyd0ct0r: finger her

tojisbaby: just fuck her already my fingers are tired

blueeyedfreak sent ¥75,000

blueeyedfreak: don’t care what ya do, i just need to see her pussy squirt.

“wanna see my pretty girl squirt? want to see this fucking nasty cunt make a mess on my fingers? i’ll show you a good fucking mess,” he says, riled up by the money, and the plethora of lewd requests.

given how wet you were, toji just ran two of his digits through your slit and labia before thrusting them inside of you. going on scissor-like motions to get started, you become a moaning mess, fingers gripping the sheets under you, chest heaving oh so much while your face was flushed, glowing from the thin layer of sweat you had worked up, and your beautiful eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“i’ll show you how she fucking squirts,” he says more to himself than to the crowd, slapping your cunt before pulling his dick out. he pounds into you relentlessly, bed creaking and hitting the wall, eyes to the back of your head, and unable to form a comprehensible sentence. given that by teasing you he was teasing himself just as much, it didn’t take too long for you to cum, a splash of your slick all over his fat cock shown to your followers, all of which left lovely, supportive comments.

before the video ends, toji kisses you sweetly, in frame enough for people to see what was going on, but out of frame enough where nobody could rlly see your face besides toji. with that, he turns to the camera with his characteristic smirk, and turns off the live without another word.

the funny thing about being intimate in such a lewd and quite public manner is that there are still ways to keep some things between the two of you. toji has never once let them see your face, nor do they get to see his as he comes undone. any videos you wish to keep private remain that way, the public only gets to see what you want. and honestly? it’s the best fucking thing.

✮ k. nanami - sensual texts

nanami is a gentleman. he is also a man heavily ruled by his morals and better judgement, thus he’s not really one to lean towards sending explicit pictures or videos, let alone ask for them, for he respects you too much. regardless, at the end of the day he’s still a man, your man, and he is not only in love with you, but your pussy.

you, on the other hand, speak up more about your desires and wants than he does, so it’s not rare for you to text your lovely husband whenever you’re feeling restless and in need of his touch while he’s away. he’s gotten used to it by now, and although he’d likely never admit it to you, he looks forward to those lewd, provocative texts.

💬 you: what time are you coming home my love?

💬 kento ❤️: Not anytime soon. Sadly, the mission has taken longer than expected and I’ll probably have to work overtime.

💬 you: awww no! i miss you so badly…

💬 you: been thinking of you being inside me all day, and my fingers are so so tired baby

this is all it took to get him worked up. knowing he wouldn’t be able to focus on the task at hand when his dick was straining so painfully against his pants and all his mind could think of was the many ways he wish he could please you right now, he quickly excused himself to go to the bathroom.

whilst being there, he got down to work and palmed himself through his boxers as he looked through your recent messages and pictures. you truly drove him insane, who would’ve thought the poised man could break his composure just from 3 texts? that your words, on a screen, nonetheless, would get his pants too fucking tight, his cock so restless and achy for touch? that instead of doing his job like he should’ve been doing, is actually fighting back groans as he gets off to the idea of fucking you right there in conference room for everyone to see?

he can envision it very well: you, messy hair, bent over the table, shirt long forgotten on the floor and skirt a little fad up your back, thighs quivering and drops of your slick running down its insides as he’s pounding his thick cock into you, a smack, smack, smack! from every time his balls slapped against your pussy, hand wrapped around your neck while the other one is caressing up and down your arched back, as everyone’s face is suddenly blurred and all he can see is his dick going in and out your cunt making your ass jiggle deliciously.

he lost track of time caught up in his little fantasy, and 30 minutes had already passed by, but his hand wouldn’t leave his dick and his mind wouldn’t think of anything that didn’t relate to you, and your body, and your voice when you main his name, and your hair, and your touch, and-

“you okay in there man? please don’t tell me you got a stomach bug,” gojo’s voice broke through his lewd thoughts, followed by some knocks on the door.

“f-fuck,” he mutters, “i’ll be out in a moment, but that ramen might’ve been to spicy for me,” he covers up.

“hurry up, don’t wanna make it awkward, heh,” gojo says teasingly.

this almost killes it for nanami, but once he’s certain gojo’s back in the conference room he decides he must finish himself off. what’s 10 more minutes of his absence? besides, it’d be unprofessional to come back with a tent on his beige pants, would it not?

✮ k. choso - phone sex

choso is still fairly new to these things. given that you’re his first and only, he’s still a little shy about what he likes and can do, but there’s no shyness that would hide the lust this man has for you.

originally, he had never intended to start having phone sex with you. he was familiar with the concept, yes, but he didn’t really have it in him to ask you to do it. he felt heavenly whenever he was able to please you or get pleased by you, and his memories (and maybe some of the photos he has of you) suffice to get him off whenever you two couldn’t be together.

one night was particularly rough though. you were away for a work trip, and he stayed home while you were gone. the first couple of days went by fairly easily, he would facetime you to check up on you and hear your voice, he’d do whatever he needed to do throughout the day, and at night he would take a long, hot shower, and get hard at the thought of you.

he has a pretty high sex drive, and ever since you started getting active, he yearns for it more and more as time passes. so, in absence of your touch and presence in its entirety, he finds solace in memories and make believe. it’ll all start by him remembering you through the day, he’ll either pass by a restaurant you like, or perhaps lighting the candles you love, and maybe even picking up clothes you’ve left somewhere and forgot to put back in their spot.

his mind will go to more explicit memories from there, like that one time you couldn’t wait to get home and fucked in the parking lot of the aforementioned restaurant, windows foggy, car shaking, and you looking ethereal as your head was pushed back, tits bouncing deliciously right in his line of sight, your body pressed so tightly against his as you rode his hard dick. or, back to the time where you made love in a candle-lit evening as the sweet smell of champagne toast filled the room, along with the sounds of skin slapping, his whines and grunts, and a mixture of your pleas for more, the repetition of his name, and your moans, all of which drove him insane. even your clothes on the floor reminded him of the countless times he’s taken them off you, and the handful in which he fucked you while you still were in them, often being when you had some lazy morning sex as he thrust into you from the side while kissing the back of your neck.

shutting off the cold water after realizing his dick just wouldn’t go down unless he dealt with it, he conveniently saw an incoming call from you as he grabbed his phone to look at pictures of you.

“hi baby! i miss you, how was your day?” your lovely voice says.

“just a little tired baby but i’m happy to hear your voice, will you tell me about your day? don’t spare any details,” choso replies, sitting down and lazily touching his dick.

oblivious to the reason why he just wanted to hear you talk, you begin rambling on about your day. usually, choso would ask questions throughout or just drop in some “right,” and “yeah?” or “oh,” but today he’s just humming, and his voice sounds shakier than usual… is he running?

“baby,” you call.

“w-what d-darling?”

“are you okay? you sound worked up and i repeated my last sentence 3 times and yet you didn’t notice,” you question, a little worried at his unusual demeanor.

he blushes at your question, how would he muster up the courage that he was just trying to get off to your voice? as much as he wanted to lie to you, he knew he couldn’t, and so he just swore he’d make it up to you as soon as he could.

“well baby, please forgive me, but i was just lonely and i missed you so much and well i-”

“you didn’t fucking cheat on me did you?” you ask, a little over the edge.

“no! i could never, i’m just embarrassed to confess what i was really up to…”

you sigh in relief, your short-lived rage leaving your body as curiosity takes its place. “well then, what is it? promise i won’t judge.”

“i might’ve been, just maybe, jerking off to your voice,” he confesses, voice trembling with every word.

“…”

“i’m so sorry! i promise you i’ll make it up to you! i’ll listen to your story and get you those flowers you said you liked and-”

“cho,” you say, stopping his tangent, “i’m not mad, i’m just a little surprised of course, but i’d be lying if i said that your little confession doesn’t have me rubbing my thighs and made my pussy wet.”

“oh,” he says, “oh.”

“do you wanna… help each other?” you suggest, and choso is quick to get out a yes.

10 minutes later you’re both laying in bed, clothes long forgotten on the floor, cock in hand and fingers in your cunt as you both tell each other what you’d do to each other if you were together. soon enough, you’ve gone beyond the point of being talkative, so you just let your moans and grunts do the speaking for you instead. the sloppy sounds coming from your fingers going in and out your soaking entrance intermingling beautifully with the sounds of his quick strokes through the line.

“f-fuck baby i’m so close, are you?” he asks between pants.

“ch-cho, n-need to c-cum so b-bad!” you manage to get out.

“then cum b-baby, let’s do it together,” he says.

his last couple of strokes go harder and faster than the previous ones, his hands seemingly inspired for your more frantic pants and moans on the phone, and as he hears one last “cho” from your fucked out voice he is busting the fattest load he has in a while, knowing it’ll be hard to wash those sheets off after he’s over his high.

but fuck it, it felt so good and he was just so needy for you…

“… round two?” you ask.

“hell yeah,” he replies, feeling his cock harden once again. he could get new sheets, but nothing would be worth losing this moment with you. after all, he was down to do it again, again, and again for every night you spent away.

[mossangelll]

Dress Me like Your French Girls

yandere!caitlyn x reader x yandere!jinx requested by anon!

took me longer than i would’ve liked (with many tense mistakes included oops) but i hope you can enjoy! i took a lot of liberties with this request and kinda ran with it ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

tw: kidnapping, violence, controlling behaviour, objectification

Bedsheets made of prussian blue silk and white lace borders, floor to ceiling windows that looked out to the great expanse of the gardens, even fresh flowers set on your vanity each morning without fail - all before you even had the chance to rub sleep from your eyes. You knew the beauty that surrounded you was merely a mirage, something to distract you from opening your eyes to its harsh reality. You may be a nobody from Zaun but you’re no fool; you could see the minute you stepped foot in this place you that it was just a prison, even if it had a crystal chandelier.

Today, you’re sat at your walnut desk reading the book Caitlyn - no, Cait, got for you.

It was something about flowers you couldn’t care less about but you know when Caitlyn comes to see you for the evening, she’ll expect to hear all about your riveting day, including your thoughts on the book she gifted to you. Suppressing the urge to roll your eyes, you turn the page with a gloved hand, but the words and diagrams blur together into a puddle of ink you can’t decipher. Well, as long as you could recount a handful of trite facts she should be satisfied.

After all, she mentioned a special gift that you would both enjoy, that is what her focus will be on for most of the evening.

Your eyes flicker to the wardrobe stuffed to the brim with expensive, custom-made garments that looms over you and you find your mind turns to static in an attempt to block out all the intrusive memories you’d rather lose to the abyss of time, even if you know that you will never be able to cut away Cait’s lasting scars.

She will always intertwined in your life as much as you are hers.

Whenever she brings one of these “gifts” to your room, you know what to expect. It’s never anything sordid - oh, Cait could never do anything as debased as what those cruel animals do. Ever the pinnacle of Kiramman self-control, or as you like to call it - repression. But still, when she’s done, her tongue darts out to lick her lips, her face blooms with all the effort of her rapidly beating heart and she has the demeanour of a woman starved, she simply…retracts into herself as if the inferno burning deep inside of her isn’t roaring to be let out and engulf everything it touches.

It starts with Cait slipping into your room at night with a heavy sigh, head leaning against the ornate doors and fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turn bone white.

The light from the chandelier is dimmed, casting dark shadows to contrast her silhouette and pronounce the weariness of her face, and yet she manages to have not a single hair out of place much to your ever-growing chagrin.

Then, she ambles over to where you’re sat, each tap of her heeled boots in sync with the pounding of your heart, making her own attempt at casual conversation (that somehow always manages to come off as strained, like she has to force the words out from her throat) about your day as if any of this was normal, as if you actually had free will and the ability to make your own choices, not just the the illusion of it all. But that was what Cait was best at, keeping up illusions no matter how cracked and faded they become.

She guides you with hands tight on your shoulders to sit at the ornate vanity, a hand moving to the middle of your back to force it ramrod straight, so she can brush your hair with a featherlight touch from the crown of your head to the tangled ends. Back before you had her rules ingrained into the every other fibre of your being, you told her that you’re not some porcelain doll that could break at the smallest touch but all you get in return was the hardened stare you’d come to know well in the reflection of the mirror - you don’t speak unless spoken to. Always.

She starts to get you ready for bed, ever so slightly calloused hands wiping away the day’s makeup. It felt wrong to see her, sole heir to the House of Kiramman, act so subservient just for you. It was an unnatural upheaval of the entire hierarchy that dictated your life until this point and it never fails to make your head spin with its taboo intoxication.

She saves the part you dread the most for last, and no matter how many times you went through the same monotonous routine, you still felt uneasy every time the clock’s chime rang through the halls closer and closer to her arrival.

Cait ensured she was the only one to undress you from whatever restrictive clothes she had forced upon you in the morning. No maids could be trusted to be anywhere near you, let alone get to see you in such a revealing state. That was reserved for her eyes only.

Graceful fingers weave between the laces of your corset, unravelling the thread at a snail’s pace. Sometimes, though she would vehemently deny the accusation with great fervour, she would yank at the corset strings just a tad too tight, fingers flexing at your waist to calm herself when she felt your hands grasp at her forearms in an attempt to stabilise yourself. You knew just as well as she that she got a sick thrill from how much you needed her.

The corset is soon discarded alongside the rest of your clothing and she traces the curve of your spine, goose bumps rising on your skin like hackles, before choosing your nightgown for the evening from the very wardrobe you despised with each ounce of your body.

She would get you to lift up your arms and have you to stand in the gauzy fabric as she pulls it up your body, not even giving you the chance to huddle in on yourself.

She makes you twirl for her in the centre of the room and her eyes glow in delight as the skirt of your dress fans out and rises before gently falling back down, so close to being indecent but just able to keep from toeing the line she drew. You wonder if the moonlight can penetrate through the thin dresses and illuminate each and every part of you, even the parts you’d rather remain unseen, and if that’s why she makes you do all this, even if she’d never admit it.

She sits you down on your plush footboard and kneels at your feet, blue eyes staring up at you with restrained wonderment. Humming in satisfaction, her hands slowly, painstakingly slowly, push the sheer fabric of your nightgown higher up your legs until you feel the need to cover yourself from her piercing gaze.

Her fingers hook into the tops of your stockings and all you want to do is cross your legs, shove her thin frame away and say no, no, no!

But you know Cait has no patience for that kind of attitude - especially not from you. So you stare down at her, hair free and untamed, and allow her to tug the stockings down your legs, your shaking hands clutching the sturdy underside of the footboard.

She tends to stall at this point, hands instead choosing to lightly stroke and swirl patterns on the doughy flesh of your thighs. Your chest heaves even more than it did before and far beyond what should be humanly possible and you find it hard to understand exactly what is going through her mind at that moment.

Cait wears her heart on her sleeve and though you ache to use that against her, it’s still so hard to pick apart her actions that it leaves your head spinning with the commotion of it all.

Time passes slowly in the still of your room as she inches closer to you, almost imperceptibly, until her head lays on your kneecap so softly you wouldn’t even know she was there if not for the light tickle of her hair.

Her lips leave paper-light kisses on your skin as she mumbles you through the intricacies of her day, things you could never even begin to understand, but you can tell how much it means to her just to be sat with you - the enforcers, her critical mother, every single expectation that is forced upon her shoulders, it all fades into the background as the frown on her face slowly dissipates.

Once she’s content she continues pulling off your stockings until they lie in a crumpled pile on the carpet next to her. You don’t know what she does with the stockings but you never see them again, another of Cait’s great mysteries.

Such an intimate routine that you know is unnervingly chaste. No lingering touches or stolen kisses you can’t object to, it never goes beyond that point and somehow that makes it so much worse because you spend your days in wait for a day that you know will come eventually - you just don’t know when.

She leads you to your grand, four poster bed and tucks you in with such an overwhelming amount of love just oozing from her pores that a part of you almost wishes this was ok, that you met her under normal circumstances and that you actually loved her.

“Beautiful.” she sighs without fail every time she’s done getting you ready, stroking your hair in an attempt to get you to sleep. Though you’re never quite sure if she’s talking about you or her creation.

You slip out of your trance and look at the golden hands on the clock you swore had gone forwards despite no time passing at all. You’re still on the same page you were ten minutes ago - shit.

The curtains were drawn, letting in rays of light that hit the crystal chandelier. You would’ve found the whole affair to be beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that the light refracted directly into eyes - you had to work hard to resist the urge to squint your eyes or blink.

Caitlyn- fuck, Cait! You feel the urge to rip your hair out at each stumble and mistake. You could never trip up like this in front of her, not if you wanted to steer well clear of her punishments.

Cait doesn’t like to see you make ugly faces or anything even remotely human, “Such… crude expressions don’t suit your face, darling.” She said in that soft tone of hers but the words would be dripping in derision.

Her hand would ghost the side of your face, so close to touching you that you could feel the warmth radiate from her but then she pulls away like she was being held back by some invisible force. But, to your surprise, she pushes through the internal conflicts that raged within her and her hand would return to grace the side of your face and trace from your brow bone down to the apples of your cheeks which she would gently cup, the other hand going to smooth out the lines and tension that marred your forehead before letting out a small, “All better.”

It’s hard to remember what life was like before Caitlyn sunk her claws into you, before you stopped being human and simply became her toy. You don’t know how she managed to take you - all you know is from the loving declarations she whispered in the dead of night about how she would stop at nothing until she got you - as if you would swoon. All you felt was sick to your core.

Click. Click. Click.

You hear footsteps just outside your door and freeze - why is she here so early? You hurry to your assigned place and assume doll-like role Cait expects from you. You can hear fumbling at the lock and the door handle jangling from the force of her hand. Today must have been rough on her which means your evening ritual will last longer than usual. Bile rises up your throat at the thought but you school your features into the perfect mask of neutrality. There, you think, all perfect for Cait.

So you find yourself surprised when instead of Caitlyn in her all-consuming haughtiness, a false pretence you saw through long ago, you see a woman with long blue braids and a ferocious smile stalking towards you without a care in the world.

How did she get past the guards?

“Lookie here, you’re the hidden treasure our fair lady has been keeping hush about. My intel didn’t tell me it’d be so…delicate.” She swung her head back to bark out a sharp laugh as a manicured hand twirled a graffitied gun around her finger. Still, when her laughter stops, she stares at you with a look you can’t decipher, something…darker swirling in her dilated eyes. Something you’re certain you’ve only ever seen in Cait’s eyes.

“Not like she’s doin’ a good job.” She speaks off to the side in a lazy, condescending drawl, a hand covering her mouth, and you search the room for the invisible audience. What is going on? Who is she?

Suddenly, the lithe intruder jumps to your place at the desk, slinging her arm around your shoulders in such a familiar way you can’t help but feel flustered.

“Hiya, toots. I’m Jinx and you are…?” She waggles her hand in your face before trailing off in wait of an answer but you keep your eyes trained in front of you. Not a single movement betrays you.

You can tell this upsets her as the conspiring look on her face quickly turns sour - she’s not used to being ignored.

She swings herself around with surprising dexterity and lands in your lap before you can even process what’s going on - she’s so close you can feel each puff of air leave her nose and hit your face in short bursts.

At this distance, you can notice every little detail that marks her face. The skin surrounding her pink eyes streaked with dark, branch-like veins. Her gap tooth and dark purple lipstick that stained her plump lips. The soft curve of her rounded cheeks and the misbehaving strand of cerulean hair that escapes the confines of her long braids. She smells like gunpowder, sweat and a hint of the cloying sweetness that could only be from artificial sugar. Her clothes are tattered but full of life and personality with each spot she had sloppily sewn back together herself - most importantly, she was everything Cait wasn’t. A welcome breath of fresh air in your own, albeit unnecessary, opinion.

Her cold hands poke at your cheeks in a childlike manner, indignation bubbling up inside of you and so close to bursting out. Why did everyone treat you like an object to be observed and played with?

“You are a real person, right?” The intruder squishes your cheeks together, staring into your eyes with rising suspicion. What kind of question even was that?!

You want to fidget and squirm, desperate to get away from whoever this Jinx is but the cautious voice in your head stops you, what if this was a test from Cait? To see if you would remain loyal to her? To see if you would stick to her rules no matter what?

But she claps her hand with a resounding crack that echoes throughout the room, maybe even the entire wing of the manor judging by how the birds outside took off, and your whole body jumps in shock completely abandoning your desire to remain as still as Cait would expect of you.

“Hah! Caught you! I knew you were real!” She jumps up from your lap and fist pumps the air. She seems so proud of herself for finally eliciting a reaction out of you that you decide it must be ok to test the waters and figure out exactly what is happening here.

“W-who are you and what are you doing in my room?” Your voice is low from disuse but it still manages to catch her attention away from her victory dance.

Her pink eyes wander over your doll-like figure, so unnaturally stiff and composed. It was as if you were posed and left to rot away in your dollhouse until your owner came to play with you again.

“I think I know how ya’ feel, all alone like this. You wanna be happy, tell me I’m wrong.” She shrugs with an air of indifference, but she’s anything but. The cogs have started turning in her head and set into motion a plan she can’t resist despite the immorality of it all. A plan where she saves you from this place so you can be happy - with her. Then again, when has she cared about morals?

Tremors ripple through your body and you gulp, not knowing where to look or what to think. You won’t give in to her downright cruel line of questioning, no matter how much you want to scream out that you were kidnapped and you just want to go home.

“I have no idea what you mean.” You decide to settle on instead, turning your back at the only chance of freedom you had.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong - I mean look at you. You’re dressed up like a stupid Piltie and you’re telling me you can make your own decisions?” Her hand gestures to your get-up and you look down at yourself in shame, face feeling hot and your limbs shaking, “Pfft, and here I thought I was the liar.” She shakes her head in derision.

“I’m about to do you a favour, toots.” Her arm reaches to hold onto the back of your chair, blocking off any path of escape, and she stares dead into your eyes and you can’t help but startle at how cold they are, not even a speck of warmth hiding beneath the surface. She slinks off to stand behind you where you’re unable to figure out what move she’ll try to pull next.

Before you can start to question what she meant, a sharp pain hits you in the base of your skull.

Flashes of colour swim in your vision and the sudden urge to throw up overcomes you before you lose control of your body, slumping over from your seated position and hitting the floor before everything fades to black.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Rain Check? - Feysand Oneshot

Summary: 5 times Rhysand didn't take his shot, and the one time Feyre took too many

@carrieeve It's me! Hi! I'm your santa, it's me!

For the @acotargiftexchange, you told me you'd like an AU oneshot that was Feysand focused with a friends to lovers plot - I deliberated a long time over how best to bring that vision to life, and then after some light blog stalking, I saw that you're a fan of Jim/Pam from the Office! I started binging the show for research purproses, and a Feysand office romance was born! 🥰

I really hope you enjoy it! It's been such a joy quietly stalking your blog for these last many months, and I look forward getting to know you even more now that our identities are revealed! 💕

Words: 12k

Read on AO3

-

The first time Rhysand saw Feyre, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

Only problem—so did every other man in the office. And they didn't exactly disguise their interest in the young, cute receptionist working on the fifth floor of their London skyrise.

After being propositioned by just about every single man in the office, including the ones who fell alarmingly outside her age range—a category which Rhys wasn't confident he was excluded from—he thought the last thing she needed on her first day was another colleague making a pass at her.

He offered a polite hello and welcome, but he intentionally waited until she survived her first week to strike up any further conversation. The chance opened for him when she walked into the break room at the precise moment he was filling up the kettle.

"Hey," he said, tipping the spout to gesture his hello. "Fancy a tea?"

"Oh." She glanced at the kettle, her bow-shaped lips popping open in what he could only assume was surprise. As if she'd walked into the break room expecting anything other than an electric kettle and a pod coffee machine. "I… didn't bring a mug."

"Well, Feyre, I'm not sure how they treated you at your last place, but here, corporate spoils us rotten with communal company branded mugs." Setting the kettle down on the base, Rhys flipped the overhead cabinet open, gesturing to its contents as if he'd unveiled a trove.

The dramatic flair earned him a polite laugh. It was cute, if a little forced. And he craved the chance to learn what her laugh sounded like when it wasn't given out of pity.

He gestured to the middle shelf, which deviated from the monotony of blue logo mugs. "If you do end up bringing a mug in, this is where you can keep it. Though I'll warn you, conversation gets stale here and that almost ensures you'll be asked for its backstory. I recommend bringing in something interesting, unless you want to end up like poor old Drakon."

"What happened to Drakon?"

Rhys gave a hearty sigh as he withdrew two mugs from the cupboard, shaking his head as he said, with the utmost solemnity, "He's known as the guy with a boring mug."

Her lips twitched. He thought that was a genuine smile she might have been fighting.

"If all I'm known for is having a boring mug, I think that's fine by me."

"Oh, believe me, you are far from the danger of that fate, Feyre darling—" the endearment slipped out before he could think better of it. He winced inwardly, trying to monitor her reaction in his periphery. Her brows lifted, and he continued on, hoping he could recover through the theatrics of setting the mugs in front of her, proclaiming proudly, "Because I'm gracious enough to let you use one of mine. Go on, take your pick."

The distraction paid off. Slip-up now forgotten, or so he hoped, Feyre leaned forward to read the print.

Then snorted. "This says Office Wanker."

He grinned. "That was my secret santa gift from last year."

Feyre lifted the other mug by its rather phallic shaped handle. The ceramic was dark green, with small white spikes pinched throughout to mimic a cactus. Feyre grinned as she read the white print on its side: Don't be a Prick.

"I'm sensing a theme."

"That was another gift." Rhys pitched his voice low. "Do you think they're trying to tell me something?"

"I think…" she bit her lip, her eyes gleaming with a mischief that told him she was purposefully building anticipation. "They might be mugging you off."

"That couldn't be it," he said, knowing his deadpan delivery was ruined. He could feel the stupid grin already plastered over his face and he couldn't help it. "My mother is adamant that I'm a delight. She says everyone likes me."

"I'm sure she's right," she whispered, with just the right amounts of sympathy and derision that Rhysand might have fallen in love with her right then and there.

He nodded to the two choices on the counter. "So which mug are you going with?"

"Oh—dear. Hmm. They're both such strong contenders." Feyre lifted the mugs, tilting and examining each with exaggerated scrutiny. Then she shoved the one with the phallic cactus towards him. "I think Prick fits you better. I'll go with Wanker."

"That's quite the statement to make in your second week," he said, eyes locking with hers as he accepted the mug, their fingers brushing just briefly enough to pass as accidental.

Pride warmed his chest when he noticed her cheeks turn the softest shade of pink. It was a similar shade to her lips, he thought. Which was a mistake, because he immediately needed to fight the temptation to stare at her mouth.

"Well," she said, withdrawing her hand, the movement a little stiff. A little uncertain. "At least I won't be known as a girl with a boring mug."

"That you most certainly will not," he purred.

The kettle clicked, steam billowing from its spout, and he was privately grateful for the excuse to pull his attention away lest he do—or more likely say—something stupid and inappropriate.

The entire office was flirting with her. If he escalated this beyond anything other than playful, inane small talk, she would think he was just another jerk trying his luck on the new girl. And really, isn't that exactly what he was?

Rhys lifted the kettle in offering. "So," he said. "Did you want tea?"

"Oh," she repeated. He would have teased her for it, this copy and paste exchange. Why did it keep surprising her that they were in the break room for tea? "No," she said finally, pointing toward the coffee machine. "I'm more of a coffee drinker."

"Ah," he said, pouring the water into his mug and tried to keep his cool as steam crowded his face. This whole time, he thought she was waiting for the kettle to boil. She could have been in and out of there in a minute if she just put the damn pod in.

But she lingered, watching him stir in sugar—which wasn't how he preferred his tea, but it offered an excuse for him to stay in the break room just a little longer.

"Do you—" he cleared his throat— "Do you know how to use the machine?"

"Yeah," Feyre said, waving the offer away. "I've got one like it at home."

"Ah, good."

He set his teaspoon in the sink, not in any rush to leave but faltering for a reason to stay.

If he could go back and do anything differently, Rhys would have chosen that moment to ask her out. Just for a coffee, to get to know each other. To explore what was already an obvious chemistry.

Instead he pinched the handle of his mug and nodded. "See you around then, Office Wanker."

Feyre waved. "Bye, Prick."

-

The bi-weekly sales team meeting was the bane of Rhysand's existence.

While he was being forced to sit and listen to Tamlin Spring stroke his own ego in front of the executives, Rhys knew his unattended inbox and phone line was being inundated with client inquiries that would prove a much better investment of his and the company's time.

Instead, he was trapped in an hour-long posturing session where each member of the team needed to prove to corporate that they were making enough money to justify their payslip. Something which Tamlin had been struggling with this month, though he was giving quite the performance about the value he had in the pipeline with his "nurturing prospects".

The door clicked open, and every head in the room swiveled towards the interruption.

Feyre stood there, one arm propping open the door, the other fidgeting with a sticky note. "Sorry to interrupt," she said with a wince. "I just have a note for Mr. Night. One of his clients is on line 6."

She waited until one of the executives gave her a nod of approval before scurrying to Rhys, her head ducked down. She didn't linger, pressing the sticky note into his hands, then disappearing as quickly as she'd come. He clenched his jaw when he noticed the trail of eyes that followed her.

Tamlin's gaze, in particular, dipped beneath her skirt-line, then back up. Twice. He shared a lazy grin to his left, not even trying to hide what he'd been doing. Worse, reveling in it.

"I should take this," Rhys said tightly, staring at the note in Feyre's hasty scrawl.

Office wanker,

Hope you're prepared to pay up.

"It's from my contact at Hybern," Rhys explained to the room. "I'm on the verge of closing this deal."

The executive gave Rhys a stiff nod of approval. Hybern had been a prospecting account for upwards of a year, until Rhys had taken over the lead two months ago. It was a big account, one he knew the execs were antsy to close.

Rhys had been waiting for Tamlin to finish fumbling his update to announce Hybern officially signed this morning. The choice had been purely strategic, an attempt to highlight the contrast between their performances after Tamlin tried to undermine him in the last meeting. And, admitedly, he'd been looking forward to the gratification of seeing Tamlin flounder in front of the execs he was trying so hard to brown-nose.

This was far more gratifying, though.

Rhys strolled out of the confrence room and returned to his seat, where he promptly picked up his desk phone and dialed line 6.

"Rhysand speaking."

"You thought I wouldn't do it," Feyre said in sing-song triumph. "You really thought I'd be too scared to do my job because of a bunch of serious old men in suits?"

Rhys blew out a stung breath. "Ouch, Feyre. Old?"

"Sorry, what was that? I can't hear you over your creaking bones."

"I didn't take you as a sore winner," he said, grinning.

"Doesn't matter what you took me as, because you know where you'll be taking me now? To lunch. And I'll be ordering something expensive."

He hoped she would. "Order whatever you want. A deal's a deal."

"Oh, I'm getting a side and a dessert."

"Better yet, why don't I take you to dinner? You can have the full course and drinks."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. One that prompted him to glance towards her reception desk, where he could see her pink lips part open. Her head swiveled towards him, brows merging to assess his meaning.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"We're celebrating," he said, evading the question. "I closed the deal with Hybern, you won our wager. Let's get drinks."

"Okay," she said. Her smile was shy. "Let's go to dinner."

"Tonight?"

She hesitated. "I… have nothing to wear."

"Blimey, Feyre. I didn't realize you'd come to work nude. A bit bold, don't you think?"

"Shut up," she said, giving an exaggerated eye roll to be sure he could see it across the room.

It was, perhaps, with too much severity that he rushed to add, "You look perfect."

The admission hung a second too long. Rhys cleared his throat before she could mull over the gravity with which he said it—meant it.

"Anyway, we'll leave together after work, yeah? I know just the place."

Feyre bit her lip. It wasn't the immediate agreement he was hoping for, but the pink flush rising over her cheeks was an encouraging sign.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll wait by the lift."

"Don't want them to see us leaving together?" He teased.

"Are you kidding?" She sounded horrified. "If they see us leave together, tomorrow there will be rumors that we're shagging."

"In rumor only?"

"See how well dinner goes first, Prick."

"That's not a no," he crooned, to which Feyre slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

He couldn't keep the dumb grin off his face, even once the sales team got out of their meetings and Tamlin plunked into the seat beside Rhys.

Tamlin scowled. "What are you so happy about?"

His voice was sour, even for Tamlin. Rhys figured the meeting must have gone south after he left. Ass kissing could only go so far when there's no money to be shown for it.

"I closed the deal with Hybern," Rhys said, deciding to capitalize on what was shaping up to be a superb day by rubbing it in Tamlin's face just a little bit. "Sending it through for approval right…" Click. "Now."

"Congrats," Tamlin muttered, mustering as minimal enthusiasm into the word as possible.

Rhys would have felt bad for the guy. When Tamlin first joined, Rhys had tried to take him under his wing, taking him on sales calls and feeding him solid leads that just needed a bit of nurturing. He'd thought they were something like friends until he'd caught Tam trying to poach his clients six months ago. When Rhys asked him to back off, Tamlin had gotten upper management involved, and things had gotten messy.

Since then, their relationship had regressed into this—Tamlin slumping back in his chair, frowning at his screen as Rhysand's closed deal started making the rounds in their sales channels.

The door to the CRO's office snicked open. "Hey, Rhysand. Can we talk?"

"Of course. I'll join you in a moment."

As Rhys slid out of his chair, he couldn't resist sneaking a glance towards Feyre. He was just doing his job at the end of the day, but he was good at it, and some juvenile part of his brain wanted her to notice.

Their eyes met. It always zapped through him, the sight of those bright eyes, like dragging his feet on carpet and touching something metal.

Feyre ducked her head, smiling shyly at her computer.

When he turned back, he saw Tamlin staring at him. Hard.

"What?" Rhys asked, straightening.

"The quirky little receptionist?" He snorted. "I didn't realize that was your type."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Tamlin shrugged. "I'm only trying to warn you. I hear she's fucked half this office."

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets, obscuring the fingers he curled into fists. He shouldn't let Tamlin rile him. He knew it was untrue, and even if it was, he wouldn't care. But Feyre would be upset if she knew that's what people were saying about her.

"Watch your mouth," Rhys said. "This is a workplace, not a locker room."

"Could've fooled me. I thought it was brothel when I first walked in."

Tamlin's head turned deliberately to Feyre, who's desk was positioned directly in front of the entrance. She was leaning over now, scribbling a note on her desk. At the angle, the cut of her top sloped low enough to show the tops of her breasts. The observation felt like stepping into Tamlin's mind, seeing Feyre the way he saw Feyre.

It was truly a shock to the system to feel repulsed by a sight of breasts—by Feyre's no less, which were magnificent in any other context. Rhys felted trapped between defending her, which would only validate Tamlin's suspicions and make her more of a target, or to let it slide and hope the bastard moved on.

"Each to their own, I suppose," Rhys said, brushing past Tamlin's desk. He slipped a hand out of his pocket to thrum his finger across the wood. "Hey—think they'll give me that promotion for the Hybern deal?"

The deflection worked. Like dangling car keys in front of a toddler, Tamlin's focus shifted back to the CRO's office.

He sneered. "Let me get back to work, Rhysand."

"Right. Right. That Adriata account, huh? Heard it's not going to well."

"Fuck off."

"So touchy," Rhys said, clicking his tongue. "I'm just trying to help. Maybe I'll give you some tips after my meeting."

Tamlin made a low grunt in the back of his throat, a sign that he was retreating into what Rhys and Feyre had dubbed 'beast mode'. Rhys actually preferred it when Tamlin was in beast mode. It meant kept his mouth shut and communicated through nods and grunts until his temper subsided—which, Rhys would argue, was much more effective communication than when his colleague attempted to use words.

It was a shame those sacred moments of Tamlin's silence would be wasted in the CRO's office. Rhys wasn't sure what to expect as he pushed the door open and poked his head inside.

"Come in," the CRO said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "I heard you closed the deal with Hybern. Many congratulations—I know that was hard won."

"They made me work for it," Rhys acknowledged, lowering onto the alabaster seat. "But I knew we'd close them in the end."

The CRO nodded. "You did good work."

"Thank you," Rhys said, bracing himself for the pitch. He knew he wasn't called in here for a congrats.

"You're a strong salesman," the CRO continued. "You have excellent people skills, and you're good at getting clients on your side."

Rhysand's brows rose. He didn't think he'd ever heard this much praise come from upper management before. He was still waiting for the catch.

"The deal with Adriata has fallen through," the CRO went on. That was corporate speak for: Tamlin wet the bed.

"That's a shame," Rhys said mildly. It wasn't his deal, and he wasn't exactly heartbroken to hear Tamlin fumbled a big sale.

"I know you have a contact there—Tarquin. You used to work with each other at your previous role. Do you think you could leverage that to recover the sale?"

Rhys paused. Adriata was one of the leads he'd fed to Tamlin through that acquaintance. He could have taken the deal himself, but he thought the new guy could use an easy win. It shouldn't have taken this long—nearly a year—to close the deal and it certainly shouldn't have fallen through.

"Adriata is Tamlin's client," Rhys said slowly. "If I helped close the sale…"

"You'd get the commission," the CRO said, hearing the question that went unspoken. "And the account will be yours. I just want this closed before fiscal."

In other words, before Monday.

Rhys glanced at the digital clock on the CRO's desk, calculating the time difference in his head. "Tarquin's based in L.A. Latest I can get him on a call is five."

"If you stay late and get this done, you can take Monday off."

It wasn't Monday he cared about. It was the date he envisioned with the pretty blue-eyed receptionist. He thought he would finally have the chance to take her somewhere nice and give this chemistry between them a solid chance.

Rhys bit the inside of his cheek. Feyre would understand, wouldn't she? With the commission he'd get from Hybern and Adriata, he could take her somewhere even nicer. Hell, he could take her out of London. Fly to Paris for the weekend. Amsterdam. Art museums. Anywhere she wanted.

"Okay," Rhys said, nodding. "I'll see what I can do."

After that, he returned to his desk. Tamlin was still in beast mode, ignoring Rhysand's existence and probably nursing his ego about the ruined Adriata deal. It offered Rhys the privacy to slip a sticky note from his desk and pass it to reception on the way to the break room.

Have to stay late tonight. Rain check on dinner?

-

The following Monday, Rhys took the day off.

And later that morning, he was waiting to meet his family for breakfast when he received a call from the police.

His mother, father, and younger sister had all died in a car accident on their way to meet him.

Rhys took the rest of the week off.

-

It was the day of the funeral.

He was sitting on a bench, staring absently at a flock of ducks wading through The Serpentine at Hyde Park.

He'd just gotten back to London and couldn't bear the thought of going home. So he'd come here, though it was a miserable, foggy day and he could feel the cold burning his nose, cheeks, and ears.

In some ways, the cold felt grounding. This pain was real. Fixable. So much easier to process than the intangible grief he was drowning in.

"Here I thought I was the only person in London mad enough to be out on a day like this."

It was just his luck to run into Feyre on today of all days.

Rhys knew he looked a mess. He wasn't trying to hide it. And he knew it was inevitable she would see him in his grief. Their company only offered five days of bereavement, after all. He'd be back at work on Monday, and he didn't anticipate being any less of mess than he was now.

When she appeared before him, hands settled on her hips, he wondered if this was how it felt to see a mirage in the desert. To glimpse salvation and know it was impossible to reach.

In the dull grey backdrop of English winter, she was a smear of vibrant color. She was wearing a sky-blue overcoat, buttoned over a cream turtleneck and brown suede trousers. Her cheeks and nose were frostbitten, like his own, and it made him feel strangely envious of the cold.

"You look like you're freezing."

Unlike Feyre, bundled in her coat and scarf and mittens, he wasn't dressed for the weather. He was wearing a black suit and tie, and though he'd brought an overcoat with him to the funeral, he was fairly certain he'd left it at the wake.

"I'm fine," he said.

A blatant lie. Usually he was better at those.

"Here." Feyre began unwinding her red knit scarf.

"No." Rhys held up his hands to stop her. "Really, Feyre, I'm—"

Dodging his weak attempts to deter her, Feyre unraveled her scarf and wasted no time hooking it around Rhysand's neck. The scent of lilac and pear coiled around him, constricting like the vise of a serpent.

"Keep it," she said. "It didn't really match this outfit anyway."

"I'm not sure it matches mine," he said, glancing down at the shock of red against his black suit.

"I don't know." Feyre leaned back to admire his outfit with a level of interest that had Rhys reconsidering his whole wardrobe. "I think you look nice with a bit of color."

"It's warm," he granted, pressing his palm to the soft fabric. The heat of her body was still there, though leeching by the second. "Thank you for lending it to me."

"Keep it," she said, taking the seat next to him. "Like I said, it looks good on you."

He could see what she was doing. She even raised her brows, practically taunting him for a response. Something like Clothes tend to look better off me, or it looked better on you.

The mask was in reaching distance. He knew the script. He just didn't have the energy to don the part.

Feyre tried to keep the concern off her face. The only problem was, he'd spent the better part of a year trying to learn how to read her. He knew her tells, and if he didn't, he could still see the crease of concern forming between her brows.

"Where have you been?" She asked, trying to sound casual. "The rumors are crazy, you know. You close the two biggest sales of the year on the same day and then disappear for a week."

Rhys offered her his best imitation of a grin. "Is that your way of saying you were worried about me?"

"You know as a receptionist, it's part of my duty to know all the latest office gossip."

"No gossip here, Feyre." He shrugged. "Just taking some time off."

Feyre frowned. Her voice was soft and devastatingly gentle as she said, "Rhys. It looks like you just came from a funeral."

"Didn't know them that well."

It wasn't that he didn't want her to know. It was that Feyre was one of his last shreds of brightness and he wanted to keep her firmly compartmentalized from this grief.

If he told her, she would worry for him. Every exchange in the office would be weighted. Different. He couldn't stand the thought of her holding him like shattered glass, the way everyone else in his life was doing.

And, most of all, he couldn't stand the thought of burdening her.

"I'm sorry," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers dug into the fabric, as if trying to instill the depth of her conviction. "Even if you hardly knew them, I'm sorry if today was difficult for you."

"Difficult?" He said, the word strained. "No day where I get to see you is difficult, Feyre."

"Do you want to get a drink? You still owe me lunch, remember?"

Rhys pressed his hand over hers, squeezing tighter than he should. But in that moment, it felt like she was all he had to hold on to.

"Not today," he said. His eyes stung and he knew it wasn't from the cold. "Rain check?"

Feyre nodded. "Rain check."

-

Rhys went back to the office the following Monday.

Things returned to normal. Almost.

The equilibrium of his life had shifted, and normal looked a bit different. Less like living, and more like survival.

He didn't go up to the receptionist counter like he used to, armed with a hundred excuses just to talk to Feyre. He made his own copies. He scheduled his own appointments. He stopped playing mental games with Tamlin.

He just… stopped.

And everything else kept going.

That was the most overwhelming part. The constant, distinct sensation that he was being left behind because he didn't know how to keep up.

Feyre found new people to talk to in the office. Tamlin made different enemies. Corporate started taking an interest in other high performers. He felt like a shadow, an apparition haunting his own mundane life. And he only woke up once they were already burying him.

That was how it felt, anyway, when the news broke the office. Like handfuls of dirt tossed on top of his lifeless body.

Feyre and Tamlin are engaged.

He couldn't breathe. The weight was too much to claw through. Engaged? He didn't even know they'd been dating.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Rhys said to her in passing later that day.

"Oh." Feyre cheeks turned the same red as the scarf he kept in his bedside drawer. He supposed it was inappropriate to keep hold of it now. "Thank you."

"How long have you two been…?"

He was too much of a coward to even finish the question.

Feyre managed to fill in the rest, though. "About four months."

That was all? Christ, he could have been married to her four times over by now. If he'd been brave enough to ask her out on that first day.

But he sensed the way she braced herself for his response, and guessed people hadn't been holding back commentary about their hastiness to get down the aisle.

"Sometimes when you know, you know," Rhys said, reserving his own less-than-complimentary thoughts.

He could think of only one reason Tamlin was in such a rush, and the suspicion was too ego-centric to lend any merit to.

Feyre was a treasure. Anyone with eyes could see that. Even Tamlin.

When Feyre gave him one of her forced smiles, he felt it like another clump of dirt landing on his chest. There were many ways he'd describe his relationship with Feyre, but something it had never been was forced.

He'd hurt her, he realized. When he withdrew into his grief without explaining himself. He should have told her what was going on.

And now he'd lost her.

Rhys thrummed his fingers on the countertop. "Well, I should let you go back to work."

Feyre's solemn nod was the eulogy that finally sent him sputtering, wondering what on earth he was doing buried in this hole.

Tamlin was obnoxious, sure, but at least he was alive.

Maybe it was time to move on. Not just from his grief, but from Feyre, too. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd tried going on a date.

Not since she first started here.

With a heavy sigh, Rhys pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his cousin.

Rhys: Drinks tonight? x

Mor: I already made plans with a friend. Unless you want to join us??? 👀 xxx

Rhys considered. He snuck a glance at Feyre, catching her in the act of tucking her unruly hair behind her ear.

The sight of her struck him like a punch in the gut.

Rhys: Is she single? x

Mor: I thought you'd never ask 😌 x

-

It was his first night out in… god knew how long.

He hadn't left his house much in the last few months, and truthfully it had felt good to fall back into the routine of caring about his appearance. Taking a shower, shaving, picking a nice cologne, styling his hair so it wasn't just a sad mop of curls.

He felt… good wasn't quite the right word. He wasn't there yet. But his head felt clearer, and the air felt crisp, and he didn't feel like he was on the verge of suffocating in his own dread.

It was progress.

"Rhys!"

He barely had time to turn before his cousin vaulted into his chest, knocking him back a few steps from the sheer force of her hug.

"You look good!" Mor pulled back, her eyes brighter than the last time they'd met. He could see her relief in them. "Really."

"You do, too."

"You have no idea how many times I nearly sent Az and Cass on a kidnapping mission." She slapped his shoulder lightly in admonishment. "We've been worried sick!"

"I've just been busy," he said, knowing it was a lame excuse but lacking any other armor. "I'm sorry."

Mor sniffed. "You'll only be forgiven if you buy me and my friend a drink."

Rhys scanned the crowd. "Is she here?"

"Yeah. She just went to the bathroom. Asked me to order her a G&T."

"Coming up," Rhys said. "Go find us some seats."

"I haven't told you what I want," Mor pointed out.

"House red. Biggest glass they have."

She grinned, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "I missed you—"

"No touching the hair," he said, batting her hand away. "Seats. Now."

"Okay, bossy."

Rhys rolled his eyes, but there was a smile twitching the corner of his lips. It was nice. The normalcy of bickering with Mor.

It was a busy night, despite being a weekday, so it took a while for the bar to make their drinks. Longer still, for Rhys to take up the precarious task of balancing all three drinks in his hands as he searched for the table.

He caught a flash blonde hair poking over the seat of a leather booth and grinned. There was another girl sitting beside Mor, a brunette, both of their backs turned as he rounded the corner.

And nearly dropped the glasses on the floor.

Bright blue eyes stared at him, wide and achingly familiar. Her mouth parted open into a gasp.

"Rhys?"

He was equally dumbfounded. "Feyre?"

Mor said her friend was single. It shouldn't have been the first thought to bubble up through his shock. But it was.

"How do you two know each other?" Mor said, the question nearly accusational.

"We work together," Rhys said, recovering enough to set the drinks on the table.

Mor's eyes widened. "Oh my god," she said, whipping her head to gape at Feyre, who was dropping her head into her hands. "Oh my god, Feyre!"

"Is something the matter?" Rhys asked, unable to pry his eyes away from the red stain burning along the dainty curve of Feyre's ears. She kept her hands over the rest of her face, but he could see peeks of blushing skin through the gaps in her fingers. How was it possible that she was the one mortified about this?

He could see the mischief spreading over Mor's face, and it made him nervous. "Oh," his cousin said, drawing out the vowel as she plucked her wine glass from the table. "It's just that Feyre darling here has told me all about the people she works with in her office. Neglected to mention names, of course, but I'm starting to put two and two together."

Feyre darling. Smug satisfactions coursed through him at the realization that Feyre had been telling Mor about him. Not Tamlin—or at least, not exclusively Tamlin.

Feyre retreated from her hands just enough to glower at Mor. She wasn't meeting Rhysand's eyes, which likely had something to do with her scarlet coloring. He'd made her blush before, but never like this—never the kind that spread over her throat and collarbones, too. For a distracted second, he let himself imagine dragging his lips across every inch of red skin, just to see how long he could make the color linger.

"Let me guess," Rhys said, knowing he should keep the purr from his voice—she was engaged, for Christ's sake—but his eyes never lifted from her face. "She told you about a devilishly handsome salesman who sits at the desk across from her?"

"Hmm." Mor feigned an expression of deep thought. "That doesn't ring any bells, no. Though I'm pretty certain she mentioned something about a giant prick?"

Feyre's lips twitched, the making's of a smile.

Until Rhys interjected, "I suppose I do wear tight pants."

"You're disgusting," Mor said, wrinkling her nose. Feyre made a sound like she was inclined to agree.

And it was starting to drive him crazy that she wasn't saying anything. Was still refusing to look at him.

He tried to tempt her gaze by dragging her gin and tonic across the table, pushing it towards her as he asked, "What else have you been telling my cousin about me, Feyre darling?"

Finally. Finally she looked at him. Those blue eyes were more wary than he was used to seeing, but still full of challenge. More so, as they narrowed.

"I didn't know you two are cousins," she said, artfully evading the subject.

"Would have kept the finer details to yourself, if you'd known?"

Feyre lifted her chin. "It's not nice to speak ill of someone's family."

"Oh, I'm sure your descriptions were scathing." He smirked. "Do you have a code name for me?"

"Yeah, Prick."

"I know you're more imaginative than that, Feyre. You probably gave her a physical description, too, hmm? Tall, dreamy eyes, dark-haired—"

"Swaggering, insufferable arrogance," Feyre filled in.

Mor shook her head in disbelief. "I should have known it was Rhys from that alone."

"You wound me," Rhys said, clutching his chest. "Both of you."

His cousin rolled her eyes. "I think you'll manage to recover." She turned to Feyre and tapped her half full glass. "Where's the bathroom? There's a cute brunette at the bar and I need to make sure my lipstick hasn't smeared."

Feyre studied Mor's makeup. "You're fine."

"Liar. You just don't want me to leave you alone with Rhys." She slid out of the booth, her white teeth on full display. "I think you two can play nice for five minutes."

"Your judgment is questionable as always, Mor," Rhys said, though it did nothing to deter his cousin from gathering her purse and striding towards the restrooms.

Leaving him alone with Feyre.

He reminded himself to take deep, steady breaths—a task which escalated in difficulty once he noticed the scent of her perfume. Lilac and pear, the same she was wearing the day of his family's funeral. The same scent which had long since faded from the scarf she'd wrapped around his neck.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for crashing your girl's night."

Feyre shook her head. "Don't be sorry. I knew you were coming. I just… didn't know you were coming."

"And that makes it worse?" He said, ignoring the pang in his chest that she would prefer a stranger's company to his own.

"It makes it… complicated."

"Complicated?" Rhys raised his brows. "Like how Mor asked me to come here to meet her single friend kind of complicated?"

Feyre sat up straighter. "Mor said what?"

Rhys winced. He hadn't meant to throw Mor under the bus. "Just for my own clarity, you are engaged to Tamlin, right?"

"That's also…. complicated."

"Complicated how, Feyre?"

She chewed on her lower lip. A habit he'd noticed at the office, and had sent him walking stiffly to the men's room more times than he'd care to admit.

"Tamlin asked me to marry him last night," Feyre said, her voice so soft that he needed to lean over the table to hear her over the loud atmosphere. "I didn't say yes. I didn't say no, either. I just… I wanted more time to think about it, I guess. But he announced it to everyone in the office today."

Rhysand's grip tightened around his whiskey glass. "That bastard."

"I don't know what to do about it," Feyre said, all in one exhale. Her shoulder slumped. "I feel trapped. If I back out now, it will be this whole big thing. We'll have to walk it back in front of the entire office and it will be so uncomfortable."

The last thing Feyre needed was a big reaction. He could see it in the way she braced herself across from him, holding her body taut as if she was a passenger in some unbridled vehicle, expecting to crash at any moment.

He managed to keep his voice calm as he said, "This isn't the kind of decision that you should feel pressured into. You should marry someone because you want to, not because you feel obligated."

Feyre shrugged. The gesture was resigned, like he wasn't saying anything she hadn't already said to herself.

"I don't know what I want," she admitted.

"Then I think that's your answer. If it's not a resounding, unwavering yes, then you shouldn't do it."

"Will it ever be like that, though?" Her voice was strained. "Do people ever actually fall in love and know that they want to be with that person forever? Without any question?"

Rhys needed to take a deep swallow of his whiskey before he could answer. "Yes," he said, feeling it burn down his throat—the admission and the alcohol and the words he just couldn't bring himself to say. "If it's the right person, you know. Without any question."

Her eyes bored into his, so deep he swore she could see straight to the quick of his soul, where he was still raw and healing and afraid to tell her what he should be telling her.

Don't marry him.

I love you.

Please, don't marry him.

He didn't know what he would do—he didn't know if he would survive—if he unmasked himself completely, revealing every gnarled, jagged edge of jealousy and love and fear, and she still walked away.

"You came here wanting to meet one of Mor's single friends?" Feyre's voice trembled a bit, as if she was also holding back too much, waning beneath the weight. "Like, to be set up on a date?"

"Yeah," he said, shame drying the roof of his mouth. It felt like a betrayal, though he couldn't explain why or how. "It's been a while since I've put myself out there."

Feyre looked down at her drink. "Sorry you got me instead."

If there was one thing Rhys couldn't stand, it was hearing Feyre apologize for something outside of her control. She was always doing that in the office—apologizing for delays due to broken printers and out-of-order lifts.

"I owed you a drink though, didn't I?" He forced himself to wink. To grin. To play the smug arrogance he knew she expected from him. "This is a much better twist of fate."

Feyre opened her mouth, as if she was about to say something else, when Mor saddled back into the booth, lipstick freshly re-applied. "So," she said, tossing a lock of curls over her shoulder. "What did I miss?"

-

Feyre did, eventually, call off her engagement with Tamlin.

It happened months after Mor's failed setup attempt. Months of listening to Feyre go back and forth with Tamlin in the office about wedding plans, holding his tongue while she was strong-armed through every decision. Months of watching her steadily grow thinner, quieter, duller.

Months of watching Feyre Archeron wilt before his very eyes.

He didn't know what the catalyst was, in the end. All he knew was that one day, he walked into the office armed with a stupid joke to try to make her smile, since she was doing less and less of it these days. And instead he'd met the stern face of their new receptionist, Alis.

So when Mor told him that she'd invited Feyre on their annual trip to their family cabin in the Alps, he'd had conflicting feelings.

One hand, he'd get to spend a week of uninterrupted time with Feyre, where they could deviate from their usual script of jammed printers and pleasant weather. And more importantly, he could finally, finally, enjoy her company without the threat of her impending engagement looming over their shoulders.

On the other hand, what was the appropriate buffer to give the love of your life time to grieve her relationship with the worst man you've ever met? Mor had told him, very sternly he would add, that all topic surrounding Tamlin were strictly off limits.

Did that include topics concerning the absence of Tamlin, and if or when she'd be ready for someone to fill that void?

He ached to tell her how he felt. Now that the Tamlin-shaped dam was finally removed, he was drowning from the weight of holding back years of confessions and unrequited feelings.

Their burden became impossible to carry the closer the trip became, to the point where he considered bailing simply out of fear that he wouldn't be able to control himself. Feyre deserved better than that. After all this time, they both did.

But his fears were unfounded when she walked through the door.

Rhys had long associated Feyre's presence with joy. Even during those agonizing months he'd loved her and believed she would be marrying another man. The sight of her walking into a room still filled him with joy.

Now, he was flooded with distress.

She was thin. He noticed she'd been losing weight in the months leading up to her resignation. But this was drastic.

Feyre looked as if her dread and grief were eating her alive.

He wanted to weep at the sight of what Tamlin had done to her. Weep, then take Cass and Az and three of their best baseball bats and—

"Feyre darling," he greeted, lifting from the sofa with a broad smile. "Look at you, out of work clothes."

"I'm surprised you recognize me in something other than a blouse."

"Well, I wasn't certain at first," he intoned, strolling closer to the doorway. Until he could see the snowflakes on her long eyelashes and every adorable freckle smattered over her nose and cheeks. "But that smear of paint always gives you away."

Feyre turned her head to Mor, her eyes widening as if to confirm, Do I really have paint on my face?

"Oh, ignore him," Mor grumbled. But she did lick her thumb and lean in to rub Feyre's cheekbone, which resulted in sputtered protest that his cousin happily ignored.

Rhys watched Feyre thrash against Mor's hold, a familiar fondness stirring in his chest. "It is nice to see you again, Feyre. I've missed you at the office."

"Why?" She snorted. "Because I was the only sane person there?"

"Precisely for that reason."

He opened his arms to her, and he was relieved that she didn't hesitate for a second to throw her arms around him. Rhys held her tight, trying and failing not to marvel at how fragile she felt. Some delicate, breakable thing.

What happened to the girl who proudly drank from an office wanker mug on her second week? Rhys knew she was still there, hidden behind layers of guilt and sorrow and what he suspected was the subconscious voice of a man who'd tried everything in his power to whittle her down.

"How is… everyone?" She asked, her diction stilted just enough that he knew who she was truly asking after.

He shot a help me glance to Mor, who immediately jumped in and admonished, "You both promised me no office talk!"

Rhys held up his hands. "Okay, okay. How about wine talk?"

"Why dear cousin of mine, how did you know that's my favorite topic?"

"Lucky guess," he said flatly.

He recognized Feyre's laugh. That hollow, polite sound that she used during her first week in the office, when she felt obligated to laugh at every bland, unfunny joke. Including his own.

It was enough that she was laughing—that she was trying to laugh again. And he resolved that if he could do one thing for her on this trip, it would be getting her to laugh. A genuine, shoulder-shaking, clutching-her-stomach-because-she-can't-breathe laugh.

Rhys turned his gaze to her, failing not to notice the dark circles under her eyes. "What about you, darling? Are you drinking wine these days?"

She grinned, though it didn't quite meet her eyes. "I'm drinking anything these days."

That seemed like too much to unpack when she was still standing in the entryway, the open door blowing a gust of cold air at her back.

It was instinct, the way he reached for her scarf to unravel her in the direction of the overstuffed armchair. If he was overstepping, Feyre didn't seem to mind. Her laughter was more breath than anything, but she indulged him by twirling on her toes, helping him to unwrap the rest of the scarf as if it were a choreographed dance. Though, with the way her balance wobbled at the end, Rhys didn't suspect they'd be competing on any dance shows in the near future.

"Careful," he said, bracing her elbow. "The nearest hospital is an hour away and in the next thirty minutes, none of us will be sober enough to drive you."

"You could always bundle me up on a sled," Feyre mused. He let go once she regained her balance and tried not to look disappointed when she retreated from his touch to curl up on the arm chair. "At least if I didn't reach the bottom, I'd be going out in style."

"Sledding!" Mor squealed, clapping her hands together. "Oh, yes, we should absolutely do that this year!"

Rhys shot his cousin an incredulous look. "If I recall correctly, our last emergency hospital visit was the result of sledding."

Mor poked her tongue at him. "Whatever. Cass probably thought it was as worth it for the photos alone."

Rhys explained to Feyre, "Last year, Cass face-planted a rock. Fucked up both his front teeth."

"He was so drunk he didn't even notice until he saw the blood," Mor added, rolling her eyes. "Az took a picture and Cassian made it his screensaver for like six months."

Feyre shuddered. "I think I'll pass on the sledding."

If he was honest, Rhys hoped she stayed exactly where she was for the rest of the trip. Safe, in that oversized chair, in front of the crackling fire, where he could already see some color returning to her expression.

His eyes swiveled to the basket of blankets tucked beneath the coffee table. He knew if he grabbed one for her, he'd be accused of coddling. And maybe he was.

Even so, he couldn't help praising, "Wise decision."

"Lame decision," said a deep voice, striding out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped far too precariously around his hips.

The cabin had four bedrooms, two on each side of the hall, with only one bathroom nestled in the center. No one was exactly thrilled to be sharing a single bathroom between five adults, though Cassian argued half the fun was trying to catch a glimpse of Azriel naked.

"Cassian I presume?" Feyre said from the armchair.

Cass grinned, striding forward on wet, slapping feet. The only thing that dissuaded him from dripping onto the carpet to go shake Feyre's hand—or offer some other, far less appropriate greeting—was Rhysand's sharp glare

"And you must be the renown Feyre Archeron." He slid Rhys a knowing grin that was begging for a punch. "I'll go get dry before the hall monitor gives me a detention for getting his precious carpet wet. But then, you and I have much to talk about."

Rhys couldn't give two shits about the carpet, though it was his parents' and it was cashmere. But he would prefer if Cassian could avoid flashing Feyre when she was only a few weeks post-break-up.

He needed things to go well so that Feyre would consider coming back next year. And the year after. And however many holidays it would take for her to consider that she might like to be part of this group.

And if that was all she ever wanted, that would be good enough. As long as she was happy again.

"Should I be scared?" Feyre asked.

"Of Cassian?" Mor laughed. "No more than you would be afraid of a big, slobbery puppy."

"It's Az people usually find scary," Rhys said, wandering in the kitchen to fetch the girls their wine. "But that's just 'cause he's quiet. Truth is, he's a big softie."

"More like he's got a big softie," Mor muttered.

Rhys straightened. "Pardon?"

"Are we talking about Az's dick?" Cassian called, scrambling back into the room. "Without me?"

The front door shut, diverting everyone's attention to where Azriel stood, a gloved hand still pressing the handle. He blinked at them, sighed, and then walked back out the front door.

"Wait, Az!" Cassian called, cackling as he vaulted over the sofa to get to the front door faster, narrowly recovering from flashing them by fisting the towel at his groin. He managed to catch the door before it closed, sprinting outside with his feet and chest still bare.

"Are they…" Feyre hesitated. "Together?"

It was a terrible time to have handed Mor her wine glass. She sputtered, choking on a mixture of wine and laughter that erupted over her clothes, the sofa, and the coffee table.

Feyre leapt to her feet to help. "Oh my god, are you okay?" She thumped a fist behind Mor's back as his cousin's laughter fizzled into a coughing fit.

Rhys, meanwhile, set Feyre's wine glass on a clean corner of the coffee table and returned to the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

"I'm sorry for—all of them, really," he called to her.

Mor, still wheezing, could only lift her middle finger broadly on his direction.

"To answer your question," Rhys said, coming back to Mor's side to divide layers of paper towel among the three of them. "No, Cassian and Azriel are not dating."

His cousin shrieked at the reminder, launching into another coughing fit.

"Thanks," Feyre said, balling up her collection of towels to dab them gingerly into the carpet. Red wine. His parents were rolling in their graves. "I, uh, think I put that one together."

"Cass just likes to push buttons. And Azriel's the most private among us, which leads to a lot of speculation," he sent Mor a pointed look, "among our group."

Mor, having mostly recovered from her fit, tapped her chest and croaked, "It's the greatest tragedy of Cassian's life that he'll never know if his dick is bigger than Az's."

"We spend every year naked together in a sauna," Rhys reminded her, raising his brows as if to say, what are you up to? Mor didn't usually indulge conversations about naked men to this degree. "Believe me, he knows."

"And?"

Rhys jerked his head, just to be sure he'd heard the question right. Feyre was looking at him with a glint in her eye. She was biting her lip, restraining a laugh just like she'd done on the first day they'd spoken to each other in the break room.

A habit she'd never broken, after all these years.

His lips twitched. "And, what, Feyre darling?"

"What's the outcome of this annual dick measuring contest you three apparently have in the sauna?"

"Why don't you join us this year and find out?"

"Am I allowed to bring my strap?" Mor asked.

The front door shut, revealing cold-flushed yet grinning Cassian and a bewildered looking Azriel.

"I don't know what conversation we just walked in on," Cassian said, "but count me in."

This was a nightmare. At least, Rhys thought it was a nightmare. Feyre, strangely, seemed to be enjoying herself and he thanked the gods that she had a good sense of humor about all this chaos.

"You must be Azriel," Feyre said, beaming at the dark haired male becoming a shadow at Cassian's back. "I've heard so much about you."

Azriel glanced toward the door. Rhys knew he was debating the merits of trying to make another escape. He'd probably already started his car by the time Cassian caught up and dragged his ass back.

"All good things," Feyre assured quickly.

Rhys didn't think he'd ever seen Azriel blush before.

"What happened here?" Cassian said with a low whistle, taking in the mess of wine-soaked paper towels. "It's too early in the evening for you to have forgotten where your mouth is, Morrigan."

"Har har." Mor stood up from the sofa. "Just for that, I'm stealing one of your hoodies."

"Didn't you bring your own clothes?" He complained.

"It wouldn't be a punishment if I wore my own."

"I only brought like two hoodies!"

"You should have thought about that before you opened your big, dumb mouth."

"At least steal one of Az's. He smells better than me."

"If you think so, maybe you should wear one of his hoodies."

"Mor—" Cassian groaned as she strode off into his room. "Mor!"

"I should have warned you they were going to bicker like this," Rhys said apologetically, perching himself against the armrest of Feyre's chair to, at last, hand her a wine glass.

"Oh trust me, bickering over sharing clothes is a staple of sisterhood. I'm used to it."

"That's right, you have two sisters don't you? Nesta and Elain." She looked surprised he remembered. "How are they doing?"

"Well. Nesta is this scary, big shot lawyer who eats suited men for breakfast and Elain is living the dream cottage core life with her husband, Lucien. You remember him, right? He was Tam's—" she winced. Like that name was a bruise she didn't mean to press.

"I remember him," Rhys said, trying to help her past the slip-up. "Redhead, right? Snarky?"

She snorted. "You could say that again."

"Does he treat her right?"

"Oh, like a princess." She rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't believe the way she has him wrapped around her little finger."

"I believe it," Rhy said. He wondered if he had that stupid grin on his face again, the one that proved just how wound he was around Feyre's little finger.

Feyre didn't seem to know how to respond to that, but she shrugged and said, "They're happy."

Rhys didn't doubt for a second Feyre was happy for her sister, but he could see the discomfort on her face at that admission. It couldn't have been easy to have a brother-in-law who was close to her ex fiancé. And he knew first hand how difficult it was to see someone else happy and have that reality feel so distant it was foreign.

"I'm glad," he said. "And I'm glad you could join us this year. It will be a relief to have someone sane in our entourage."

"I don't think that's fair to Azriel," Feyre said. "So far, he's been the most well behaved."

Az smiled. "The night is still young."

Rhys chuckled at Feyre's look of betrayal. "Like I said, darling. You're the most sane person here."

"Maybe that's what I'd like you to think."

He liked seeing something other than resignation in her eyes again. So much that he couldn't resist leaning forward, his voice ripe with challenge as he purred, "Then I look forward to being proved otherwise."

-

Despite his best efforts, Rhys couldn't convince Mor that it was a bad idea to take everyone sledding the next morning.

They were all nursing hangovers from a concoction of liquors that they'd made the mistake of letting Cassian combine into what he called 'Solstice Punch'. Rhysand had a blistering headache, which wasn't helped by Cassian's noisy attempt to make breakfast. With only four rooms, Rhys had drawn the short straw for who had to sleep on the couch.

Rhys groaned, burying his head beneath a pillow. "There is no way in hell that you're getting me onto a sled today."

"Even if you get to share one with Feyre?" Cassian teased. "You'll get to wrap your arms around her and—"

"Shut up."

"I guess Az and I will just get to enjoy her company instead," Cassian said smugly.

It nearly convinced Rhys to go, until Mor strode into the living room. "Feyre isn't coming," she announced. "She's not feeling good."

Rhys sat up way too fast. "Is she okay?" He asked, blinking away the black spots that burst in his vision.

"Calm down, white knight. She's just hungover like the rest of us." Mor looked at Cassian, frowning. "Maybe we should take it easy today."

"Fuck that. Az is already loading the car. You coming?"

Mor sighed. "I can't leave Feyre."

"Sure you can," Cassian said, grinning over her shoulder at Rhys. "Lover boy will take perfect care of her."

Rhys slumped back into the sofa, ignoring the jab. "You go, Mor. We'll take it easy today."

Mor pressed her lips together, consternation pulling at her brows as she flicked her eyes between Rhys and Cassian. "Fine," she said with a sigh. "I'll go. Someone needs to babysit the idiots. You sure you'll be okay, Rhys?"

"Peachy," he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. "Now get the hell out of here so I can go back to sleep."

-

Rhys couldn't say how much longer he slept for. When he woke up, the cabin was silent. Someone had graciously left the curtains drawn, keeping the living room subdued in darkness and by the same virtue, making it impossible to guess how late in the day it was.

The heating had kicked on at some point, leaving him sweating beneath the pile of blankets. He kicked them off and shuffled into the hall.

"Feyre?" He called, stopping to listen outside her door. When there was no answer, he assumed she must still be asleep.

Rhys pushed into the bathroom, intent on washing off his sweat even if the bright fluroscents felt like a thousand needles shoved into his eye sockets. He groaned, fumbling half-blind as he jerked the shower curtain open and turned on the water.

It was only once he was under the water, steam billowing around him, that he felt his head begin to clear. And that was when he realized he left his clothes in the living room.

Rhys fell forward with a groan, resting his head against the damp tile as he debated the merits of retrieving his clothes now or waiting until he finished his shower. There was no telling if Feyre would still be asleep by the time he finished. At least if he left now, he could evade a potentially awkward encounter.

It took all of his willpower to step out of the warm embrace of water. More, to grab a towel and wrap it around his waist.

He opened the door gradually, peering through the crack to ensure the coast was clear before he hurried with wet, slapping footprints to where his bag rested beside the sofa.

As he crouched to unzip the top, he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door handle turning. He froze.

The door pushed open. He knew he was doomed because whoever stepped through was far too silent to be a member of his family.

Rhys hovered in place, clutching his towel tight around the hips, internally debating whether it was better to let her know he was there or try to flee behind the kitchen counter before she realized.

"Rhys?" Feyre called.

Shit. It was fine, right? She'd seen Cassian in a towel yesterday and hardly reacted.

Slowly, he rose from behind the couch, prepared to play this off with a flirty comment. But as soon as he saw her, his brain deserted every word of the linguistic tongue.

"Oh!" She jumped, faltering to quickly re-secure the towel she had wrapped around her torso.

Rhys decided a Christmas deity must be trying to punish him. There was no other explanation for the ridiculous towel she was wearing, so short her breasts spilled over the top and if she bent, even the slightest, he would be able to see her entire ass.

Where on Earth had she found a towel like that?

Rhys needed to finish mentally reeling his tongue back in before he was able to shape coherent words. And once he did, they came out entirely too rough, like he was scraping them over sandpaper.

"Well, one of us is going to have to change."

A familiar blush was spreading over her chest, but Feyre did a good job keep in her expression composed as she quirked a brow. "I think that depends on who wore it better."

"I won't make any argument on that front," Rhys said. It was taking every ounce of restraint not to drink her in like this. "I'm just grabbing some clothes and I'll head into the shower."

"Or—"

How could such a soft, breathy word strike with enough momentum to take him off his feet? Rhys clenched his hand tighter around the handle of his bag, trying to will his blood flow back into his head.

"You could come join me?"

Fuck. Fuck. He'd never heard Feyre use the voice before—at least anywhere outside of his own fantasies. It was just rough enough to scrape him raw, wondering if he'd imagined the sultry undertone or if he was letting his own ego get to his head.

"Join you where, exactly, darling?"

"The sauna," she said. "I've just warmed it up, and seeing as you're already dressed for the occasion…"

This was how it must have felt to be ensnared by a siren. To see your every desire brought to life, just in reaching distance, and to know it would be your undoing.

There wasn't any scenario where he could go into a sauna with Feyre, alone, and keep hold of the careful distance he was putting between them. He couldn't think of a single outcome that wouldn't end with Feyre in his lap, panting beneath his touch. And he wanted it. So badly he would crash his ship to shore and gladly drown in the wreckage.

But he wanted her to be ready, too. He didn't want to be another man pressuring her into say yes, making her feel trapped. If he was going to kiss her, touch her, do anything more than flirt with her, he needed to do it in a neutral space, where she could leave if it became too much.

Rhys was careful not to let the pain show on in his face. He released his breath through his nose, quiet, measured.

"I think we should wait until we're better hydrated," he said. "I wouldn't want you passing out. Rain check?"

Feyre's smiled dropped. Rhys was starting to feel nauseous again, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol sitting heavy in his stomach.

"Oh." Feyre said. He could hear her disappointment. "Okay. Maybe later, then."

Rhys held himself still as she hurried past, fleeing into her room. His chest pinched at the sound of the door snicking shut, as if a piece of his heart was caught in the doorjamb, begging for it to open.

With a sigh, he gathered his clothes and went back to his shower.

Feyre

Azriel, Cassian, and Mor had returned at some point in the late afternoon with a few nicks and bruises, but no broken teeth. Feyre was assured that meant it was a successful sledding trip. Which was more than she could say about her lazy day at the cabin.

She'd spent most of it in her room, with the exception of her brief attempt to coax Rhys into the sauna. After his mortifyingly polite rejection, she'd spent the rest of the day in her room until Mor came knocking.

"You okay?" She asked, finding Feyre buried beneath a pile of blankets.

This was ordinarily Rhysand's room. Which meant that everything in here smelled like him. Citrus and a dark, churning sea, threatening to swallow her whole beneath warm, chunky-knit blankets.

"Doesyercznlkmm?"

"What?" Mor stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind her.

Feyre pulled her head out from beneath the blankets. "Does your cousin like me?"

"Rhys?" Mor frowned. "Of course he likes you."

"No, that's not what I mean. You know how I feel about him, Mor. Sometimes I think he feels the same way, but then he just pulls away from me."

Mor glanced towards the door, her expression wary. She always grew a little evasive whenever their conversation skewed towards Rhys, and Feyre felt a little guilty for putting her in the middle.

"My cousin can be pretty guarded," Mor said. "He keeps his cards close to his chest, especially after his family died. But… Look in that box, under the bed."

Feyre's eyes followed Mor's gesture to the small gap under Rhysand's bed. Curious, Feyre extracted herself from the bed to fish out a small shoebox. She pushed the lid open, frowning when she saw a red scarf carefully folded inside.

"He took that here last year. Wore it everywhere. It was the first Christmas since his family died and I think it brought him a lot of comfort." Mor shrugged. "He wouldn't say where it was from but I have my suspicions."

Feyre ran her fingers over the soft wool, recalling the anguish on his face when she'd given it to him. She'd always half-heartedly wondered what happened to the scarf, but she'd assumed he'd thrown it out or otherwise forgotten about it.

Mor said, "If you want to know how he feels, you should just ask him. But I think you mean a lot to him, Feyre. Maybe he's just waiting for you to tell him how you feel."

Easier said than done. The last two years was a montage of chances where she could have told Rhys how she felt and didn't. It was always never the right time. He was working late or she was rushing out the door or he was grieving or she was dating Tamlin—or it was just safer to stay in this soft, liminal space between friendship and something more.

Walking away from Tamlin had been easy. Complicated, yes, but emotionally… All she'd felt was relief.

If it's the right person, you know. Without any question.

"Right," Feyre breathed, nodding to herself. "Tell him how I feel. That should be…" Nerve wracking. "I can do that."

-

Rhys

When Rhys felt something soft wrapping around his neck, his first suspicion was that Az and Cass were pulling a prank on him. It wasn't uncommon to wake up from a drunken stupor in this cabin with a marker mustache and a few drawn-on dicks.

He was convinced when he felt the weight of a body settle over him.

"C'mon Cass," he mumbled. "Not now."

The body above him giggled. Light. Feminine.

"Does that imply Cass usually climbs into bed with you?"

Rhys opened his eyes to find Feyre's face hovering inches over his, her hair cascading around his head like a canopy. Her hands were at his chest, tugging a red scarf around his neck.

"What's going on?" He asked, not convinced he was awake. He didn't even remember going to bed, but the lights were off, so it had to be late. "What time is it?"

"You never gave my scarf back," she said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable answer to his question. "But you kept it all this time."

She was straddling his lap, her ass settled just above his groin. If he moved even the slightest bit, he would grind against her, and he couldn't deny the temptation crossed his mind.

"Are you drunk?" He asked. Which, as he thought about it, was a stupid question. They'd all been drinking—Feyre more than anyone. He had a vague memory of half guiding, half stumbling with her into his bedroom.

Which, as he sat up, was where he realized they still were. Not on the sofa. Christ, he must have crashed trying to get her to bed.

"Not any more than you," she argued. "At least I managed to stay awake. Pussy."

He laughed. "Did you really just call me a pussy?"

"Do you prefer it to Prick?"

"Not really. Though I'll admit, I am fascinated to learn what other filthy words you'd like to call me."

Feyre tugged at the scarf, drawing his face closer to hers. He could feel her breath against his lips as she whispered, "You'll have to earn them."

He fought a shiver at the invitation in her voice. "How?"

"Kiss me," she said, eyes fixing on his mouth.

He wanted to. More than he wanted to breathe. "We're drunk, Feyre."

Her eyes lifted to his. "Pussy," she said again, before grabbing both ends of the scarf and yanking it upwards, crashing her mouth to his.

Rhys shut his eyes, a guttural sound forming in the back of his throat as he slipped his arms around her back, pulling her tighter. It wasn't the kind of first kiss he'd imagined giving her. That had always been soft and sweet, an admission in itself.

This kiss was clumsy and urgent—two people latching to each other as if terrified the other would let go. Feyre wound her fingers into his hair, pulling with a grip he likened to someone hanging from a precipice, where every digit, every ounce of surface area, could be the difference between life or death.

"Feyre," he groaned, trying to pull away. She chased him, mouth crashing back to his, swallowing his protests, and he was simulatenously in heaven and hell. "Feyre," he said again, pushing lightly at her shoulders.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled away. He could feel her body trembling.

"Don't push me away, Rhys." Her voice was so small. "Please, don't push me away. Not again."

She might as well have reached into his chest and ripped his heart straight out.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, securing an arm around her back to keep her pressed where she was, her fluttering heart beating against his. "I'll sleep here. Just—let's wait until the morning, okay? I promise to kiss you stupid once you're sober."

Feyre tugged at her scarf as she thought about it. He knew she made her decision when she sighed softly and slumped into his body, resting her head against his chest.

"Rain check?" She asked, with a small yawn.

Rhys had never been happier to say those two stupid words. "Rain check."

[in1-nutshell]

Request juno struggling with being pregnant

There have been too many request about this. Just going to combine all of them here!

Hope you enjoy!

5 Things that have happened during Juno's pregnancy

SFW, Platonic, Pregnancy, Familial, Romantic, Cybertronian reader

MTMTE

The following are just some of the events that happened during Juno’s pregnancy.

1. The new schedule adjustments

Now sparked, Juno was advised to take some of her usual tasks a bit easier or ask for help in doing heavier things.

They understood and tried getting used to the temporary change.

Rodimus wanted them to just focus on the sparkling instead of doing work, this ended up with a day’s long argument between the couple.

It ends up being resolved with a compromise with Juno doing more of the tasks that have them at the desk.

They won’t admit it, but they are grateful for the change when their pedes and frame starts to ache and pulse dully.

Juno gently slumps on the berth with their optics shut. They feel a familiar warmth sitting next to them while gently rubbing a thumb on the side of their helm. Juno barely cracks an optic open. Juno: “Roddy?” The familiar chuckle confirms it. Rodimus: “Rough day?” Juno groans. Juno: “More of a sore day.” Rodimus: “You know, you can always—” He stops when he sees them glare slightly at him. Juno: “Roddy we’ve talked about this.” Rodimus just shrugs. Rodimus: “Can’t blame a mech for trying.” They both laugh a bit before getting ready to go to sleep.

2. Protective Rodimus unlocked

Rodimus had always been a bit protective over Juno, even before they were a couple.

When Juno was his friend, he saw it fitting to be their friend that could protect them while giving them a good time.

A knight in shining armor that would occasionally flirt once feelings started blooming.

The protectiveness ramped up once they had their run in with the DJD.

Rodimus understood that Juno could handle themselves… but the image of their limp and battered frame would be seared in his mind.

Now with a sparkling on the way, the protectiveness skyrocketed.

But he wasn’t going to go overboard and smother them, just heavily hint on things that would keep Juno and the sparkling safe and healthy!

He wants this to be as safe a pregnancy and delivery as possible.

Rodimus figures that this something he couldn’t screw up.

Will pick Juno up if they are feeling particularly achy or tired.

Has talked with Drift and Ratchet about what else he can help with the pregnancy.

Massages when they are alone in the habsuite.

Juno is sitting up against the wall of the berth while Rodimus gently starts massaging their pedes. Rodimus is humming a tune. Juno tilts their helm a bit and gently strokes his helm fins. He stops and looks at them. Rodimus: “Joony? You need something?” Juno shakes their helm. Juno: “Just wondering.” Rodimus stops the massage and gives them his full attention. Rodimus: “Wondering what? Is it the bitty? Did the energon not sit right? Is it too cold—” Juno: “Roddy! Its not that. Huh, I’m the worrier not you hun.” Rodimus huffs a bit. Juno: “Just wondering how lucky I am to have you by my side.” They chuckle feeling Rodimus’s frame growing warmer and pulls him to a hug. Rodimus: “I should be the one wondering that Joony.” He wraps his arms around them and doesn’t let go.

3. Perceptor

Perceptor started off distant from his sibling during the first weeks.

Always in the lab, even more than usual.

It worried Juno a lot and made them upset.

He wasn’t answering his messages or com lines.

Was he mad at them?

Was he mad at the sparkling?

They had tried to go to the lab, but no one let them within 10 feet from it.

Apparently the Co-Captains finally agreed on something for once…

Brainstorm gets one whiff of this and forcefully drags Perceptor with Rodimus so the siblings could talk.

Juno has to break the tension and bluntly states they know he is mad at them, but they could really use their big brother right now.

Percy is taken back stating that he isn’t mad.

Juno demands to know why he was being so distant.

He shyly hands them a data slug.

They plug it in and it has blue prints and plans for cribs, toys, alarms, etc for the sparkling.

He just wanted to take some load off Juno’s shoulders.

Perceptor is pulled in the biggest and tightest hug he had ever received from a crying Juno. Perceptor pulls from the hug. Perceptor: “There is one thing I must ask from you.” Juno: “What is it?” Perceptor: “Do not name the sparkling Hot Rod.” Juno cracks a smile. Perceptor: “Promise me Juno.” They give him a cheeky smile. Perceptor: “I mean it Juno!”

4. The habsuite

Juno and Rodimus taken on themselves to re organize the habsuite to fit in their newest member.

They would all share the habsuite until the sparkling was a bit older to handle sleeping in a habsuite alone.

Rodimus wanted to repaint the room.

Juno agreed and decided to reorganize some of their lighter things.

Rodimus gets mad if they even try to touch something heavy.

When word gets around that the pair was remodeling their habsuite, there are some bots who show up to lend a servo.

They all get the room repainted and reorganized with the sparklings things in record time.

Juno spots a box with some data pads. They try and pick it up but Nautica picks it up. Nautica: “Didn’t Rodimus say for you to sit down?” Juno: “Its just a small box Nautica, I think I can handle it.” Juno tries to take the box. Rodimus suddenly appears from behind. Rodimus: “Juno!” Juno: “ACK!” Rodimus steadies them before they slip on a rouge marker. Rodimus: “Sorry about that—hey why aren’t you resting?” Juno has a servo over their spark and tries controlling their vents. Juno: “You know, sitting sounds really nice right now…”

5. Sparkling shower

It was now about halfway into the pregnancy when Juno finally gave in and gave Rodimus the green light to throw a party for the bitty.

They had refused to do a party in the beginning, mainly because they didn’t feel comfortable.

Rodimus whined a bit but respected their wishes.

Once he gets the word, on the condition that Magnus, Megatron and Ratchet would inspect it, he takes off.

Magnus does a double take when Rodimus actually fills out a form CORRETCTLY with minimal mistakes and errors.

Now if he could only do this with his regular work…

Rodimus gets Swerve and Drift involved in the party planning.

After a couple of changes by the three mechs, the party is a go.

It was a small group that came in after hearing that no engex was going to be served at the bar.

Juno had made it clear they did not want any drop of engex being served, the smell made them purge their tanks.

Thankfully the group consisted of most of their friends.

Gifts were brought to the party.

Rodimus hands Juno a gift box. Juno: “This one is from… Whirl?” Whirl raises his cube on energon. Whirl: “That’s mine alright!” Rodimus looks at the box cautiously as Juno opens it. They take out a sparkling carrier. Juno: “Aww, this is adorable and handy! Thank you Whirl!” Whirl: “Read it!” Juno looks closer at the small writing on the back. Juno: “PILF?” Whirl: “That’s Parent I’d like to—” Perceptor, Magnus and Cyclonus quickly try and shush the copter bot. Tailgate: “Cyclonus what does that mean?” Juno: “I’m with Tailgate, what does that mean?” Rodimus just laughs loudly while covering their audials. Rodimus: “You don’t need to know that!” Juno: “Roddy? What—” Rodimus: “You don’t need to know that!”

Guess which cat is Juno and Rodimus...

[niallerspayno]

The Line - Part 1

Masterlist

You and Zayn are inseparable childhood best friends, until one night when you make a pact to be each other’s rebound whenever one of you has a break up. Things get complicated when you start dating Louis, Zayn’s bandmate, and the line between friends and more begins to blur.

Tags: Zayn x childhood friend!reader, Louis x reader, friends to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, some smut

Part 2 | Part 3

…

You’ve known Zayn for as long as you’ve known yourself. Your childhoods were spent as neighbors, running between each other’s houses as if the fences weren’t even there. Your mums always said you two were a pair of troublemakers, joined at the hip and scheming from the moment you could talk.

It never mattered that Zayn was quieter than you, or that you sometimes pulled him into your whirlwind of ideas when he clearly wanted to stay on the sidelines. He always followed anyway, his steady presence grounding you when things inevitably spiraled out of control. He’s always been like that—a constant in your life, someone you’ve never had to question.

By the time you were teenagers, he knew everything about you. Your favorite songs, what you hated on your sandwiches, the kinds of movies that made you cry. And you knew him just as well—how he hummed when he was thinking, how he’d hide behind a cigarette when he was nervous, how his laugh could fill a room when he let it.

It wasn’t that you didn’t notice how good he looked as you both grew older. You did. How could you not? His sharp jawline, his dark eyes, the tattoos he got when you were still debating whether or not to dye your hair—it all caught your attention, made your stomach twist in ways it hadn’t before.

But Zayn is your best friend, and the thought of risking that—of losing him—has always kept you in check. It’s easier this way, you tell yourself, to push the feelings down, to ignore the way your heart beats faster when he throws an arm over your shoulders or leans in close to tell you a secret.

You’re the one he comes to when things fall apart, and he’s the one who can always make you laugh when you feel like crying. That’s enough. It has to be.

Because if it’s not, you don’t know what you’d do.

…

The pact is made on a vulnerable night after your first break up. You’re curled up on the couch in your living room, your head resting on Zayn’s shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding you. The tears on your cheeks have dried, but the ache in your chest remains, raw and heavy. Zayn’s arm is wrapped around you, his thumb brushing soft, absentminded circles on your shoulder. He hasn’t said much since he arrived, just held you, his quiet presence doing what words couldn’t.

“He was such an idiot,” you mumble, your voice hoarse from crying.

Zayn hums in agreement, the sound low and steady. “The biggest idiot.”

You glance up at him, catching the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. It makes your own lips twitch in response, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re supposed to say something encouraging, you know. Like, ‘you’ll find someone better.’”

His chuckle is soft, warm. “You don’t need someone better. You’ve got me.”

The words settle between you like a weight, light enough to brush off but heavy enough to make your chest tighten. You snort, trying to defuse the strange pull in his voice. “Yeah, every girl’s dream—a best mate as her backup plan.”

Zayn shifts, his brow furrowing as he looks at you. There’s no teasing in his expression now, just a steady sincerity that makes your pulse flutter. “What’s wrong with that?”

You blink at him, caught completely off guard. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar, crooked smile that always feels like home. “Not really. I mean… think about it. You trust me, yeah? I trust you. If the world keeps throwing us idiots, why not help each other out? No strings. Just… comfort. When we need it.”

Your breath catches, your mind racing to figure out if he’s serious. His gaze is steady, unwavering, but there’s a softness there too—an unspoken understanding that only the two of you could share. “You mean, like… a rebound?”

“Exactly.” His lips curve slightly, but his voice is quiet, careful. “One night, no strings. No expectations, no weirdness after. Just you and me.”

It’s reckless. A hundred ways it could go wrong flash through your mind. But there’s also something heartbreakingly simple in it—something about the way Zayn looks at you, like he’s offering a lifeline without asking for anything in return.

“That’s ridiculous,” you whisper, shaking your head.

“Maybe.” His thumb brushes against your shoulder again, soothing. “But at least it’s real. Better than wasting time on people who don’t deserve you. We know what we’re getting—no lies, no games. Just us.”

Your heart twists, torn between the comfort of his presence and the terrifying vulnerability of what he’s suggesting. “Zayn…”

He leans closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. His voice drops, soft but resolute. “It’s just you and me. Always has been, yeah? This doesn’t change that.”

The conviction in his tone makes something inside you give way. You’ve never doubted him before—why should now be any different?

“Okay,” you whisper, the word trembling in the air. “But only if we have rules.”

His lips twitch into a small grin, though his eyes remain serious. “Of course. Lay them on me.”

“One night only,” you say, your voice firmer this time. “No repeats. No feelings. And we never, ever talk about it after.”

Zayn nods slowly, taking each word in. “One night. No repeats. No feelings. Got it.”

“Promise me,” you urge, your voice cracking slightly.

“I promise.” His voice is steady, his hand warm against your skin. “Nothing will ever change between us.”

You meet Zayn's eyes, searching for any flicker of hesitation. There's none-just warmth, steady and unshaken, like he's holding the weight of the moment for both of you. He reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch is soft, reverent, as if he's memorizing this moment, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

"You're sure?" he murmurs, his voice low, careful.

"I'm sure," you whisper, the words barely audible, but he hears them.

Zayn leans in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, but you don't. His lips meet yours, warm and soft, and the kiss is tender at first— a question, a promise. His hand moves to the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of his love and care pouring into every movement.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging gently as if asking for permission. He pulls back just enough to help you, lifting the fabric over his head and letting it fall to the floor. You take a moment to drink him in, the planes of his chest, the tattoos you've seen a hundred times but never like this.

He smiles softly, a little self-conscious under your gaze. "What?"

"Nothing," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "You're just... you."

His expression softens, and he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. "And you're you. That's all I've ever needed."

You pull him back to you, your lips meeting his again as his hands begin to explore. He's slow, deliberate, tracing the lines of your body like he's committing them to memory. His touch leaves a trail of warmth in its wake, and you can't help the way your body responds, leaning into him, needing more.

Clothes are discarded piece by piece, each movement careful, unhurried. Zayn watches you with an intensity that makes your heart race, his gaze never leaving yours as he guides you back onto the couch. The weight of him above you is comforting, grounding, and you feel a strange mix of vulnerability and safety in the way he holds you.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says softly, his forehead resting against yours.

You shake your head, your hands tangling in his hair. "I don't want. you to stop."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that feels instinctive, like you've done this a thousand times before. The heat between you builds steadily, every touch, every movement drawing you closer together.

Zayn is careful, attentive, his hands and lips mapping every inch of your skin, making you feel seen, cherished. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if he's afraid to rush and break the fragile connection between you.

When he finally enters you, it's with a care that makes your breath catch. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and emotion that leaves you clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders. He pauses, giving you time to adjust, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers your name like a prayer.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

You nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though you're not sure why. "Yeah. I'm okay."

He begins to move, his rhythm slow and steady, and the world seems to fall away. It's just the two of you, tangled together, your breaths and heartbeats aligning. The intimacy is overwhelming, not just physical but emotional, a connection so deep it feels like it's always been there, waiting for this moment.

Every touch, every movement feels deliberate, like he's trying to show you without words how much you mean to him. You lose yourself in the rhythm, the heat building between you until it's almost unbearable.

"Zayn," you whisper, your voice breaking as the tension inside you peaks.

He holds you tighter, his movements becoming more deliberate, and together you reach the edge, falling into it like you've done this a hundred times before. The release is intense, shattering, and you cling to him, his name tumbling from your lips like a lifeline.

Afterward, he stays close, his body still pressed against yours, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The room is silent except for the sound of your breaths, slowly evening out.

"You okay?" he asks again, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You nod, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. "Yeah. Are you?"

He lifts his head to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours. "I am."

There's an unspoken understanding between you, a fragile peace that feels like it could shatter at any moment. But for now, you hold onto it, letting yourself rest in the quiet comfort of Zayn's arms.

…

A few years later you smooth the hem of your dress for the third time, the nerves in your stomach twisting tighter with every second. Zayn’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember, but his world has changed so much over the past few years. The small-town boy you grew up with is now part of the biggest band in the world, touring stadiums and gracing magazine covers.

Still, he’s never changed with you. He calls when he can, texts when he can’t, and always makes time to see you when he’s back home. Today, though, feels different. Today, you’re stepping into his world.

The door to the hotel suite opens, and Zayn’s familiar grin immediately puts you at ease. “There she is,” he says, pulling you into a hug. His cologne surrounds you, warm and familiar, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you again.

“Big deal now, huh?” you tease, stepping back and taking in the plush room behind him. “Fancy hotels, famous friends.”

“Shut up,” he says, laughing. “You know it’s still me. Come on, the guys are dying to meet you.”

He leads you inside, his hand resting lightly on your back, and your nerves spike again. The room is buzzing with energy—laughter, chatter, the faint hum of music playing in the background.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Zayn announces, his voice cutting through the noise. “My best mate. Play nice.”

You barely have time to process the faces turning your way before a whirlwind of introductions begins. Harry, all dimples and charm, greets you first, followed by Liam’s warm handshake and Niall’s cheeky grin.

And then there’s Louis.

His blue eyes meet yours, and for a second, the world tilts. He’s leaning casually against the arm of a couch, his smile crooked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your heart.

“Louis,” he says simply, extending his hand.

You take it, your fingers brushing his. “Hi,” you manage, your voice softer than you’d like.

Zayn’s voice cuts through the moment, his tone light but pointed. “Alright, Lou, don’t scare her off.”

Louis smirks, not breaking eye contact. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The rest of the introductions blur together after that, but you can’t shake the feeling of Louis’ eyes on you, watching, assessing. It’s unsettling and thrilling all at once.

Zayn steers you to the couch, making room for you beside him. The conversation flows easily, stories and jokes flying across the room, but you’re hyper-aware of Louis, who’s taken the seat across from you. Every so often, your eyes meet, and his grin deepens, like he’s caught you in some unspoken game.

“Alright,” Niall announces after a while, clapping his hands together. “Who’s up for food? I’m starving.”

As the group begins to stir, Louis leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on you. “You coming out with us?”

The question feels loaded, though you’re not sure why. You glance at Zayn, who shrugs. “Your call.”

“Yeah,” you say, surprised at your own boldness. “I’d like that.”

Louis’ smile widens, and something about it makes your pulse race.

As the group files out of the suite, Zayn falls into step beside you, his arm slung casually around your shoulders. “So?” he asks under his breath. “What do you think?”

You glance back, catching Louis looking at you again. “They seem great,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral.

Zayn hums, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Just remember—he’s trouble.”

The warning is playful, but the edge in Zayn’s voice lingers, making you wonder if he knows just how drawn to Louis you already feel.

…

The restaurant buzzes with the kind of energy that fills the room with a comforting hum. Laughter spills from your table, the clink of glasses punctuating each conversation. You’re nestled between Zayn and Harry, but your focus is steadily being stolen by Louis, sitting across from you, who seems to have this effortless way of drawing your attention.

“So,” Louis begins, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours, “Zayn’s told us loads about you.”

“Loads,” Harry adds with a teasing grin. “Like how you’re the only one who can put up with him.”

“Shut it,” Zayn mutters, nudging Harry, but there’s a hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

Louis smirks, enjoying himself far too much. “What I’m wondering is how someone like you”—he pauses for effect, his eyes sparkling—“ended up wasting time on someone like him.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “She’s not wasting time.”

“I would be,” you tease, laughing lightly. “Honestly, I don’t even know how I put up with him.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Exactly. You’ve got a bit of that troublemaker look about you.”

“Troublemaker?” You tilt your head, the challenge in your gaze matching his. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Oh, I think I’ve got it right.”

Zayn shifts next to you, clearing his throat. You catch the way his hand rests on the back of your chair, the motion subtle but protective. “Let’s not make this about me,” he interjects. “She’s not a troublemaker.”

“Oh, she definitely is,” Niall chimes in, looking at you with a knowing grin. “She’s always been drawn to the bad boys, hasn’t she?”

There’s a flicker of something in your chest at Niall’s words, but you laugh it off. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Louis’ eyes narrow slightly, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “You can try to deny it all you want, but you’ve definitely got that dangerous energy about you. Bet you’ve never been able to resist a bit of trouble.”

You bite your lip, the heat from his gaze making your pulse quicken. “Maybe… I’ve been known to fall for the wrong type, now and then.” You try to make light of it, but it feels a little too close to the truth.

Zayn’s jaw tightens, and you glance at him, catching the subtle shift in his expression. But before you can say anything, Louis speaks again, his voice low and teasing. “Well, I like a challenge. What about you, Zayn? You think she’s too much trouble for me?”

Zayn doesn’t immediately respond, his gaze unwavering. “Just keep it friendly, Lou.”

“Of course, mate,” Louis replies smoothly, his grin never faltering. “Just having some fun.”

As the night continues, you notice how Louis keeps his attention on you. He asks questions, not the usual casual ones, but deeper ones—about your childhood, your life outside of the chaos. It makes you feel something unfamiliar.

“Okay, maybe you’re not as much trouble as I thought,” Louis says with a laugh, his eyes softening. “But still, I’m pretty sure you keep life interesting.”

You smile, shaking your head. “I just get caught up in things sometimes. But trouble’s never far off, is it?”

Louis’ grin widens, but there’s something more sincere about it now. “I think it’s my favorite kind of fun.”

The conversation shifts again, but now it’s like the dynamic has subtly changed. There’s an undeniable pull between you and Louis, a chemistry that’s only been intensifying as the night goes on.

As the group starts to filter out, Liam gives you a knowing look. “Watch yourself,” he says in a teasing tone. “Looks like Louis has his eyes on you.”

You roll your eyes. “I can handle myself.”

Zayn, however, is unusually quiet. His gaze is sharp, flicking between you and Louis, his hand still resting on the back of your chair.

Louis glances over to Zayn, his expression almost too casual. “I’m just making conversation, mate. Relax.”

But Zayn’s voice is low when he responds. “Just keep it respectful.”

Louis doesn’t flinch, his smile not fading in the slightest. “Always.”

The tension in the air is thick now, and when the others start heading out, you’re left alone with Louis. He steps closer, his smile turning more earnest.

“Can I see you again?” Louis asks, his voice quieter, more sincere than it’s been all night.

You glance at Zayn, who hasn’t moved, his presence like a silent challenge. But you can’t deny the pull toward Louis.

“Sure,” you say, your heart thudding in your chest. “I’d like that.”

Louis’ grin spreads, pure mischief and warmth. “Good. I’ll make sure it’s worth your time.”

Zayn watches the exchange with a quiet intensity, and as you head toward the door, you feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as Louis’ presence lingers like a promise.

“Are you really going out with him?” Zayn asks softly, his tone almost too careful, his voice low enough that Louis can’t hear.

“Why not?” you reply lightly, but inside, the tension coils tighter.

Zayn doesn’t respond, his lips pressed into a thin line. You can’t help but wonder if this will be another one of those times when the attraction to the bad boy and the allure of danger come with consequences.

…

Part 2

[riotwritesthings]

An Agony We Deserve (Throwing Off Sparks)

WinterIron - M, 9.9k, WIP - reluctant soulmates, thriller/horror?, CW salt, not particularly Steve friendly, violence

There are legends. Soulmate bonds have started and ended wars, they used to reshape the world without any warning. People would change in an instant, abandon and betray everything, become completely unrecognizable, but those are just legends- It can’t be- But they are.

This chapter got a wee bit long, but hopefully it was worth the wait! and yes I took some liberties with the Mark XV armor, but only a couple.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

~~~

Chapter 5: what will I do

An awful mechanical rattling sound snaps Tony awake.

He flails his way upright, his back immediately complaining about the position he’d slept in. His elbow collides with something hard and Bucky grunts beside him.

Tony blinks into the dark of the cabin around him, trying to remember moving to the couch, or when night fell-

It finally clicks that the loud clanging sound is coming from the ancient phone on the wall, and there’s only one person who’s likely to call here.

Bucky’s hands reach out to steady him as Tony climbs clumsily to his feet. He barely detangles their legs in time to avoid falling on his face, and he’s not sure when that happened either.

His head pounds in time with the ringing of the phone as he stumbles across the small shack. When he lifts the receiver the noise finally cuts off, and Tony is pretty sure that Bucky echoes his relieved sigh.

He clears his throat and presses the phone to his ear, trying to ignore the awful taste in his mouth. Like liquor and a mix of the preserves he half-remembers finishing both jars of, and just a hint of vomit.

“Big Bob’s Burger Hut,” Tony says in greeting, his voice still hoarse with sleep.

“Bad news,” Rhodey says without preamble.

"I can’t believe you woke me up for bad news," Tony grumbles, his nose wrinkling as he smacks his lips. He needs water-

He hasn’t even finished the thought before Bucky pushes himself off the couch and heads for the kitchen. The wave of gratitude that rushes over Tony makes him sway on his already unsteady feet, and he watches avidly as Bucky starts filling two glasses of water.

Even in the dark, with just the glow of the moon filtered through the window and the cracks in the roof, watching Bucky move is almost hypnotic. The bunch and pull of his shoulders, the shift of muscle along his back as his tips his head back to down a glass of water in one go.

Tony can still feel the warmth of where they must have been pressed together as they slept, along his legs and his entire left side. As Bucky turns towards him, he’s struck with a half-memory of falling asleep to the steady pattern of Bucky’s pulse beneath his ear-

“And I can’t believe you didn’t answer with a restaurant more on-theme for Lithuania, which is where I know you are,” Rhodey shoots back pointedly, breaking into Tony’s wandering thoughts.

“What?” He demands, his spine straightening in alarm.

“Ross traced your call yesterday, he-”

"How?" Tony interrupts, “how did he get the okay for that? I thought you and your phone both have super-top-secret clearances that keep Ross up at night with jealousy?”

“I don’t know,” Rhodey says with an audible roll of his eyes, "it seemed more important to figure out what he knows, rather than how."

“Good point,” Tony allows, “please continue.”

He gratefully takes the glass of water that Bucky hands him, then shakes his head minutely when Bucky gives him a questioning look. So instead of pretending he’s not listening, Bucky stays close as Rhodey starts to explain.

"It doesn’t seem like he got the content of the call, although it might just be that you told me a grand total of nothing useful," Rhodey says. He sounds tired, and it occurs to Tony that if Rhodey is still in Germany it’s also the middle of the night for him. “What I do know is that he tracked down exactly where you are, and he’s already sent a team to pick the two of you up.”

“Shit,” Tony says with feeling. He flicks his gaze up from watching Bucky’s thumb tap anxiously against his glass to meet the man’s eye, and Bucky nods. “Okay,” he says as as Bucky wordlessly steps away, “okay, we’ll get moving again-”

“That’s not all,” Rhodey interrupts, “apparently Rogers found out too, because he and Wilson just busted out of custody in Berlin.”

“Great,” Tony groans and Bucky pauses in gathering supplies to glance at him.

“Ross has the resources, but Rogers is a man possessed, and my money is on him finding you first,” Rhodey says. “So if I were you, I’d be getting ready to explain why you stole his other half.”

That choice of wording has a strangled laugh bursting out of Tony’s chest. Rhodey has no idea just how right he is, and Tony doesn’t know how he’s supposed to explain it.

Bucky flinches a little as he stands at the sink filling spare jars with water.

“Don’t be jealous, SourPatch,” Tony says, his voice tight despite his best efforts. “I have no idea what to say to him either.”

He’s not sure which would be worse, being caught by Ross' team or being confronted by Steve.

Either way, he’s pretty sure someone is going to try and take Bucky from him. He can’t let that happen, they- They decided to stay together. He won’t let anyone separate them.

But all Tony has on him is a prototype watch gauntlet, which could really use a charge after their last fight to escape. He needs something-

“How soon can you get to one of my workshops?” He asks in a rush, shoving his fingers through his hair.

“I’m almost back to New York, heading there now,” Rhodey replies without missing a beat despite the long pause. “Pepper and I are going to see what we can find and actually share from SI and your files to continue fighting the Hydra rumors.”

Bucky’s lips pull into a frown, guilt flooding through him again. Tony can feel it filling Bucky’s chest as he gathers up the shirt and suit jacket Tony scattered around the shack.

“Perfect,” Tony says, his attention on the tense line of Bucky’s shoulders. “And while you’re at it, tell FRIDAY to run Find My Friend, version 3.15.”

Rhodey huffs, but doesn’t ask. “Will do. Stay safe, Tones.”

“You too,” Tony says distractedly. He hurries to hang up so he can turn his attention to Bucky and say, “Stop being sorry.”

That has Bucky’s head jerking up, and he looks at Tony wide-eyed for a second. Then he drops his gaze and starts loudly gathering up an armful of jars.

“It’s not your fault that people think I might be with Hydra now,” Tony insists as crosses the shack to start grabbing jars too. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long for those particular rumors to start, I’ve heard just about everything else. Plus, it’s not even your fault that people think you’re Hydra, so stop feeling guilty over things that aren’t your fault. It’s really bumming me out.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, but his worried frown lessens a little and his shoulders relax.

They load up their stolen truck without talking, focused on moving quickly. More than once Tony catches Bucky pausing to stare out into the night, like he’s listening for something.

Last thing before they head out, Tony leaves most of the cash from his wallet on the table, more than enough to cover all the jars and the samanė. Just in case whoever owns this place ever intends to come back, although he’s pretty sure it’s abandoned.

As he tucks his wallet away he realizes that Bucky is watching him, an odd look on his face. But he just shakes his head when Tony raises an eyebrow at him.

Without a word they agree that Bucky should drive, and they pull away from the shack with all of the truck's lights turned off.

---

“Are you sure this is apple?” Tony asks, his nose wrinkling.

He squints down into the jar of preserves. Dawn has barely started to glow on the horizon, and in the weak light he can’t quite make out the color.

“Pretty sure,” Bucky says with a snort of laughter. He doesn’t turn his gaze away from the dark of the dirt road in front of them, but when Tony starts to stick his fork back into the jar he protests, “Quit stealin’ my apples if you don’ even like 'em.”

“Excuse me, we both stole these from some poor unsuspecting farmer, I can eat and not enjoy them if I want,” Tony argues. “Plus, I haven’t decided yet. I’m still not convinced this isn’t- crabapples, or something.”

“Give it here,” Bucky demands, holding a hand out.

Tony considers protesting, but whatever fruit is preserved in this jar is leaving a weird aftertaste on his tongue. So he shoves the fork into the jar and hands it over with a final ‘ick’ noise.

Then he has to try not to stare as Bucky shoves the jar between his thighs, pulling the denim tight across thick muscles.

Now that Tony is more awake, last night is less hazy. He remembers moving to the couch when his back started to complain about sitting on the floor. He remembers the liquor hitting him again, and he’s pretty sure Bucky had wrapped an arm around him without protest when Tony tipped over into him.

He definitely remembers their legs tangling as Bucky made himself comfortable, too. Bucky's fingers carding through his hair as he drifted off.

And now Tony is having trouble thinking about anything but Bucky’s warm weight against him, wrapped around him. Their newest stolen farm truck isn’t big, but Bucky still feels entirely too far away.

But not so far that if Tony were to reach out-

“Then what?” Bucky asks, and it takes Tony a second to remember what the hell they had been talking about.

“Right,” Tony says.

He tears his gaze away from the jar shoved between Bucky’s thick thighs, and even manages not to get caught up staring at Bucky’s mouth as he takes another bite of preserves.

“So the UN got together,” Tony says, forcing himself to stay focused. “And 117 of those countries agreed that maybe The Avengers- maybe we shouldn’t be able to run around the world doing whatever we think is best and making, just- a giant fucking mess everywhere we go in the process.”

He starts digging around on the floorboard for one of the jars of water in a useless attempt to hide the way his hands have started to shake, the tremor in his voice. Like there’s a point in trying to hide anything from Bucky.

“I thought they had a decent point, and that we should at least be part of the conversation,” he continues, pretending that opening the jar takes all of his attention. “Steve- He disagreed, we argued, as we do. Then the ratification of the Accords was interrupted by a very convincing frame job. And then Steve and I argued some more, you broke out of confinement, and now here we are. Boom, you’re all caught up.”

Tony takes a big drink of water, although this hasn’t been quite as upsetting to get into as he expected. Sure, the guilt is just as overwhelming, all of his mistakes still weighing heavily enough to crush him if he let them. But the pain of leaving the team, of fighting with Steve-

The wounds are more than healed, they’re completely scarred over. No more painful to think about now than the friends he made and lost way back in college.

He cares way more what Bucky thinks of all his mistakes.

Not that it matters, Bucky is stuck with him. Tony learned the hard way last night that they can't even stay mad at each other, no matter the fucking reason. Bucky can’t leave him.

A sick feeling of relief is trying to grow in Tony’s chest again, and he viciously shoves it down.

When he finally glances over Bucky has a thoughtful look on his face. He must have heard the very basics of what happened with Ultron and Sokovia, but Tony can’t blame him for wanting to know exactly what he’s found himself in the middle of.

Bucky opens his mouth, and Tony braces himself for all the familiar questions. Maybe Bucky can't stay mad at him, but he’ll still probably want to know what the hell were you thinking? How could you let that happen? Why didn’t you know better by now?

“An’ what exactly was the battle of New York?” Bucky asks.

It startles a sound out of Tony that’s caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“Not relevant at the moment,” he says with a quick shake of his head. “So we are definitely not getting into that whole story right now.”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change, but Tony can tell that he’s pouting. Which is a little unfair, since Tony can’t exactly interrogate him back.

They’ve already determined that Bucky remembers basically nothing between being taken into custody by the anti-terror taskforce and running into Tony. And touching anything Bucky remembers before that feels- dicey.

“How long have we been on the road? About two hours?” Tony asks instead.

The sun still hasn’t risen, but the sky is light enough now that he can make out the empty fields around them. Apparently it's also light enough that Bucky can finally look away from the road to give Tony a curious look.

“A lil’ over that, yeah,” he replies.

“And we’re going- North? Ish?” Tony guesses.

"No, East," Bucky says with a huff and shoots him another look. “We’re drivin’ into the sunrise.”

“I don’t know, I’m an engineer, not a navigator,” Tony defends himself, glaring at the haze of fog that turns the entire horizon into a glowing golden line. “And for all I know those crabapple preserves are making me fucking- hallucinate.”

Bucky snorts and pointedly shoves another forkful of preserves into his mouth. Tony ignores him in favor of doing some quick mental math.

“Good,” he finally decides, “pull over here.”

"What?"

“You wanted to know what ‘Find My Friend’ means, right? Pull over and you’ll find out,” Tony says with a smirk.

Bucky looks doubtful, but he pulls over to the side of the dirt road.

Tony considers getting out of the truck to wait, but that seems like a good way to get spotted by a satellite. So he rolls the window down instead and turns off the rattling heater in the truck, listening carefully.

All Tony hears though is the soft sounds of wind through the dry grass around them. He can feel Bucky’s curiosity spiking, and Tony keeps his gaze fixed out the window to hide his smirk.

The minutes tick by without another sound. Even the wind dies down, and Tony’s confidence wavers.

Just as Bucky starts to get twitchy in response to Tony’s growing worry that something has gone wrong, Bucky’s attention jerks around to the right. A second later Tony can hear it, too.

The dull roar gets louder, quickly moving closer, and Tony grins when Bucky shoots him a worried look. Within seconds the sound descends on them, whipping the air around before dying out with a soft crunch of grass. Because he’s looking for it, Tony can barely make out the distortion of the air a couple of feet from the passenger side of the truck.

“Found you,” comes FRIDAY’s familiar voice from the spot of shimmering air.

Bucky sucks in a sharp, alarmed breath.

“Took you long enough,” Tony says to the empty air. “Now get in the car before you give the old man a heart attack.”

Tony glances over in time to see Bucky shoot him a quick, unimpressed look.

The back door of the truck opens, and the suspension groans in complaint as a heavy weight settles into the back seat. Once the door has closed, the air shifts and the dark gray Mark VI armor is revealed as it drops its visual camouflages.

The quiet sound that Bucky lets out this time sounds much closer to impressed. Tony doesn’t bother trying to hide his smug grin.

"Bucky, meet FRIDAY, my AI, currently playing the part of my armor," he says, gesturing to the mass of metal awkwardly crammed into the backseat. Then he turns his attention to the armor and says, “FRIDAY, meet Bucky, m-my- Apparently, we are s-soulmates.”

Tony is a little surprised to find himself still stumbling over the word, after their conversation last night. Almost like ‘deciding’ to stick together doesn’t change how goddamn weird it is that he has a soulmate. To find out that soulmates are real.

FRIDAY takes a split second longer than usual before replying, “A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Nice- uh, nice to meet you too,” Bucky says slowly.

His eyes flick from Tony to the armor and back again. He’s trying to play it cool, but Tony can feel Bucky’s awe as a warm ball in his own chest. He tries not to let his smug grin get too wide.

“Any trouble?” Tony asks the AI.

“None, Boss,” she replies, “there were lots of eyes on the tower, but Colonel Rhodes ensured I was not detected leaving.”

“Good-”

“How’d- how did she find us?” Bucky asks quickly, looking torn between being confused and concerned.

“Homing devices under my skin,” Tony says dismissively, but Bucky’s concern spikes. So he adds, “Don’t worry, the suits are the only things that can access them.”

Bucky looks like he wants to ask more questions, but Tony waves him off and turns back to FRIDAY.

“Hand over the helmet, I need to check the news,” he says, turning a little more to face the backseat.

“Of course,” she says and the arms of the suit start to lift before pausing. FRIDAY’s voice sounds almost hesitant when she adds, “Boss, Captain Rogers has been trying to reach you near-constantly on the Avenger’s emergency channel, and I have several messages from Agent Romanoff-”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” Tony cuts her off quickly, shaking his head. “We’re not dealing with that right now. Just the news, thank you.”

He’s aware of Bucky watching with fascination as FRIDAY has the armor nod shortly before grabbing either side of the helmet. There’s a hiss and clack as latches open, and then the helmet lifts away.

“Wow,” Bucky mutters under his breath, craning his neck to get a better look down the empty neck hole of the suit. His voice is distracted as he asks, “So that’s th- that’s your armor?”

He’s more than just impressed, Bucky is awed and almost painfully curious. Tony has to struggle to fight down his smug grin as he twists forward and drops back down in his seat.

“One of them,” Tony says, holding the helmet up for a moment. “This is the Mark VI, codename Sneaky.”

“Sneaky?” Bucky repeats slowly, quirking an eyebrow.

“What? Tell me that wasn’t sneaky!” Tony protests with a huff. “Radar, sonar, pathetic human eyes, nothing can track this baby.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully, then points out, “We did hear it comin’, though.”

Tony nearly chokes on his offended gasp when he can’t completely fight down a laugh. He knows that Bucky is teasing, and for once there’s no tiny part of him wondering if there’s a hidden barbthat he’s missing. If Bucky is just waiting to catch him off guard.

“Yeah yeah, well you let me know when you figure out completely silent flight,” Tony mutters and slouches down pointedly in his seat. He drops his chin in an attempt to hide his twitching lips as he continues grumbling loudly under his breath.

“Will do,” Bucky says easily. He ignores Tony’s top-notch pouting in favor of pulling back out onto the road, the truck’s suspension creaking much more loudly than before.

“Mean to me,” Tony accuses, shifting his grip on the helmet so he can cross his arms. He’s still struggling to stop a smile from spreading across his face.

Bucky isn’t fighting down his grin at all and Tony’s breath catches to see the way it crinkles the skin around his eyes, the hint of a dimple in his cheek. It’s a real smile, one that Tony vaguely remembers seeing in photos of Bucky from before the war. Seeing it in person, because of him-

Then Bucky glances over at him just long enough to wink and blow him a kiss.

Tony chokes on nothing as his heart lurches in his chest. Bucky’s gaze is fixed firmly on the road again but Tony can see the way his eyes go wide, like he hadn’t been expecting himself to do that either. There’s a faint pink rising in Bucky’s cheeks, and Tony can feel a matching warmth on his own face.

He quickly yanks the helmet down over his head in a useless attempt to hide his blush.

Everything is dark for a second, and then the internal battery kicks in and the familiar lights of the helmet’s HUD fills his vision. FRIDAY has already pulled up a multitude of news sources on the display for him, and he starts to pour over them. But in the back of his mind Tony can’t think about anything except how dangerous this is.

Talking with Bucky- being with him, it’s just-

It’s easy.

He knows exactly when Bucky is teasing and when he’s being genuine. He knows there’s no actual judgement in Bucky’s dry tone, and he knows that Bucky isn’t playing up how impressed he is just to stroke Tony’s ego. He can feel all of Bucky’s emotions somewhere in the complicated mess that’s taken up residence in his chest.

They’re not always clear, but Tony is quickly learning how to decipher them.

Tony is so used to second-guessing everything, every move someone makes and every single thing they say. He’s been doing it his entire life, but now- Now he can’t even force himself to go through the familiar routine of over-thinking all of Bucky’s motivations.

He knows why Bucky is here, why they’re both here. He knows what Bucky means by every single thing he says.

It’s all dangerously easy.

Even if the bond would let them stand to be separated, why would Tony want to?

Why would he want to be away from this feeling of easy familiarity, even if it isn’t real? It feels real.

And there are so few people that he can read completely, that he can trust completely. Why would he not want to stick with Bucky? Even if talking to Rhodey hadn’t felt so- so different than it did before, it wouldn’t compare to what he’s feeling now- The level of connection-

How could he want to walk away from that?

When they ‘decided’ to stick together, they both knew that it was for show. They just needed to pretend for a second that they have a choice. In any of this.

But he’d also heard the sincerity buried in Bucky’s voice when he’d agreed. And Tony had felt the strange mix of resignation and relief that had flooded through the other man.

So does it matter how real the choice actually is?

If the soulmate bond was only half as strong, if it did give them some semblance of a choice-

At this point Tony is pretty sure that he would choose to stay right here. In a stolen truck, on the run from everyone he knows. With Bucky and this easy familiarity.

He isn’t sure how he feels about that realization.

---

It takes Tony a couple hours to go through all of the info he can find, and by the end he can determine that Rhodey was wildly sugarcoating things.

The gossip mill is running rampant, as expected, and no one can even begin to agree on why they ran off together. Tony is a little amused that not a single person, from reporter to blogger, has guessed the truth.

But Tony is much more concerned with the military response to their little escape. Basically everyone is looking for them, the US, Wakanda, and every country in between. All things considered, he’s a little surprised they haven’t been swarmed by half a dozen strike teams yet.

The only upside is that SI was quickly cleared from any suspicion of ties to Hydra, which makes one more reason he was right to put Pepper in charge. The ratification of the Accords has also been delayed until the ‘mystery bomber’ is caught, and at least that buys him a little more time on that front.

He already has a couple ideas about how they can fix this, how to clear their names and maybe even make some progress on the Accords front. But all of his possible plans start with figuring out who’s trying to frame Bucky, and why, and then actually finding the asshole.

And they can’t exactly do that here, without access to any of Tony’s computers or equipment. There’s only so much he can do from the suit without pinging an alert and drawing attention to themselves. They can’t even stop long enough for Tony to rig up some kind of relay that will let him do a little more digging.

All of his ideas require them to be not on run, which means at some point they’ll have to stop. It’s just a matter of who will find them first when they do, and hoping like hell they’ll at least let Tony get on with one of his many plans.

As if to really drive that point home, he gets a notification that Steve is calling on the emergency line. For the fifth time in the past hour.

Tony rejects the call for the fifth time in the past hour.

Talking to Rhodey was one thing, but he is not ready to talk to Steve. He’s not ready to- to have to finally explain all of this to someone else. And Steve will definitely demand an explanation, he won’t settle for ‘I’ll explain later’ after- after everything that happened with Ultron.

He can’t put it off forever though, and he’s pretty sure Steve and the Avengers will be their best best to actually solve this mess. He’s just-

He’s not ready yet.

The helmet isn’t exactly stuffy, but the rush of fresh air over his face when he pulls it off is still a relief. Tony drags in a deep breath and then lets it out slowly as he rests the helmet in his lap, his mind still racing.

“We still most wanted?” Bucky asks, the words casual but his tone soft.

He can probably feel how quickly Tony’s thoughts are spinning and colliding into each other, and Tony feels a little bad. No one should be subjected to the inside of his head.

"The most wanted," Tony says with faux-excitement. “Not to brag, but hanging out with me is probably one of the few things that could make you more dangerous and wanted. And here we are.”

“Hooray,” Bucky says dryly, and Tony laughs.

The sun is high in the sky now, and Tony glances around at the identical fields around them. Not quite identical, he realizes, the randomly scattered houses have increased in frequency. He glances into the backseat to make sure the armor is still cloaked.

“Where are we going, anyways?” He finally thinks to ask.

Bucky snorts and glances over at him with a grin as he asks, “Did you get kidnapped a lot, as a kid?”

“Haha,” Tony says, rolling his eyes, “three and a half times. Now answer the question.”

"‘An’ a half?’ How does that work?"

“Keep dodging the question and find out,” Tony warns, reaching for the handle of the car door.

The laugh that Bucky lets out is deep and rolling and so real. Warmth spreads through Tony’s chest and spirals out through his limbs, melting away a lot of the tension that built up in his muscles as he read through the news.

“There’s a safehouse near the Russian border,” Bucky says slowly, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. "One of th’ generals kept it- It was off th’ books. An’ that was years ago, so- I don’t think anyone still knows about it. If it's still there."

“That’s the spirit,” Tony says, and Bucky snorts again.

“Dunno how old they’ll be, but these should still be a computer or two lyin' around,” Bucky adds, glancing over at him with a small grin.

Tony clutches at his chest and slumps back against the door, pretending to swoon. Bucky smiles wider, until his blue eyes practically shine with it and crinkle around the corners.

“And what are the odds we’ll find some old weapons lying around?” Tony asks knowingly as he sits upright again, and Bucky smiles innocently. Tony shakes his head with a chuckle and then asks, “So, where near the border, exactly?”

Bucky’s expression pinches again as he haltingly admits, “I’m not- I don’ remember, exactly. But I- I know I can get us there s’long as- as I don’t think about it too hard.”

That raises the question of how often Bucky had to navigate his way to this ‘off the books safehouse’, but Tony knows better than to voice it. He doesn’t need the bond to tell him to keep his mouth shut, it's obvious in Bucky’s tight shoulders and the haunted look that’s completely replaced his smile.

Tony is once again flooded with the urge- the need to reach out to him. It’s just like when he saw Bucky sitting miserable and dejected in the corner of that one-room shack and Tony had been physically incapable of not doing something. And when he’s not futility trying to keep hold of an unfair anger, he doesn’t want to resist.

But he still doesn’t know what to do. For all of the ‘need to comfort’ that the bond throws at him, it doesn’t exactly come with instructions on how to comfort a stranger. Especially one who used to be, and sometimes still is, a deadly assassin.

“Well, three cheers for muscle memory, I guess,” Tony says after a pause that stretches just a little too long.

A weak smile twitches at the corner of Bucky’s lips. Much more importantly, Tony can feel the chill receding from Bucky’s mind as he lets go of the half-memories. As he realizes that Tony isn’t going to ask him to drag them up.

Bucky relaxes back in his seat minutely, and Tony gets a little more brave. Under the flimsy guise of getting a look at the dash, he scoots awkwardly across the bench seat until his shoulder brushes against Bucky’s.

“We’ll need more gas before that,” Tony remarks, fighting down his grin as Bucky shifts to lean against him the tiniest amount. “And by gas, I mean a new car.”

“There’s a town not far from here,” Bucky says with a small nod.

His fingers tap against the steering wheel for a second, and he starts to lift his hand away before quickly wrapping it tight around the wheel again. Like he was going to reach out but then stopped himself. Tony has the strangest urge to pout, but he settles for leaning a little more heavily into Bucky’s shoulder.

When Tony drops his gaze he catches sight of the helmet still clenched between his hands. He’d almost forgotten he was holding it, and his grip tightens as reality tries to make itself known.

There’s a good chance he’s missed at least one more call since he took the helmet off. And he still hasn’t even looked at the message from Natasha, it makes his chest pull tight just to think about after he- he attacked her-

Tony is fighting and running from his own team. He’s running from everything, all of his responsibilities. And Steve apparently thinks he’s abducting people for unknown reasons now, that’s how low his credibility has fallen. It’s no wonder people think he’s gone rogue, or that he’s working for Hydra.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s started anxiously tapping his fingers against the metal of the helmet until Bucky’s hand spreads over his, his fingers slipping between Tony’s to gently still them.

Tony drags in a shuddering breath as warmth rushes up his arm and through his chest, trying to wash reality away again.

It nearly works. The amount of calm he gets from the simple contact is absurd, honestly, but it’s hard to care about the why when Tony can literally feel his heartbeat steadying.

“I- We should- Once we get to this safehouse, we should probably call Steve back,” Tony reluctantly bites out. He curls his fingers around Bucky’s, making it clear he has no intention of letting go, and uses his free hand to set the helmet beside him on the bench seat.

“‘We?’” Bucky asks, glancing over at him with one eyebrow raised. Tony doesn’t miss the pleased warmth that floods through him at the word, though, or the way Bucky’s fingers tighten around his.

“We,” Tony agrees with a firm nod, trying to pretend the word doesn’t make him a little breathless too. “You are not getting out of dealing with this with me. And by this, I mean your best friend. Who thinks I kidnapped you. He’s going to want proof of life.”

“Okay,” Bucky says easily. “Should we pick up a paper with today’s date, too? Send 'im a photo?”

Tony lets out a snort that turns into surprised laughter, once again caught off guard by Bucky’s dry humor. Bucky keeps his attention fixed on the road, but he’s also not trying to hide his wide grin as he carefully twists his hand in Tony’s grip until their palms slide together. Their fingers slip together again easily, and now they are officially holding hands.

The heat that floods Tony’s face and the way his heart skips in his chest over hand holding makes him feel like a pre-teen again. But that doesn’t stop him from tightening his grip on Bucky’s hand. He settles back in his seat a little more, pressed a little more firmly against Bucky’s side.

They fall into comfortable silence as a small city starts to grow in the distance. Bucky’s thumb drags absently along the side of his hand, and Tony smiles as he tips his head back against the seat.

---

The town seems to have already quieted down for the evening as they drive in. They find a delivery van is an empty alley, and its suspension complains way less about the weight of the armor in the back.

Spending this long in a vehicle that he’s not driving is making him a little crazy, but Tony slides into the passenger seat without complaint. The passenger seat that is entirely too separate from the driver seat.

Tony’s left side feels cold, and his hand feels painfully empty. It doesn’t matter that Bucky is less than two feet away in the other seat, navigating them out of the narrow alleyway. Without that physical contact Tony feels-

He feels untethered.

And he knows that should freak him out. It would have just a couple days ago, but Tony-

He can’t care about that right now. He has so many bigger problems right now than the urge to hold hands, so why worry about it?

Especially when he also knows- knows it to his core- that when he sticks his hand out and wiggles his fingers expectantly, he only has to wait a second before Bucky’s fingers are lacing with his. Instantly he feels calm and grounded again, and Tony lets out a slow breath.

As they drive out of town without incident, he makes a mental note of yet another place on their tour of Europe that he’ll have to make a little anonymous donation. The list is getting pretty long.

Tony ends up dozing on and off as Bucky drives them through Belarus. The entire time, Bucky's fingers stay laced through his, thumb running absently over the side of Tony’s hand.

The sun is going down when Tony wakes up, but there’s still enough light to see that they’re driving through a sparse forest. Tony’s arm kind of aches from hanging between the seats, but he squeezes Bucky’s hand and smiles to himself.

“Pretty sure I’ve seen this horror movie,” Tony says, his voice thick with sleep.

Bucky huffs out a laugh and squeezes his hand back as he asks, “So what’s your fate gonna be?”

“I- do not actually remember,” Tony admits, “but I’m pretty sure I’d rather be found by a strike team.”

“Think we’re about there, so let’s find out,” Bucky says, still grinning as he pulls off the small dirt road and onto a smaller dirt road.

“Uh-oh,” Tony says dryly. Then the house comes into view, and he says, “Oh.”

It’s not nearly as bad as he was expecting. Instead of a creepy log cabin, the house looks like it’s been plucked out of a suburb and dropped in the middle of a forest. There’s only one story, but it looks solidly built and probably has multiple rooms, at least. And indoor plumbing.

As much as Tony is looking forward to that, he’d also sworn to himself that he’d stop putting off calling Steve as soon as they got here. He probably owes that to Steve, he did run off with the man’s oldest friend, and all of their best chances to find the real bomber involve getting some kind of help.

But still, he really doesn’t want to call Steve.

Bucky does a couple sweeps around the perimeter of the house while Tony uses the armor to scan the woods for any signs of life, and eventually they determine that the place is about as abandoned as they can hope for. Another quick scan tells Tony that the house doesn’t have power for any kind of security system, so he waves Bucky on and the man easily rips through the multiple rusted locks on the back door.

“From farm house to weird, forest safe house,” Tony says as he looks around the dark kitchen. “We’re really moving up in the world.”

“Next time I’ll find you a safe-mansion,” Bucky promises, sounding oddly sincere.

Tony clutches his hands to his chest and flutters his eyelashes, but he knows Bucky can tell that his heart isn’t in it.

All of his thoughts are on the phone call that he has to make. And figuring out what the hell he’s even going to say, because he still hasn’t done that. The idea of saying to someone that he has a soulmate is still- It still doesn’t feel quite real.

Tony is way past trying to deny the bond between them, but- But if it gets out, other people will. He has no doubt there will be demands for some kind of proof, despite the fact that no one has ever found hard proof of the soulmate bond. There are only stories, and now Tony is living one of them.

Who is even going to believe him-

“I need a shower,” Tony decides, using the helmet like a flashlight and pointing it down the narrow hallway. “Shower, and then dealing with things.”

“I’ll try’n fix the power,” Bucky says, peering around the corner into the living room. When Tony hesitates Bucky turns to him with a small smile and says, “Save me some water, if there is any.”

“We’ll see,” Tony says, but they both know he will.

He’s halfway through a dark, cold shower when the lights flicker on, and apparently Bucky found the generator.

Spending the day eating preserves while driving down rural roads has left his suit pants flecked with bits of fruit, and Tony winces as he pulls them back on. Even with the lights on, he doesn’t really want to go raiding the closet of a Hydra general, so dirty slacks it is. His button-up is a lost cause though, and he has to face the chill of the house in just his undershirt.

Bucky blinks at him as he walks into the living room, then hurries off to the bathroom himself with his chin ducked low.

After getting the suit inside and making sure that turning on the power didn’t trip any of the out-dated security systems, Tony manages to dig up some old military rations while he waits.

When Bucky does come back, it’s with a wide grin and a large knife that he must have found somewhere. Tony shakes his head with a huff and doesn’t ask.

They eat in tense silence, sitting across from each other with their legs tangled under the small kitchen table. When they’re done, Tony solemnly sets the helmet in the center of the table.

No more putting it off.

“Ready?” He asks.

“No,” Bucky says with a weak attempt at a grin, and Tony nods in agreement.

“FRIDAY,” he says, “get me- Get us Captain Spangles on the emergency emergency line.”

The eyes of the helmet light up, and Tony drags in a steadying breath.

“Tony!” Steve says in a rush of air as soon as the line connects. His strained, frantic voice fills the small kitchen as he demands, “Where is- what did you do to Bucky?!”

"What- nothing," Tony says with a roll of his eyes, “why would-”

"What did you do?" Steve interrupts to demand again, sounding beyond panicked.

However low Steve’s opinion of him might be at the moment, Tony can’t imagine what Steve thinks he’s done that has him this worked up. When Tony glances up at Bucky, he seems just as confused.

“Steve,” Tony tries, “what-”

"It wasn’t his fault," Steve cuts him off again, and Tony huffs. “He wasn’t- you don’t understand, you- You can’t blame him,” Steve insists, skipping from one thought to the next without finishing any of them. “It wasn’t his- he’s-”

“I know,” Tony interrupts this time, his annoyance spiking to match his confusion, “Dammit Steve, I’m trying to tell you that I know he wasn’t in Vienna.”

“You- Vienna-” Steve repeats slowly, “That- okay, good. Right. That’s good.”

Tony gets the distinct feeling that they’re having two different conversations. Talking to Rhodey had felt like- like talking to a stranger, but at least a familiar one. This, though-

This is something else.

“So, so where is he?” Steve asks and he’s trying not to sound panicked now, but he’s not fooling anyone.

“Right here, drama queen,” Tony huffs, distracted. Steve hadn’t been talking about the Vienna bombing, he’s sure of that, but what-

“'M here, Stevie,” Bucky chimes in, his voice hoarse.

Tony fixes him with a look, trying to convey that he’d hoped Bucky would sound less like an abused hostage during this phone call. Bucky’s lips twitch weakly and his legs shift against Tony’s as he clears his throat.

"'M fine, I swear," he adds and Tony is all too familiar with the complicated mix of emotions behind the words, because he’s feeling it too.

They are fine, but they’re not sure that they should be. They’re more fine with all of this than they were yesterday and they should be concerned about that, right? But Tony isn’t, and he can tell that Bucky isn’t either. Why would he be, when he hasn’t found a reason yet that he wouldn’t choose this? Choose Bucky? When it feels so-

Right.

“You- g-good,” Steve stutters, clearly caught off guard. Like this conversation isn’t going the way he expected, and Tony knows that feeling too. “T-That’s good, so wh- What happened? I mean, w- why’re you-”

He trails off, struggling for words, and Tony is pretty sure he should be offended again.

Bucky bites his lip so hard the skin goes white and Tony is momentarily distracted from trying to figure out what the hell is going on with Steve. He’s already reaching across the table to pull Bucky’s lower lip free before he catches himself and drops his arm back to his side.

“Why’m I with Tony?” Bucky asks, his gaze flicking up from the helmet to meet Tony’s and the tiniest smile pulling at his lips.

Tony’s breath catches and he wonders if Steve can hear the same thing he can, the way Bucky’s voice curls warm and familiar around his name. Like he’s been saying it forever.

A surprised inhale from the other end of the line means that Steve probably did.

"Well, yeah," Steve says in a hard rush, like all the air is being knocked out of him. “I mean, I thought-”

He cuts himself off, but Tony is dying to know what exactly Steve had thought was going on. Before he can ask, though, Steve is talking again.

“I know I told you about Tony, but I didn’t think you’d hit it off quite that fast,” Steve says with a strained laugh, and Tony isn’t buying it.

Something is off-

“Uh, yeah, we-” Bucky starts and then his voice cuts off as he looks up at Tony again, like Tony has any idea how to start explaining this. Bucky abruptly laughs softly and shakes his head as he says, “You’re not gonna believe me.”

Steve lets out a frustrated, incomprehensible sound that almost manages to make Tony smile.

“Listen Stevie,” Bucky says and then pauses, swallowing hard.

He blinks rapidly, expression twisted, and Tony’s heart clenches in his chest at the sight. When Bucky’s right hand starts to creep across the table Tony doesn’t hesitate to reach out and wrap his fingers around Bucky’s again.

Bucky jolts slightly, like he hadn’t even realized he was reaching out. But then he grips Tony’s hand back tightly and his lips curl up at the edges. Tony has no idea what Bucky is going to say, no idea what he would say. But he knows they’re in this together.

“I had to leave with Tony,” Bucky finally says simply, like that explains it.

To them it does, and Tony feels a small smile spreading across his own face. Steve makes another confused, frustrated sound.

"I don’t- I don’t understand, " Steve says slowly, "why- I mean, is that- are you sure-"

It’s obvious he’s trying to choose his words very carefully, and now Tony is sure there’s something Steve isn’t saying. Before he can demand answers, however hypocritical that might be at the moment, Steve is cut off by another voice in the background.

For a minute all Tony can make out is hushed conversation. Bucky frowns down at the helmet, like if he just focuses hard enough he’ll be able to identify voices or words. It might be working, because Bucky’s frown deepens a second before a new voice comes on the line.

“Start from the beginning and tell us exactly what happened,” Natasha says briskly.

The air rushes out of Tony’s lungs as the image of the last time he saw her flashes through his mind. Crumpled against the wall in that brightly lit building, her hair a mess, unmoving. He hadn’t even known if she was still alive when he’d turned and left with Bucky, hadn’t even thought to check, he’d just-

Tony can still feel the burn of the repulsor against his palm and he flexes his hand anxiously, stomach churning. Bucky leans across the table and captures Tony’s shaking hand in his.

It’s almost like they’re having some kind of strange seance, sitting on either side of the table with their clenched hands framing the glowing helmet. The image makes Tony smile weakly, and Bucky smiles back as he drags his cool metal thumb over Tony’s palm.

After dragging in a steadying breath, Bucky says, “I- I remember bein’ in custody.” His expression twists as he struggles to remember, that same deep chill creeping over his mind again. Tony clings to his hands tighter. “I- someone must’ve a-activated the solider-”

“We’re pretty sure it was someone disguised as a doctor,” Steve interrupts, his voice getting louder as he no-doubt leans over Natasha’s shoulder. There’s a soft ‘oof’ as she elbows him in the gut.

"Do you know who? Or why?" Tony can’t resist breaking in to ask.

“We’re working on it,” Natasha says, a subtle iciness in her voice that Tony hasn’t heard in- he doesn’t know if he’s ever heard it directed at him. “Vision is trying to track where he went after Berlin,” she continues, "so if you can remember anything-"

She trails off pointedly and Bucky’s forehead creases as he squeezes his eyes closed. His foot taps against Tony’s as he thinks, and the cold is sinking deeper.

“The doctor-” Bucky says slowly, his voice hoarse, "he- he wanted to- to know something."

Bucky’s grip tightens on Tony’s hands. The cold is sinking deeper into his mind, deep enough that it sends a shiver down Tony’s spine.

Tony has to bite his lip so he won’t tell him to stop, that it’s not worth it. He knows they need answers, he just- he doesn’t care.

On the other end of the line he can hear Steve whispering to someone, still sounding a little more worried than Tony thinks the situation really calls for.

Bucky’s eyes abruptly fly open wide, so blue and fixed on Tony.

“Siberia,” he says shortly and the other end of the line falls silent. “The base, the other soldiers in cryo- He wanted to know where it is. And I- I told him.”

Steve swears colorfully in the background of the call, but Tony isn’t in the mood to tease him about it.

Natasha gets what Bucky can remember of the coordinates and then asks, “Anything else?”

Bucky nods silently, then huffs when Tony squeezes his hand.

“Yeah. He wanted to know about one of my- my missions,” Bucky says, dropping his gaze. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and then looks back up at Tony. “He asked about- about December 19th.”

Tony feels his expression pinch as he tries to figure out why this doctor-imposter would want to know that, and he’s about to ask-

On the other end of the line, Steve sucks in a sharp breath. Alarmed, almost panicked.

It doesn’t make sense.

Unless-

There’s a buzzing starting in Tony’s ears.

He can feel Bucky watching him with concern, but Tony is staring at the helmet on the table. Like he’ll be able to read Steve’s face through it.

There is one reason Steve might be so damn worried about Bucky being with Tony, but he shouldn’t know about that.

Tony only found out about his parents yesterday, there’s no way that Steve- He would have said something if he-

“Did you know?” Tony asks, his voice flat. He can barely hear himself over the roaring in his ears.

“About the Winter Soldier program?” Natasha asks, sounding caught off guard by his tone. “Yes, I-”

Tony isn’t listening to her though. He’s listening to Steve in the background, breathing a little too quickly. He can hear Steve coming up with some excuse.

Tony knows him better than most, after all. Or at least he used to. He thought he did.

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers!” Tony snaps and Natasha cuts off abruptly.

There’s a shuffling sound as she apparently hands the communicator over to Steve.

“Did you know?” Tony grits out, his voice rough.

Steve swallows audibly and then says, “I didn’t know it was him.”

The laugh that tears its way out of Tony’s chest startles even him, harsh and edged with hysteria.

Someone in the background of the call gasps.

When he looks up again Bucky’s eyes are wide, pained and surprised.

“Tony, listen,” Steve starts, like he’s going to explain himself.

"That’s worse!" Tony snaps, cutting him off. "That’s so much- you knew that Hydra had my parents m-murdered and didn’t tell me on the chance that it was your brainwashed best friend?! That’s fucking worse!"

Steve is silent, and Tony can just picture the flexing of his stupid jaw.

“How long have you known?” Tony demands and he’s dimly aware that he’s shaking. Bucky’s hands are still clutching his tightly. “Did- Did you know while you were giving me shit for keeping secrets?”

“I- I thought-” Steve starts, which isn’t a no.

“Stop, I don’t care what you thought,” Tony hisses, “you should have told me, I-”

‘I talked to you about them,’ Tony doesn’t say. ‘I told you that I blamed Howard for the crash and you just kept letting me.’

“No wonder you didn’t want my help looking for him,” Tony says instead, shaking his head.

Laughter is trying to bubble up his throat again, but it can’t make it past the thick knot of hurt. Even with the artificial distance of the bond, he’d never questioned if he could trust Steve-

But Steve hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him. Steve never intended to tell him.

“Tony,” Bucky says softly and Tony blinks, dragging in a ragged breath.

His lungs burn. His eyes burn. Bucky is watching him with that same sad, guilty look.

Apparently this is another thing Bucky is going to blame himself for. Tony wants to tell him to stop, but he can’t get any words out past the lump in his throat.

“Buck,” Steve says and Tony is sure that his sad, hopeful tone would have made him feel something, before.

Now he just feels angry. And he feels the gentle warmth of Bucky’s thumb running over the back of his hand.

“You should’a told him,” Bucky says softly, shaking his head. “He deserves t’ know.”

In the background, Natasha is trying to insist that they get back on track. Someone else is demanding to know what they’re talking about.

Bucky meets Tony’s eye again, one eyebrow raised in question and a tiny smirk pulling at his lips. Tony nods in relief, letting out a hard breath.

“I didn’t know if- I wasn’t sure-” Steve is saying as Tony reluctantly lets go of Bucky’s hands.

He grabs the helmet and disconnects the line, cutting off Steve’s excuses.

Silence falls over the kitchen, broken only by Tony’s still unsteady breathing. He grabs for Bucky’s hands again almost desperately and Bucky doesn’t hesitate to lace their fingers together.

“That-” Tony says slowly, “did not go the way I expected.”

Bucky huffs out a soft laugh and taps his foot against Tony’s again as he asks, “You okay?”

“Nope,” Tony says easily, “you?”

“Been worse,” Bucky says with a shrug and a tiny grin.

Tony manages a weak laugh of his own, and then sighs.

“So, Siberia,” he says, and Bucky simply nods. After a second of thought Tony admits, “I know Steve and the others are probably going to be heading there now, but-”

“You don’t wanna just leave it to 'em?” Bucky guesses when he trails off, and Tony smiles a little wider. “It’d take us a couple days to drive there,” he warns.

"Or, we could fly," Tony suggests. “We might be spotted, but I’d rather that than more Winter Soldiers running around.”

Bucky doesn’t look at all thrilled with the idea.

“I would never drop you,” Tony adds, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Okay,” Bucky says reluctantly, “okay, we- We can fly.”

He still looks far from excited, so Tony resists the urge to cheer.

“We probably won’t get there before the team,” Tony admits, “but at the very least we’ll hopefully get there in time to have a chance of tracking down loose murder puppets.”

Bucky nods, looking thoughtful, and then that guilty expression starts to creep across his face again.

“Stop it,” Tony says seriously, and Bucky doesn’t even need to ask.

“Fine,” Bucky says with a weak laugh. “I just-” He sighs and his expression turns grave again, “I can’t believe he didn’ tell you.”

Tony can feel the mix of emotions tangled in Bucky’s chest, but picking out individual feelings is difficult. Disappointment and confusion and something that- it might be loss.

It’s similar to what Tony felt talking to Rhodey, but more. Like a wire that’s been cut, too short to be reconnected.

Bucky sighs and shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. When he looks at Tony again his eyes are clear, a small smile on his face, and it takes Tony's breath away.

“I’m gonna eat more before you fly me through the Russian skies,” Bucky says with a tone like he might as well be facing a firing squad, and Tony laughs. “Want anythin’?” He asks, grinning and pleased with himself.

“Crabapple preserves,” Tony says without hesitation, smiling wide.

“You and the apples,” Bucky huffs as he starts pushing himself to his feet, “you-”

The small window above the sink shatters.

Bucky falls silent, his eyes going wide.

Red is spreading across the front of his shirt.

It’s blood, Tony realizes slowly.

Everything is happening so slowly.

Shards of glass are still falling to the tile floor with oddly musical sounds.

The fingers of Bucky’s right hand are still tangled with Tony’s, and they start to go limp.

Distantly, Tony can hear a door slamming open. More windows breaking.

Bucky’s eyelids flutter and start to close.

It’s blood, it’s blood, it’s-

Tony doesn’t remember getting to his feet. He doesn’t remember speaking, but he must have. The armor is closing itself around him even as he tries to catch Bucky’s falling weight.

He can hear approaching footsteps. Someone is shouting.

More muffled gunshots ring out.

Tony barely feels the impact of the bullets bouncing off his armor.

He tries to curl himself around Bucky protectively, but there’s red spreading from his stomach and his leg.

Red.

It’s blood.

All Tony sees is red.

The charge and blast of the repulsors sounds like screaming.

Gunfire.

His HUD inside the helmet flashes warnings and Tony ignores them.

Men dressed in all black continue pouring into the house. Holding rifles. Firing them.

Red.

Shell casings rain around the feet of the armor as Tony moves.

Someone is shouting. The repulsors scream.

Red. Red. Red.

The roar of gunfire.

Repulsors scream. Or maybe it was a person.

All Tony can see is-

Shine of metal. Muzzle flash. Light and sparks.

And red.

Red.

Red-

Tony yanks the helmet off ungracefully and gulps in fresh lungfuls of air.

His hands are shaking.

He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the red from his vision.

Everything is too bright again and he needs to find Bucky- he needs to feel settled-

Tony’s eyes land on a blood splattered figure and he gasps, going tense until he realizes that it’s- It’s him.

His reflection stares back at him. His armor is splattered with blood, standing out bright against the Mark IV’s shades of gray.

He was in the kitchen, but this- there’s a dusty mirror and chipped sink in front of him. Where is he?

As he continues staring at himself Tony realizes that there’s blood on his face, somehow. It must have gotten there before he put the helmet on, which means-

It’s Bucky’s blood.

Bucky.

Tony remembers Bucky falling, the red- the blood spreading across his clothes.

What happened after that? He remembers-

Red.

Tony’s breath wheezes in and out of his chest. He needs to find Bucky- He needs- he needs to remember-

“Tony.”

The weak croak makes Tony jump again and he spins in place. The heels of his armor make an awful sound as they drag against the tile.

Bucky is slumped against the wall in a walk-in shower that looks vaguely familiar. Blood is running sluggishly down the drain. Bucky’s eyes aren’t quite focused as they move over Tony.

It looks like they’re back in the bathroom of the safe house, but how- When- Tony doesn’t-

“Wha’ happened?” Bucky asks, his voice weak and wet.

“I- I don’t-” Tony chokes out, his own voice breaking, "I don’t remember."

[marzipanandminutiae]

days since last had breakdown about the fact that I'm 31 and have only had an INTERVIEW for one (1) full-time job in my field- and it wasn't even in a part of my field that interests me -in seven years of looking: 0

[lvrsfilm]

Lieutenant Simon Riley has a favorite nurse. She's sweet as sugar and polite, stitching up every bloodied soldier with gentle words and touches so light they barely feel the push and pull of the suturing. Appreciative, whether they return the soft conversation or not. He likes the way she floats around the medical wing, the way she smiles softly at everyone, even him. He's sure she knows what he's been doing, but she isn't stopping him, so he assumes she doesn't mind.

Every morning, without fail she gets up and comes into the wing in a different colored pair of scrubs. A new color every day, never the same one twice in a week. She sits at the front desk or at another station somewhere around and sips a can of ginger ale through a straw, pretending she doesn't see Simon's eyes on her while she works.

"Wha's it t'day?" Simon says gruffly as he approaches her, bypassing the other nurses almost completely. "Blackberry," She says softly, looking up at him and displaying the can. He takes a look at her scrubs, and of course, they're a dark purple, matching the can. It suits her, he thinks. Not an obnoxious shade, one that matches her skin tone well. "Good?" He asks her, like he always does. "Not my favorite,' she says as she sets the can back down. He hums lowly in reply as his eyes linger on the fabric of her scrubs, the way the cloth dips over her soft curves.

"You hurt?" She asks him cheekily, "Or just taken an interest in the medical field?" He grunts, pulling his eyes away from her scrubs and meeting her own. "Nae," He says lowly. "Just passing by," he adds, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets to keep from touching her. Or reaching out to smooth out a wrinkle in her clothing, or tucking some of her hair behind her ear.

He doesn't know what else to say, wanting to keep her attention on him. "Suits ya," He ends up saying softly, trying to sound as gruff as possible, but his eyes are trained on hers, his hazel eyes staring into her own irises. "The purple." He grumbles, cursing inwardly because why is he acting like he's never spoken to a pretty bird before?

"Thank you, Lieutenant." She says sweetly, a nice red tinting the apples of her cheeks. Simon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to say next. Small talk hasn't ever been his strong suit, but walking away feels wrong, like cutting a thread that’s barely started to weave.

"You sure you're alright?" she asks again, but this time there's something softer in her voice. A note of genuine curiosity, her hands stilling on her keyboard. "You don’t usually linger this long."

He scowls—not at her, but at himself for being so obvious. "Dinnae know I was bein’ timed," he mutters, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

She chuckles, the sound low and warm. "You’re not. Just... noticed, is all." Her gaze flicks over him, quick and subtle, like she’s trying to piece him together without openly prying. She's familiar with Simon, knows how private he is. "Busy morning?"

He shrugs. "Same as usual. Training, Paperwork."

Her lips quirk upward in a faint smile, but there’s a shadow of worry behind her eyes. "Sounds like you could use a break."

"Aye," he says gruffly, a hand leaving his pocket to scratch at the base of his balaclava. "Reckon this is it."

Her smile softens at that, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. There’s a weight in the air, something unspoken that presses against his chest, and hers. He wants to say more, to keep her talking, but the words are tangled up in his throat.

"Y’know," she says after a pause, "I think purple might actually suit you too."

His brows furrow softly, squinting at her a bit behind the mask, and for a split second, he wonders if she’s teasing him. But her expression is sincere, her eyes glinting with a quiet kind of amusement.

"Me?" he scoffs, shaking his head. "Don’t reckon that’s in regulation."

She shrugs lightly, leaning against the desk. "Wouldn’t hurt to try. Maybe a mask or something. Just a little color." There’s a playful glint in her eyes now, and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

"Don’t think I’d pull it off," he mutters, though there’s a faint warmth creeping up his neck, hidden by the black fabric.

"I disagree," she says softly, and the weight of her gaze feels heavier than before. He looks at her then, really looks, and finds himself rooted to the spot.

"You always this cheeky with the patients?" he grumbles, trying to mask the fact that she’s gotten under his skin.

"Only the ones who hover around the nurses' station without a good excuse," she quips, her smile widening just a fraction. "But I don’t mind. You’re welcome anytime, Lieutenant."

His heart gives a traitorous thump at her words, but he swallows it down and grunts in reply. "I’ll hold ya to that," he says, his voice rougher than he intends.

As he turns to leave, her voice calls him back again, soft and lilting. "Oh, and Simon?"

He stops dead in his tracks. She’s never used his name before. Slowly, he turns his head to glance at her, his hazel eyes locking onto hers.

"Next time," she says, lifting her can of ginger ale in a mock toast, "you could at least bring one of these to share."

His lips twitch into something dangerously close to a smile. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice low. "I’ll see what I can do."

And as he walks out of the wing, he finds himself already wondering what color she’ll be wearing tomorrow.

[fatherbrat]

ONE LAST TIME, R. SUNA

sum. two months into your relationship with your current boyfriend, your ex-fwb finally sends you a voicenote to let you know exactly how he feels about it.

feat. rintaro suna

cw. ex-fwb!suna, cheating, mutual masturbation (kinda lol), jealousy, dirty talk, anal mention, pillow humping, possessiveness, degradation

wc. 1.2k

When you posted your first official pictures of you and your new boyfriend, you had expected Suna to react…negatively. You basically braced for impact the moment you hit post, but all you got from him was an Instagram notification and two texts.

sunarin liked your post.

rin ;)

lmk if you want me to delete our pics.  and hmu when you two break up :p

You never bothered replying, initially not sure how to reply, and then forgetting about the texts entirely. The two of you barely have any contact for a few weeks after that, but he's obviously keeping up with your socials; liking every post and viewing every story. It doesn't bother you, but it's weird going cold turkey on your relationship like that. You had expected him to reach out for some sort of closure. You wanted him to. 

Halloween swings by in no time, and (much to you boyfriend’s dismay) you dress up as a sexy nurse. You don’t remember much of the night, but you do know that you posted a picture of you and your friends all dressed up on your story before getting blackout drunk. 

Your phone dies early on in the night. Your friends take good care of you up until it’s time to bring you back home, and you don’t wake up until the afternoon. You don’t check your phone until a couple hours after that—long after it's been turned on and charged to 100%. 

When you finally check it, two particular notifications catch your attention. 

sunarin liked your story. 

rin ;)

Voice Message

The voice message is 12 minutes long. 

You exit your texts immediately, opting to distract yourself by tending to your other notifications. It doesn’t help much. Your mind races, wondering what he was talking about for so long and if it was really so important that he reached out after almost four months of near-silence. 

You toss your phone onto your bed, shaking your head. You try to ignore it, cleaning the bathroom and folding the laundry and vacuuming the living room all in an effort to forget about the lengthy recording sitting in your phone. 

But it doesn’t take long for the curiosity gnawing at you to win. 

You practically run back to your bedroom, grabbing your phone and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. Your fingers move quickly across the screen, hitting play without hesitation. 

The first 8 seconds are nearly silent, and you start to wonder if it’s possible that he sent such a long message by mistake.

But then you hear a heavy sigh.

“I like your costume.” His tone is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. “You look hot.”

There’s another moment of silence, like he’s giving you a chance to change your mind and stop listening. 

But then Suna moans and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head. 

“You never answered my text, y’know. When I asked if you wanted me to delete our pictures. So, uh, I kept ‘em.”

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

“I’m looking at one right now. It’s from last Halloween. When you-“ His breath hitches. “When you went as a Playboy Bunny.”

You remember. Suna dressed as Hugh Hefner and the two of you went to a party together. Then he took you back to his apartment and fucked you while you were still wearing the bunny ears and bowtie. 

You’re pretty positive you’re not wearing the bodysuit in the picture he’s looking at. 

“I don’t know how much of this night you actually remember, but I can describe the picture for you.”

You tense, anticipation sending goosebumps up your arms. 

“You’re kneeling on the ground, looking up at the camera, and you’ve still got those bunny ears on your head.”

This voice message is going in the last direction you thought it would.  Is he—?

“You’ve got cum all over your face, baby.” He laughs to himself before continuing. “And you’re sticking your tongue out like a fucking whore.”

Suna takes a ragged breath, a sound you're all too familiar with. It confirms your suspicions—he’s definitely jerking off. 

“That was a good night. We had a lot of good nights.” He sounds miffed all of a sudden. “I seriously doubt the boyfriend is fucking you as good as I did.”

You suppress a shiver. A pang of guilt heats your chest at the mention of your boyfriend. You should stop listening. Delete the message. Tell him to delete the pictures and then probably block him. 

Or you could let the message keep playing. 

Suna inhales sharply, followed by a shaky moan. You swear you can hear the sound of his fist stroking his dick. 

“I hope you’re not letting him put it in your ass like you let me. That’s our thing, okay?”

Under different circumstances you would have laughed. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “And I hope you’re not letting him spit in your fucking mouth. Or–shit–doing that thing where you’d suck me off with your head hanging upside down off the bed.” He falters at the end of the sentence, groaning into the phone.

“I’m not gonna–” he interrupts himself, sighing deeply. “I’m not gonna pretend I’ve been happy for you. I miss you.”

You feel hot all over, a heady combination of annoyance and arousal and embarrassment. There’s a dull throbbing between your legs and in the back of your mind you wonder if this is what Suna wanted when he sent the message. 

“Just–just let me fuck you one more time. Okay princess? I’ll make it sooo good for you,” he whines. You can hear his hand picking up speed.

“It’s still early. Two months is nothing, it won’t even count as cheating.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “God, just one last time. Please?”

Without thinking, you grab a pillow and position yourself over it in a straddle. You won’t let him fuck you, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make you come one last time.

“I promise I’ll do that thing you like with my tongue. And you can pick all the positions if you want to.” There’s a tremble in his voice. “Or just lay there. I’ll do all the work.”

You grind into the pillow beneath you, picturing the expression you know he’d be wearing if he were in front of you–batting those dark eyelashes with raised eyebrows, just barely able to control the smug curve of his lips.

Heat pools in your gut and a whimper falls from your lips. Suna keeps talking.

“I know you miss me. You have to. You’re probably touching yourself to this right now.” 

You gasp softly and rock your hips faster.

“Such a fucking slut.” You hear the telltale quiver in his voice that tells you he’s getting close. “My fucking slut.”

You moan, his words giving you flashbacks.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, I’m coming,” he rasps, before letting off a series of moans and whimpers that almost make you concede. You grind harder into the pillow beneath you, imagining Suna in his room, chest heaving, talking into the phone and making himself come to pictures of you. 

That does it. A tsunami of pleasure washes over you, forcing your body to tense before you go limp, collapsing onto your bed with a shudder.

You and Suna breathe in tandem, both of you catching your breath. 

You hear another laugh through the phone. “Damn, that was a lot.” There’s the sound of sheets rustling. “Kinda made a mess, princess.”

He’s silent for another few beats before clearing his throat. “Text me, okay?” he says quietly. “Please.”

The voice message ends.

part two

[hausofwoo]

graphic | mark lee

pairing: mark lee x afab reader

word count: 6.6K

summary: stuck in the monotony of your job at the mall, every day feels the same: opening the store, sitting behind the register, and counting the hours til close. you've even memorized the routines of the stores around you. but when a new guy starts at the comic book store across the way, you realize your predictable days may soon change.

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, comic book store employee!mark, retail employee!reader, really cute and fluffy until it's not, public sex (public space but no one is there), unprotected piv (DONT DO THIS), mark throws u around like a lil play thing, oral (fem recieving), fingering, use of a petname (baby), lmk if i forgot anything!

author's note: this one took forever yall i know its been a while! been going thru some shit irl but things are settling and i was deadset on finishing this bc it's so cute :'-) thank u to T and @hausofmingi for being my beta readers ( ˘ ³˘)♡

working at a mall can be really tiring, but it’s not so bad when you have a crush.

you’ve been working at a retail store at your local mall for a few months now. it’s boring, there’s too many people on the weekends, and you have the worst hours. you found yourself working open to close for far too many shifts. but at the end of the day, at least it keeps the bills paid.

on slow days during the week, you’re always sat at the register, scrolling through your phone or twiddling your thumbs, counting down the seconds til closing time. sometimes you would even stare off into space, watching people pass by all day long.

you went to work always knowing exactly how the day would go; set up shop, maybe help some customers, and do fucking nothing for 8 to 10 hours. maybe a wave to the employees at the stores surrounding you, but sadly, that was usually the most interesting part of your day. you became accustomed to the monotony though, watching the same employees open up their shops next to yours.

the store directly across from yours is a comic book store. you know the few people that worked there, usually just saying “good morning” and going on with your day. you swear, you have this store memorized, knowing when the employees take their breaks, who’s working, what they’re working on that day. you didn’t really mean to, but when all you have to do is daydream, you kinda picked up on the routine there.

so when you arrive in the morning for yet another brutal open-to-close shift, you expect to just roll up the security shutters and sit back at the register all day. but there’s something different today; or rather, someone different.

sitting at the register at the comic book store is a man you’ve never seen before. his hair is perfectly messy and his glasses framed his eyes, which are focused on reading a comic. he’s working all by himself, which is surprising to you since you’re certain he’s new. you catch yourself staring and try to brush it off. he’s a new guy, so what?

you try your best to go about your day as normal, but you can’t help stealing glances over at the man at the store across from you. he has a captivating energy, and it makes you want to know more about him. he seems charismatic, being friendly with customers and earning smiles, then resuming his doodling once they leave. you notice that when he looks really focused, he bites the corner of his lip gently.

you gotta stop staring, or he will definitely notice. you decide to actually work on something for once, organizing the stock and straightening the shelves. soon enough, closing time creeps up on you. you do all of your closing duties and grab your things from the back. you close the security shutters, looking behind you quickly to see that the man is doing the same. he notices your gaze, so you kindly wave at him. instead of a wave back, blush forms on his face with a shy smile. and with that, he walks away.

the interaction was unreadable. he seemed to be so extroverted with customers, having no issue having casual conversations with them. why is he getting all shy now?

you started to pick up on the new routine at the comic book store. from what you could tell, the man worked similar hours to you, often opening and closing too. he rarely worked with anyone else, so the majority of the time you glanced over, he was reading comics, manga, or doodling in his notepad.

you never really got into comic books like that, and only dabbled with reading manga, but the growing interest in this man made you curious about learning more on what he was reading. maybe it wouldn’t hurt to check out the selection? perhaps get some recommendations? you just finished a short shift today so now was the perfect opportunity.

after grabbing your things and saying goodbye to your coworker, you make your way over to the comic book store. you approach the man, who’s sitting at the register as usual, reading. you see his name tag on his chest; a cute red pin with a spider-man drawing next to his name, “mark.”

“hi,” you say, pulling his attention away from reading.

“oh, hi,” he says, placing his comic down. “sorry, i didn’t see you come in.”

“it’s okay,” you reply, looking around at the goodies at the register. “i was wondering if you have any recommendations for a beginner at reading comics?”

“oh for sure,” he says, eyes lighting up. “marvel has tons of great ones. you could start with an ironman one, or maybe captain america? i personally like spider-man, but i’m definitely biased.”

“i’ll try spider-man,” you say after a beat.

mark gives you a nod with a warm smile before leaving the register to grab your comic. he searches through the spider-man section until he finds the first issue. he returns to the register, ringing you up.

“i think you’ll like it, it’s really good,” mark says, handing your receipt to you.

“i’m definitely looking forward to see what all the hype is about,” you chuckle. the conversation pauses for moment, clearly indicating that the interaction is pretty much over with. but you don’t want the conversation to end there, so you find something to keep talking about. “you’re new here, aren’t you? like you just started working here?”

“yeah, sort of,” he says, sitting back in his seat at the register. “i used to work here a while ago and i just came back ‘cause they needed someone.”

“oh nice,” you reply. “welcome back i guess?”

“haha, i guess,” he smiles, rubbing his hand on his neck. “it’s chill here, but it gets kinda boring.”

“tell me about it,” you chuckle. “it’s so slow during the week. i usually have nothing to do.”

“yeah, i just read or draw to pass the time,” mark says, pointing at his notepad on the counter.

“you like to draw?” you ask, curious.

“yeah,” he places a hand on the notepad, grabbing it. you can tell he’s getting shy again. “it’s just doodles.”

“you’ll have to show me some of those ‘doodles’ sometime,” you say with a sweet smile. you check your phone for the time. it’s getting closer to dinnertime and you’re starved. “i guess i’ll get out of here.”

“okay,” he stands again. “well, let me know what you think of the comic.”

“i will,” you say, turning to leave, then flipping back to look at him. “mark, right?”

he nods, asking for your name as well. he beams at you. “it’s nice to meet you. see you tomorrow?”

“see you tomorrow,” you say with a wave, walking out.

for the next week, you find yourself aching to talk to mark again. you read the comic he gave you, and it provided a little bit of insight into him… that he’s a bit of a nerd. definitely not a bad thing. it’s actually really endearing to you, knowing his life basically revolves around superheroes, free time and work alike. that he probably draws little comics in his notepad, and has sweet dreams about being superhuman. why is that so fucking cute?

you have a reason to talk to him again, of course: the next issue of spider-man. the problem is building up the courage again, which is ridiculous because he’s just a guy. a nerdy one at that, and you know that he would be putty in your hands if you really wanted him to be. but the longing you developed for him during those long hours of your shift, seeing him across the way, looking so cute in his round glasses… it’s making you nervous in a way that is difficult to explain.

you’ve been putting off going back to his store at this point. wouldn’t someone that wanted to get into superhero comics come back for the next edition? why aren’t you using your excuse to talk to him? not only that, but he even said he wanted you to come tell him what you thought of the comic. you’re just overthinking things.

you have another short shift one day, and decide today is the day. you gather your things and walk to the neighboring store, feeling the familiar butterflies you felt the first time you approached mark at the register. he’s drawing this time, crouched down and focused. he hears you walk in, lifting his head to meet your eyes. maybe you’re crazy, but it looks like his eyes light up.

“hey,” he says, closing the notepad in front of him. you present the spider-man comic to him, and he flashes a smile at you. “what’d you think?”

you chuckle, holding the comic close to your chest. “it was good, but too short. there’s another issue, right?” you joke, hoping it lands.

he lets out a giggle, “yeah, there definitely is. i’ll grab the next one for you.”

he walks over to a section near the front of the store, flipping through the excess of papers before he finds the 2nd issue. “if you liked that one, you’ll like this one even more.” he returns to the register with the issue, placing it on the counter for you.

“duel to the death with the vulture?” you read from the page. “i haven’t seen any of the movies recently so correct me if i’m wrong, but i don’t remember there being a vulture.”

“oh yeah, he’s in one of the later movies actually,” mark starts. “but you got a long way to go til you finally meet one of the iconic villians like the green goblin, or even the love interests gwen stacy or mary jane. it’ll be so worth the wait though.”

“how much do i owe you?” you ask, already pulling out your wallet.

“you can borrow it if you want,” he says.

“but this one belongs to the store, won’t you get in trouble?” you ask.

“just bring it back and it’s like it never happened,” he whispers, faking a shhh at you. “let’s just say it’s mall employee perk.”

you smile and accept it.

your new routine feels like a nice change of pace. every second of every day used to drag by, and yet at the same time, when you got home, everything that happened was so unbelievably boring that it all felt like a blur. nothing really significant happened to you. but something about trying something new, learning about a brand new niche interest, and even developing a crush… it’s finally something exciting.

you looked forward to the next time you got a new issue. not just that, but the next time you got to talk to mark. he has this charm about him that piqued your interest. it feels so easy to talk to him, as if you’ve already known each other for a long time and it isn’t just a budding friendship. you’d find yourself stopping by the comic book store a few times a week, anticipating the next comic and the underlying tension between you and mark.

like today, when you finally got off of work after a long shift. you were able to close up shop quickly and now you’re walking over to the comic book store, attempting to run in before mark locked up.

“hey, is it cool if i get the next issue real quick?” you ask, popping your head in the store.

“yeah, one sec,” he says, looking up from counting the cash in the register. “lemme just finish closing up the register.”

“are you implying that you’re gonna let me borrow another comic?” you ask, a flirty tone floating beneath.

“well of course,” he says, swiftly closing the cash drawer. “unless you want to start collecting, which by the way, SUPER expensive.”

“i think i’ll stick to being a casual reader for now,” you joke, approaching mark at the register.

“i don’t know, you might change your mind after this one,” he says, grabbing a comic from his bag. he holds it out to you, you grabbing it with your fingers briefly brushing past his. the motion makes you feel a little dizzy, and you can feel heat rising to your cheeks.

you shake your head, realizing this one doesn’t belong to the store. “wait, is this your own personal comic?”

“yeah, it’s one of my favorites,” he says, half focusing as he’s writing something on a sticky note at the counter. “i brought it in so you can borrow it.” you can see the corner of his mouth turning up, as if he’s trying to hold back a smile.

“you didn’t have to do that—”

“i wanted to,” he says, lifting his head up to hand you the sticky note he was writing on. “just treat it with care.”

you take the note, which is pale blue with a cartoon spider-man in the corner. in the middle of the note is a scrawled out phone number. you look up to see mark rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“if you want to tell me what you think?” he says, almost like a question.

“or maybe when i get bored during my shift?” you ask, chuckling.

“i’d like that a lot actually,” he smiles, his previous nervousness quickly washing away.

“you’ll regret it though,” you say, sticking the note on the front page of the comic. “because i get bored here a lot.”

“don’t worry,” mark laughs, shaking his head. “i don’t think i’ll get sick of you anytime soon.”

you finally reached issue #14 of spider-man, the one mark is lending to you. you grab it out of your bag at the beginning of your shift, sitting back in your chair behind the register and getting comfortable. you realize what it’s about and immediately text mark.

sent 10:17 am omg wait i didn’t realize this issue is the first appearance of the green goblin

you look across the way, seeing mark pick up his phone and smiling.

sent 10:18 am mark: oh yeah, he’s fuckin sick mark: you’re gonna love it

you click your phone off with a soft sigh, flipping back to your comic. you go about your shift switching from helping customers and checking them out, and reading. every once and a while, you’ll message mark with your comments and he would always reply with enthusiasm.

the end of your shift approaches quickly, and soon enough you’re closing the security shutters. you look behind you to see mark locking the doors and then doing the same. he must’ve felt your eyes on him, because he turns and flashes his famous smile to you. you walk over to him with the comic in hand.

“you were right,” you say, handing it him. “green goblin is super sick.”

“i told you,” he says, reaching for it, and your hands momentarily touching like last time. he gets flustered. “uh, i can give you the next one tomorrow if you’re working.”

“i am, yeah,” you reply, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “i am so curious though—when the hell does gwen stacy show up?”

“oh,” he giggles to himself. “you’re like, halfway there to finally seeing her.”

“i didn’t realize how extensive this series is,” you chuckle. “not that i’m complaining. i’m actually surprised by how much i like it.”

“i’m glad,” he says sweetly. “well, just come by tomorrow and i’ll give you the next issue.”

“i will.”

the following weeks, you became overtaken by superhero comics and stupid-fucking-adorable mark. you would read an issue of spider-man at work, and text mark with your reactions to certain scenes. at first you thought it might be annoying to him, but he actually seemed to encourage it, asking for your opinions on the characters and storyline.

it doesn’t help that every time you see mark, you get butterflies in your stomach. and it seemed to only be getting worse; you keep finding yourself smiling when his name pops up on your phone. you wake up excited to go to work, because you know you’ll probably have another interaction with him. sometimes, mark would even catch you staring at him and give a little nod with a smile. but what made things exponentially worse was when you catch him gazing at you too, catching you off guard but making a smile spread across your lips. you are smitten, and if anyone else was concerned, mark is probably smitten too. the issue is getting him to finally take the hint and making a real move on you.

he may get a little flustered around you, but he’s not exactly shy. after all, he did give you his number unprompted. but after weeks of going back and forth strictly talking about comics and work, you started to lose hope. you just want him. he must want you back just as bad.

after another closing shift, you watch the mall-goers pass by and file out of the building. the mall is basically empty now, most of the neighboring stores already closed and employees leaving for the day. you had to stay a little bit late, cleaning up a huge mess in the store from some rude customers. you thought you would have time to stop by to see mark, but with the amount of things you have to put away, your chances are looking slim.

you shuffle around the store, placing items back on the shelves and organizing the tables of merchandise. you eyes shift over to the comic book store, expecting to see it dark and locked up. but it isn’t; mark is still in there, half the lights still on, with him unboxing comics from their latest shipment. you already knew it was restock day for them (god you have way too much free time), but you didn’t realize how many boxes they got in.

you open the front door of your store, whisper-yelling through the security shutters. “mark!”

mark’s head turns to look at you and flashes a grin at you. “yo, you’re still here too?”

you nod, leaning on the glass door. you hold up a few of the displaced items in your hands. “go-backs,” you shrug.

he points at the pile of boxes in front of him, “restock. we got a lot of shit in early for christmas.”

“don’t say christmas please, i don’t want to think about it yet,” you say with a laugh.

you turn away to get back to work, putting all the merchandise back to their assigned spots. you don’t know what the hell got into people today; messing up all your organization you’ve done and putting things in all the wrong places. it didn’t help that you had to deal with some assholes with returns today too. you always theorize it’s from a full moon or mercury retrograde or something; those things must be the reason people start acting up.

after about an hour of cleaning, you finish up and can finally call it a day. you close up shop and turn to see mark still working on stocking at his store. you approach the security gate of the store, with its front door still propped open.

“i still need my next issue by the way,” you say to mark, who stands from his crouching position in front of an open box. he walks up to the gate and pushes it up, just enough for you to come through. you look hesitant.

“come in, it’s okay,” he says, motioning you in. you duck under the security gate, slipping into the store. “how was your day? looks like you had a lot to do.”

“yeah, the store was a mess,” you say, following him to the register. “i’ve never had to stay so late after close.”

“it’s only gonna get worse the closer it gets to christmas,” mark says while weaving around the boxes with you.

“what did i say about christmas?” you joke, nudging his shoulder softly.

“sorry, sorry,” he laugh, putting his hands up. you wait patiently for him as he kneels behind the register, looking for your comic. he pops back up with a stumped look on his face. “i swear i thought i put it up here to give to you but i can’t find it. i’m gonna go check the back.”

he starts walking to the back room, and looks back at you. “feel free to sit if you want. our stockroom is a wreck, this might take a sec.”

you nod to him, squeezing past the tower of boxes to sit in the chair at the register. it feels kinda funny to sit back here, like you’re seeing the store from a different perspective, from mark’s perspective. you look around behind the counter, seeing the little notes and cute super-hero knick knacks gathered around.

there’s a mini batman funko pop positioned in the corner, with a sticky note placed under his feet reading “no drinks at the register.” you look over to see a large iced coffee with mark’s name in sharpie. well, we all bend the rules a bit. his name tag is placed on the counter by a stack of comics. you grab it to take a closer look. it’s a plastic red pin with a white pop-art bubble. in the corner is a small piece of paper stuck on it, attached with office tape. on the paper is a spider-man doodle, made with red and blue marker and pen ink.

you’re sure this must’ve been drawn by mark. you have yet to see any of his drawings (despite your prying), so maybe seeing this one up close will give you a sneak peek into his style. it’s a little messy, with scratchy lines and colors bleeding outside the borders. despite that, it has a distinct style that you’re fond of. it’s not perfect, let alone does it look like the super-heroes you’ve been reading in your comics. but it has a quality to it that feels less polished and flat. it has character. the messiness makes it feel more… real.

you set his name tag down, placing it back next to the large stack of comics. these must be his go-backs. he’s been so wrapped up with his shipment he probably hasn’t had time to put them away. you think maybe it would be nice to help a bit. he’s been nice enough to let you borrow comics from the store, and you’re just waiting around after all.

you pick up the stack of comics, situating them into your arms, when you look down and see that under the stack is mark’s notepad. it’s not closed like you’re used to seeing it, opened to a clean white page with a drawing covering up a majority of it. it’s in a comic book style, you’re not surprised. but it has the same quality that his name tag doodle does; scrawly and messy, with no real precise lines. the colors are splashed across the page, with blotches of scribbled colored marker decorating it. then realize what it is—who it is.

it’s you.

the whole image captures you and a little bit of your surroundings. positioned at your normal spot at the register, you’re looking down at a comic with your fingers playing with the ends of your hair. but it has a dream-like feel to it, with the pages of the comic illuminating your face as if a source of power is emanating from it. and then the best part: the wings. placed behind your shoulders are pair of feathered wings, outstretched in a sketched black ink. it’s beautiful.

it’s beautiful and it’s you. mark drew you.

“yo, sorry that took so long,” mark says while emerging from the back, eyes still focused on the comic in his hands. “i finally found it, but dude i had to do some digging—”

mark’s words are cut short when he notices you holding his notepad, comics that were placed atop abandoned on the counter by you. he visibly gulps.

“mark…” you start, not moving your eyes from the drawing. “what’s this?” without a response for a few moments, you tear your eyes away to see mark with blush on his cheeks, mouth open but unable to let any words out. “did you… did you draw me?”

“look, it gets really slow during the day, i just did a little sketch to pass time—”

“mark, this isn’t just a sketch,” you say, looking back down at the notepad. “this is amazing.”

“y-you like it?” mark says, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“of course i like it,” you say.

“you don’t think it’s weird that i drew you without telling you?” mark asks, nervousness radiating from him.

“i don’t think it’s weird at all,” you say. “i actually love it. i like that you drew me as a superhero too, and one with wings at that.”

mark stays quiet, looking at his feet and probably overthinking everything right now. you look back up at him, tension building in your stomach as you ask what you already know the answer to. “you like me, don’t you?”

mark lifts his head to meet your eyes. he bites his lip anxiously as he nods slowly.

a streak of courage overtakes you as you grab his arm to pull him closer, him tripping over his own feet and crashing into your chest. you’re leaned against the counter, with mark’s arm behind you and hand placed flat on the surface. your faces are close, and you can feel his breath. his eyes are glued onto your lips, and he swallows thickly.

“mark, just kiss me,” you mumble, aching for him.

he wastes no time, leaning in to slot his lips between yours. he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you as close as he can. you melt into him, goosebumps floating across your skin in all-consuming desire. you move your hand to hold his cheek, thumb swiping on his smooth skin and fingers tangled in his soft, messy hair.

he pulls away, breath still shaky. “i’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long…” he trails off before leaning in and kissing you again, this time with more passion. he swipes his tongue between your lips, with you willingly accepting him. his hands trail up and down your sides, then finally places a firm grip on your waist and lifting you to sit on the counter. he slots between your legs, his body pressed close to yours. your fingers card through his hair, earning a sweet hum from him.

his hands trail down to your ass, pushing you closer against him to where you feel the bulge forming in his jeans. he can’t even hold back his moan, it being muffled by your lips. he pulls away again, this time kissing from your cheek down to your neck. he sucks at the expanse of skin while he caresses the other side of your throat. you let out a soft hum in pleasure, savoring every bite and lick—

“fuck, you sound so hot too,” he says in between kisses. he moves a hand down to your breast, kneading it roughly. you throw your head back, soaking in the pleasure from just his hands alone. his beautiful fucking hands, the ones that drew you. his lips feel so good on you, but his hands feel even better. it’s as if he’s been waiting for this moment for eternity and he doesn’t want to let you go. almost as if holding you, touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. it doesn’t feel real to you either; that mark, the cute boy you’ve had a crush on for weeks and weeks is kissing you, holding you, and yearning for you all the same.

you feel so wrapped up in the moment that you almost forget that you’re in public. sure, there’s no one left in the mall and the only people left are probably mall security, but the risk of being seen is still there. it just feels too good to stop.

“mark,” you say, giving in to the anxiety. “are we really doing this? right here, right now?”

he pulls back to look at you, still holding you close. “it’s just us here, and if it’s okay with you, i don’t think i can wait any longer.”

“i don’t think i can either,” you respond.

suddenly mark is ripping your clothes off, all while pulling you both behind one of the comic display cases. it’s your turn to take his clothes off, and you’re yanking his jacket off and pulling up his graphic tee and discarding them both on the floor. the exchange is a jumbled mess of constant touching of skin and clothes flying in every direction, a true testament to how desperate you both want each other. he’s kissing you all the while, taking every opportunity to peck at you between the tugging of clothes.

he leans you against the display bookshelf full of comics, completely unbothered when an issue or two falls off. your hand travels down into this jeans, feeling him hard and pulsing against your palm. you stroke his length slowly, focusing most of the stimulation on his dripping head. he lifts one of your legs slightly to get better access to you under your skirt, then looks at you as if he’s asking for permission.

you nod your head profusely before leaning in to kiss him deeply. it doesn’t last long, because suddenly he’s pushing inside you and you’re gasping at the stretch—

“you’re so—fuck—so fucking tight,” he hisses, attempting to push in as slowly as he can. your mouth is fully agape in bliss as he finally bottoms out, reaching deep inside of you. he catches your eyes, lust filled in his own as he slowly starts to move.

he’s slow at first, knowing that his size is stretching you out to the point where it’s nearly painful. but it feels so fucking good, his cock dragging in and out of your tight walls. you can tell he wants to pick up the pace, with his breath shuddering with each stroke. you take the opportunity to kiss him again, wanting to taste his soft lips as he gradually begins to pound into you.

he’s groaning against your lips, and your moans are muffled against his. you’re trying to salvage any sort of public decency by holding back your sounds the best you can. it’s when he grabs your legs and lifts you to press you against the display shelf that you realize that that shred of awareness of your surroundings is about to be long fucking gone.

he’s holding you up by gripping your ass, pistoning into you at a pace that you can only describe as brutal. it’s no use trying to stifle your moans anymore, with him hitting your cervix over and over and making you see stars at each stroke—

“mark, it feels so fucking good,” you can only whine out to him, wrapping your arms around his neck tighter, tugging at his hair—

“you feel so fucking good, jesus,” he groans against your neck, heaving breaths tickling at your throat.

his pace is wild, but the force in which he’s pounding into you begins to cause the comic books around you to tumble off the shelves, creating a pile at mark’s feet. he doesn’t seem to care though. that is, until a comic book falls from a shelf above you and hits him on the head.

“ah!” he exclaims, realizing what happened. he stops his movements to look at you, holding back a smile.

you can’t hold back your laugh, giggling profusely at the ridiculousness of the situation. he laughs too, shaking his head and letting out a sigh.

“this is crazy,” he says, resting his forehead on yours.

“i know,” you reply, still giggling. with one last laugh, he leans in and kisses you tenderly, smile still formed on his lips. you melt into him, ruffling your fingers through his hair as he begins to pick back up the roll of his hips into you.

it feels like a sweet moment, the fact that you can be doing such a scandalous act and still giggle with him. the tenderness doesn’t last for long, however, when he hits that perfect spot inside you that forces you to release a sharp moan.

“mark, oh my god,” you whimper, attempting to roll your hips down onto him. “keep doing that, please—”

“fuuuck,” he groans, feeling your core clenching around his length. “you take me so well, baby.”

all you can do now is nod, whimpering and whining on him. you can’t believe that this man that has always been so endearing, so kind and lovable has this completely different side to him that you’re only now getting to experience. it brings a different sort of intrigue to him; that he’s more than just a cute boy that works at a mall. he’s complex. he’s a fucking man. he’s a fucking. sex. god.

his breathing starts to become irregular, and his pace is back to merciless. his groans, fuck, his moaning. he’s bouncing you on his cock in the perfect way to where your moans are matching his. you can feel his dick pulsing inside you—

“i’m gonna cum,” he can only breathe out, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “can i?”

“yes mark, please,” you whine, tugging at the ends of his hair. all the while you’re clenching around his cock, bringing him closer and closer to his release.

with a low groan, his hips stutter and you feel his seed spilling into you, completely filling you up. the rocking of his hips stall, and he’s finally letting you down and kissing you sweetly, caressing your cheek with his hand.

“god, you are fucking perfect,” he whispers to you. you let out a giggle, leaning your forehead against his. “hey, i’m not done with you yet.”

he quickly moves you to the glass display counter, lifting you to sit you on it. he pushes your thighs open, lifting your skirt up to get a better look at you. he looks enamored, like he’s starving and the only thing to appease his hunger is by having you on his mouth.

he dives in, licking a stripe up your core with a groan. he repeats this action, as if he’s savoring every drop of your essence mixed with his release that’s slowly dripping out of you—

“so fucking hot,” he hums, releasing a hand from your thigh to tease at your entrance.

“mark, please,” you beg. “stop teasing—”

he attaches his mouth to your clit, swirling his tongue around in smooth, controlled circles. your hands fly to his head, body already twitching from stimulation. his finger is still prodding at your hole, wanting to enter but not just yet. he instead continues to ravage at your sensitive bud, intentional movements making your head spin. he knows what he’s doing and he knows he’s good, especially with the shaking of your thighs and high pitched moans escaping your lips egging him on.

he looks up at you, flattening his tongue out and doing long, drawn out licks. the eye contact is insane, the lust filled in them only making it that much hotter. he’s enjoying every second of this, seeing you shake and begging him to keep going. he loves the taste of you too, so sweet and almost addictive. he could die like this.

his teasing finger finally starts to deepen inside you, slowly at first. he can feel every pulse of your core around his finger, and it’s so hot that he can feel himself getting hard again. and you’re so wet, oh my god, so fucking wet. your arousal is dripping down his chin and his hand, making a sticky mess. when you start to roll your hips onto his face, he swears he’s in heaven.

he inserts another finger, feeling that tightness grip around them. it’s only getting more erratic now, clenching around him with each grind of your hips. he curls his fingers to prod at that sensitive spot, causing you to moan out his name—

“mark, don’t stop,” you whine, looking down at him basically making out with your pussy.

he continues the same movements, repeatedly hitting your g spot and swirling his dripping tongue on your clit. your back arches and legs unintentionally close around his head, making him push them back open with his free hand.

and then he starts humming against you. the vibrations send a shock wave through your body, that mixed with his fingers, his tongue, his hand gripping tightly against your thigh… it feels so intense and so so good. you cum on his tongue, with him desperately holding your hips down and he helps you ride out your high. he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, and you have to grab his head and lift it.

“oh my god,” you gasp, slowly coming down.

he smirks up at you with arousal-coated lips. “yeah, oh my god.” he stands up, immediately going to kiss you and you accepting him, wrapping your arms around him. he pulls away and leans his head against yours.

“i can’t believe we just did that,” he says, sighing out an exasperated laugh.

“i know, what the fuck, right?” you giggle.

“are you- are you doing anything right now?” he asks. “like, do you wanna get food or something?”

“are you asking me on a date?” you ask teasingly.

“don’t tell me you decided you’re creeped out by the drawing now,” he laughs.

“yeah. suuuper creeped out,” you joke, leaning in for another kiss. you hear a noise behind you, and look out through the security shutters to see a mall security guard passing by, scrolling through his phone.

“looks like he just missed the show,” mark says, causing you both to try and hold back your fit of giggles.

a/n: thank u guys for reading! i rly enjoyed this one hehe :-) please leave feedback as i'm new to writing, and reblog to support me! it motivates me to write more!

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[screampied]

Hii baby veygusssss<33 hoping you a nice day / night🩷🩷, so um hear me out Choso x shy reader re-creating one of p-hub most liked nor watched vid? Just a silly thought of mine hehehei feel free to ignore this. Muaaaaa😚💗

- 🧃 ( new anon, I hope it's not taken yet😞 )

꒰১ cw. fem reader, doggystyle, hair pulling, choso tries dirty talk, premature ejaculatıon, mdni.

“baby, i— i wanna do this,” choso mumbles, showing you the video that displayed across the screen. oftentimes he’d show you some positions he’d wanna try, the only ones you’ve ever done with him so far was missionary or cowgirl. his ultimate favorite out of the two—just you straddling him, staring into his eyes always makes him shudder. “can we try it?”

peering at the screen, it was a woman and a guy performing a well known prominent position. with a shy expression, you speak in a soft tone. “doggystyle? you wanna try that?”

“yeah,” he pouts, closing out of the web page before turning back towards you. the both of you were on the bed, tangled limbs keeping each other warm before he pants. “i think you would look pretty like that,” and he gulps. “i mean, you’re always pretty— but like . . on your hands ‘n knees for me, you know?”

you giggle, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “i know what you mean, baby, and okay. we can do doggy if you’d like.”

choso’s face lights up and he only grows more flustered once he sees you sit up. “okay, okay,” he tries to compose of himself, gawking openly as you lie flat on your stomach. then, you sit upright, placing the palms of your hands on the bed with your knees in place. his lips quiver, taking a three second glance at your ass. “a-and i’m gonna get behind like this, i think,” he cutely tries to remember the video. choso’s already starting to pant, shallow breaths of clouded puffs depart from his lips before he springs out his dick. he lets off a whine, staring at your pussy and how it was a bit moist from the outer entrance. “oh, it’s so wet from up close.”

“choso,” you tease, feeling yourself grow hot yourself. “any day now, baby.”

“s-sorry, sorry,” he snaps out of his erotic trance, reaching near the nightstand drawer to take out the lube bottle. he tried not to take too long, he wanted to be inside just as much as you wanted him inside also. quickly, he applies the lube in the right areas of you before focusing his attention back towards his throbbing cock. “give it a f-few pumps before going inside,” he speaks to himself underneath his breath, stroking his length once or twice. you wriggle your ass in anticipation and he only grows more abashed. you were shy just as him, although you were a bit more of an impish tease. “tell me if it’s too much, ‘kay?”

“okay, ‘cho.” you comply.

after a bit, he inches the head of his tip near your slit that’s starting to open. he’s mesmerized, his mouth slowly pries open at the sight before he’s gradually starting to sink his way in. as choso grows quiet, you let off a soft moan that makes him pause.

“baby? does it hurt? what ha—”

“choso, ‘m moanin’ because it feels good, ‘m okay i promise,” you simper in a shaky breath, leaning against your folded arms. not even facing him yet you could tell he was so big—standing tall proudly with inches underneath his metaphoric belt. “keep going.”

he gulps, nodding with a sweet, “okay,” before resuming where he left off. such thickness has your lips spreading apart,

he falls in love with the warmth that your gummy walls provides—sending him into straight nirvana.

it feels almost blissful, you squeeze against him before relaxing, he’s barely even halfway in and you already feel the elastic stretch. it’s too good, the moans that constantly let out from your mouth only makes his dick twitch more. once you let off a whine, he whines. “just a few m-more inches, princess,” he swallows—choso’s throat becomes suddenly dry and you bite your lip. so big, the way he’s so gentle to not break you was oh so cute nonetheless. “so warm.”

choso speaks in a low gruff voice, yet it’s still so whiny. your goopy walls forever cling onto him before within seconds later, you’re rightfully stuffed. he gasps, a sudden sweltering sensation waves over him once he realizes he’s buried balls deep. a few languid seconds inside your pussy and he was already losing it — the poor thing, you had him whipped.

“ugh,” he whimpers, preparing for an impactful thrust. choso’s a bit awkward, trying to remember what his eyes saw from the video as he holds your hips firmly. “gonna f-fuck you now, baby,” he mewls, and gives you a single thrust. he’s hesitant, wanting to make sure you’re okay before you’re babbling for him to not stop. a single thrust like that was purely addicting—you throb and he feels it, the way your walls constantly tease him by constricting around it.

so evil,

your ass is held up high against the bed before he starts to fuck you at a sloppy pace. sweaty thumbs of his brush against your hips as he’s holding you firmly in place, trying to maintain a decent enough rhythm. “ngh, so hot inside, feels so good,” he hiccups, feeling the very bottom of your hips tilt back. skin against skin — it feels like you’re melting against choso, it’s heavily intoxicating.

with the way your ass sticks up against him like glue, he goes crazy, feral. choso makes you spread a bit further before he’s really driving his cock into you. he makes sure his pace isn’t too fast before he lets off a melodically lewd moan. with his sculpted abs flexing, he lets off a soft whimper. “baby can- can i pull on your hair a little too?”

you giggle, nodding as you’re continuing to adapt to the feeling of being jostled against the silky bedsheets. “yes, choso. go ‘head.”

choso’s wheezy pants grow heavier and heavier, he leans up close to where he’s shoved right up close against you. with your knees widening, he grabs a good amount of your hair before giving it a soft kitten tug. “is that good?”

“baby, harder. ‘s okay, you can be a l-little rough.”

he pouts, giving you a more harder tug and you moan— leaning forward with your head lying back down between your arms. “just like that, doin’ so good baby, keep—keep going, fuuuck.”

your torso’s upright, he moans at how good you feel from the inside. choso can’t help but feel himself starting to drool a bit. your pussy was addicting in every way. you fuck back against him, rotating your hips a bit and he squeezes your right ass cheek. choso’s never really stared at your ass much, but now, that it was constantly bumping back against him—he just couldn’t look away. “m-my goddd, ‘s warm,” he pleads out, desperate for more of this feeling. you clamp down on him tightly, nerves all over his body send him shivers inside and out. choso can already feel himself start to sweat, his dick continuously reaches every orifice inside of your stuffed pussy. for a moment, he closes his eyes shut, getting hard at the rough recoil your ass smacks against his torso. it’s sexy, something within him was telling him to spank you but he wanted to ask first. “f-fuck, um . . princess? one more thing?”

“yes baby?”

“can—” he breathes through jagged breaths, slowing his pace down just a bit to rub a thumb against your hips. “can i spank you o-one time?”

“yes, ‘s okay, spank me, choso.” you moan, feeling his tip reach deeper throughout your tightening cunt.

he’s so sweet, he caresses the left cheek of your ass before giving it a spank. it jolts you forward and you let off a sweet gasp, though once he realizes you like it, he starts to spank you over, and over, and over, until you’re being more vocal than him. choso’s so in love with your voice that he could listen to it all day,

it was something about the smoothness in it. the way you whine for more in such a honeyed tone makes the tips of his ears burn. he still couldn’t fathom that he, choso kamo—was making you feel this good. but the more he starts to rut into you, the more he starts to feel something creep up. it’s sneaky—steadily arising before he feels a pool of warmth reside near his lower abdomen.

“i- i think ‘m gonna cum,” he whimpers, and he says it quickly, you feel the vein that runs down his shaft pulsate through you and your legs squeeze together for a moment. he pokes his bottom lip out, about to spank you against but he hesitates. he doesn’t wanna be too mean, so he caresses your bare cheek instead, brushing a thumb against your ass like a brush paints its canvas. “should i p-pull out?”

“i-inside, choso. inside.” you whine, and darkened brows of his raise. his mind’s racing and he’s taken aback, you want him to finish inside?

choso grips your hips with both hands, trying to remember the video before he cutely spews out a specific dialogue. “g-gonna flood your pretty vagina with my sticky cum, whore.”

and you giggle—you giggle and choso gasps.

“w-what’s funny?” he frowns, pausing his hips. “did you not like my dirty talk?”

he’s still buried deep into you from the hilt and you bite on your arm before replying. “heh, no it’s just .. nevermind,” and you have a soft smile, still not facing him. “but we gotta work on your dirty talk, baby. no one really says vagina or sticky cum.”

“…oh,” he says with his brows curling into a furrow. so cute, yet after a while, he finishes anyway.

his orgasm hits him like a truck — it’s so good that he whimpers, rocking his hips against you before feeling the drenched sloshes of oozing cum pouring into you. it’s thick, ropes and ropes of his velvety seed trickles into your sopping folds. he came a lot too, despite it being a bit early. whines welt from his mouth before he pulls out slowly, staring in revere at the way your pussy’s plugged all in. momentarily, his cum starts to dribble out and he runs a thumb down it to touch it. it’s warmth, he shudders before averting his attention back towards you, towering over you. he pants, “s-sorry, you didn’t get to finish.”

“we’re not done, silly,” you kiss the bridge of his nose where his scar lays. “and don’t be sorry. you did amazing with doggy, you’re a natural.”

choso pouts, yet grows flustered once your lips hit against the bump of his nose. “eh. but i could do better. i wanna learn how to talk dirty for you.”

“we have all the time to practice, baby,” you softly whisper, pulling him into a hug—wrapping your shaky legs around his slim waist. choso inhales, staring at you with rough pants leaving his lips every millisecond. “we’ll get better.”

he lets off a relieved sigh at how understanding you were, he lays his head against your chest, bristle hairs of his ponytails tickle against your skin before he speaks in a shy tone. “o-okay, okay but um .. can we maybe try another position i saw?”

“what is it baby?” you hum, stroking the edge of his temple in such a hypnotic way—the benign rhythm of your fingers was so soothing he found himself almost drifting off to sleep.

he had a cute smug grin. “f-full nelson.”

[sturniqlo]

KINKTOBER WEEK 3 | SMASH OR PASS- M.S

summary: where playing smash or pass with fictional characters turns into something more with matt

cw: cursing, SMUT; slight dom!matt, making out, fingering, unprotected p in v, backshots, creampie, spanking, hair pulling, aftercare

an: happy smutday- i mean thursday!!

masterlist | kinktober | join my taglist

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tonight, y/n and her best friend, matt, were having a sleepover. before the night even started, matt had picked her up from her place and drove the two of them to the store to buy snacks and drinks for the night ahead of them.

as they walked around the grocery store, she had realized just how full the cart has gotten. "fuck, we've gotta get rid of some stuff." she picked up a random bag of peanuts. "bro, i didn't even realize how full it got." he giggled, picking up a few snacks he actually wanted.

once they arrived back at her place, it was matt's turn to order dinner for the two of them. "how's pizza sound?" he asked, his phone open to the postmates. "so good, get a stuffed crust, please." she looked at him with pleading eyes. "i will, i will." she smiled, she then went back to look for a movie.

that was a few hours ago. they were now playing smash or pass. "okay, okay, uh- the guy from tangled." matt snaps his fingers trying to think of his name. "flynn rider?" he nods. "oh i'd smash him any day. he can break into my tower." she smirks, taking a sip from her soda can.

"you're insane." matt laughs. "okay, my turn. let's see... betty boop." she looks at him. "smash... that's a classic, too easy. give me another one." she smirks at the thought. "fine.." she thinks for a few seconds before speaking.

"me." she smirks, raising her eyebrows at him. "y- you?" he stutters. "me." she confirms. "i- i would." he gulps, feeling himself grow hard at the thought. there had been far too many thoughts of her in that situation. "you would what?" she scoots closer to him. "y/n.." matt whispers.

"you would what, matt?" she repeats, feeling herself getting wet at the way he said her name. "smash." he finally says. "yeah? you'd fuck me?" she grabs a hold of his chin, bringing their faces inches apart. "i've been thinking about it for so fucking long." he wastes no time, brings his hand to the back of her neck and pulling her in for a kiss.

"mmm." she hums in satisfaction, feeling his soft lips on hers. their kiss hard and messy. she pulls away for a second, pushing him back so that he rests against the back of the couch. climbing onto his lap, matt's hands come to rest on her hips. "are you okay with this?" she asks him. "more than okay." he smiles before closing the gap again.

their tongues fight for dominance, his winning so he now has control. her hips roll against his and she feels his hard bulge. "so hard already, matt." she mumbles against his lips. "all for you, babe." he grips her ass in his hands. she gasps at the sudden feeling.

as they keep making out on the couch, she pulls away and throws her hoodie off of her and tosses it somewhere in her living room, leaving her in her bra. "fuck." matt groans at the sight of her cleavage. "can i?" matt presses a kiss on her shoulder, his finger ghosting over her bra strap. "yes, take it off for me."

his hand comes behind her back, easily unclasping her bra. he lets it fall down her arms before grabbing it and tossing it with her sweater. "so beautiful, look at you." he mumbles, awing at the sight of her tits. her nipples hardening at the change in temperature. matt brings his hands up and squeezes one in his hand, running his thumb over her nipple. she gasps.

"you like that, yeah?" he smirks, rolling the bud between two fingers, hearing her whimper. she nods, rolling her hips against him some more. "stand up." he says lowly, patting her thigh. she does as he says and he stands behind her, moving her loose hair over her left shoulder. pressing wet kisses along the exposed skin of her neck. she sighs in pleasure, leaning her head against his shoulder.

matts hands come around her her waist, caressing the soft skin of her belly, slowing creeping down to the waistband of her short. "take these off for me, please." he says into her ear, fiddling with the button. she hums, replacing his hands with hers, unbuttoning her jean shorts and letting them pool around her feel. "good girl." his hand comes back down, slightly touching her covered cunt. she practically moans at the pet name.

"on the couch." he nips on her neck and pats the side of her thigh. she nods, getting on all fours on the couch. her forearms resting on the head of the couch, and her ass sticking out. matt discards of his shirt, coming up behind her and rubbing his hand over her ass cheek. "so pretty." he mumbles, kissing up her spine. his hands runs up her body.

he then pulls back, admiring her almost naked body. he looks at her thin grey thong that already had a wet patch. "look at you, already so wet for me." his fingertip tracing her covered slit. "matt." she whines, arching her back at the small, yet teasing touch. "what, baby?" he smirks knowing she's getting impatient, just wanting him to do something.

"please." she turns her head around to see him and wiggles her ass against him as he leans his front against her. he groans at the contact, his cock feeling suffocated under his underwear and jeans. "so needy, yeah?" matt spanks her. she jolts at the sudden impact, the sting hurting so good. "again." she leans her head against her arm. "you like that? such a dirty girl." he rubs his hand over the red skin before hitting that same spot again, making her whimper.

matt looks down and sees that the wet patch on her thong has grown. he curses under his breath knowing he caused that. he wastes no time in booking his finger on the sides of the material and slides them down to her thighs. she helps him out but lifting each one of her knees so he can slip them completely off. she spreads her legs a bit more, giving him a better view of her dripping pussy.

matt sees her glistening core and grows harder, unbuttoning his pants to give him a bit more freedom. "so wet." he whispers, dipping his fingers into her hole, collecting some of her wetness. "please, matt." she's had enough of his teasing. "okay, okay. i'll give you want you want." he leans and gives her shoulder a kiss.

finally, he slides his two fingers from her hole down to her clit. he circles the sensitive bud. "shit- just like that." she pushes her ass back, moaning. "you like that?" his fingers moving back up to her hole. pushing two of his fingers in slowly, letting her get used to the feeling. "f- fuck!" she gasps, feeling his long fingers massaging her walls.

"so good, matt." y/n says. matt pumps his fingers faster, seeing his fingers shining with her arousal when they slip out. "keep- keep going." she starts to feel the pressure build up in her lower belly. matt can feel her pussy clenching around his fingers and slips out before she can get closer to her climax. "matt." she whimpers at the loss of contact.

"sorry, baby. i want you to come on my cock." he licks his fingers clean. "taste so good." y/n turns on her back and sees matt with a flustered look on his face, shirtless and his unbuttoned pants. she brings her arms out and matt hovers over her his hands coming to rest besides her head. her arms go around his neck. thier lips colliding into a messy kiss. y/n can taste herself on his tongue.

"gonna fuck you now, back on your knees." he cups her cheek, pressing one last kiss on her lips. she smirks at his words and turns back around into her original position, arching her back a bit more. matt slips his pants off along with his boxers, letting his hard cock spring up. he rubs himself a couple of times before running his leaking tip along her folds.

"y'ready, baby?" he bites back a groan. "yes- fuck." she whimpers. matt, slowly pushes his cock in holding her hips to steady himself. "oh- you're so big." she cries, feeling his dick stretch her out. matt groans as soon as he bottoms out, looking down to where they're connected, seeing her hold stretch out to accommodate to his size.

"move- please move." she puts her hand over his that rests on her hip. matt nods even though she isn't facing him. he starts to thrust in and out of her. "oh fuck!" she throws her head to the side.

"feel so good wrapped around me, baby. shit!" he slaps her ass cheek. seeing the skin turn red. "matt!" he groans feeling her pussy clench around his dick. "squeezing me so hard." matt reaches up and wraps her long hair around her hand, slightly pulling on it. "yes- yes!" she moans at the stinging of her scalp. matt pulls on the makeshift ponytail until she's on her knees leaning flush against his chest.

matt continues thrusting into her from behind, kissing along her neck and moaning into her skin hearing her moan from him hitting deep spots inside of her. "fuck- i'm so- i'm so close." she brings a hand behind his head and turning her head so they can meet in a kiss. "mm." she hums into the kiss. matt pulls away from the kiss, holding her chin in his hand. "come for me, come all over my dick."

"yes- gonna come for you." she whines, her eyes fluttering in pleasure. with a couple more thrusts she's cums. "fuck! i'm cumming!" she turns limp against him. matt rides her through her high and he then cums inside of her. "so good." she mumbles. "you did so good for me, babe." he coos, moving bits a pieces of her hair from her face.

matt carries her from the couch to her room to clean her up. knowing her place like the back of his hand, he knows where to get a rag. he cleans himself off before going to back to her and wiping the cum that is seeping out of her. she slightly hissed. "m' sorry, almost done." he kisses her thigh. matt gets her to pee before changing her into a pair of sweatpants and hoodie.

"well, i'd say 'smash or pass' was a great game since it ended up with us fucking." matt says as he lays on her. "you're unbelievable, matt." she giggles. "answer this one f'me, smash or pass... jack skellington." he looks up at her.

"smash."

[wild-jackalope]

Nsfw Links

pairing :: Yuta x reader, Yuji x reader, Toge x reader, Megumi x reader, Sukuna x reader, Satoru x reader, Toji x reader, Choso x reader

warning :: aged up Yuta, Yuji, Toge, Megumi, some of these are moaning audios, grinding, handjobs, oral, Choso isn’t always sub, thigh fucking, public-ish, tummy bulge, somno in the Gojo one, teacher student relationship, soft Sukuna mostly, I hate rough sex lol, other sex stuff

note :: lazy asf post, but it gets the most traction

Yuta Okkotsu

thru his shorts — you’re so evil, you don’t even wait to take off his boxers before giving him a hand job. Yuta doesn’t seem to care, though, he’s still whimpering and moaning like always.

nothing makes him moan more than you — you and the feeling of your cunt grinding on top of him, that is.

Feral — Yuta barely ‘fucks’ you, he’s a make love kinda guy! But there’s times when he’s been so far away from you for so long that he just can’t help himself.

Yuji Itadori

we can do other stuff… — well shit, you’re not sure you’re ready to get fucked by him? That’s fine! He gets it, sex is scary. But you’re wet and he’s hard, so maybe he can just show you what’ll it be like?

thinking of you — ever since he fell head over heels for you Yuji can only get off to the image of you in his head. When he’s all alone and touching himself through his pants he imagines you doing it.

Fingering you — loves loves loves to see your back shift and arch when he hits the right spot. Especially with your ass on display for him.

bouncy — he’s so strong, sometimes Yuji doesn’t even realise he’s shoving you into the bed whilst rutting his hips into you.

putting it in — He’s thick and you’re so tight. He can barely get half his cock inside you, but shit he really fucking wants to.

Toge Inumaki

kiss it before you eat — before he digs into your folds, he presses delicate kisses to your cunt. He loves to feel you shivers under his mouth at the sweet sensation.

face to face — since Toge can’t talk it’s important you’re able to see his face. When it’s screwed up in pleasure, you know he’s enjoying himself.

once he starts he wont stop — don’t think just because you’re wriggling around and squirming that Toge with take his mouth away from his favourite meal.

Megumi Fushiguro

slowly, we’ll work our way up — sex doesn’t always immediately just happen between couples! You and Megumi were the type to work your way up to it. He still remembers the first time you sled naked and wet up and down his cock. He came so hard <3

listen to him moan — he really tries to hold it together whenever you do something to please him; like head or a handjob but you can hear the cracks in his voice as he crumbles under your touch.

gentle touches — he starts slow, rubbing you through your thong and kissing you before he pulls it to the side and slides his long fingers inside you.

Sukuna Ryomen

keep it shut — as much as Sukuna loves to hear your little whines and moans, sometimes he likes to hear it muffled against his large hands while he fingers you.

tied up — rope is basically vanilla in your relationship. Sukuna just loves to have your body restricted with easy access to his every whim.

you’re his toy to play with — He’ll toss you onto the bed and play with your pretty pussy whenever he wants to. With how many times he’s done, Sukuna’s practically better at getting you off than you are.

Satoru Gojo

coming home to you — Satoru’s days are long and hard. It doesn’t help when you (who he barely gets to fuck on a regular basis) sends him lewd photos and nasty messages about how much you miss him. You know he’s going to fuck you good when he gets home, that’s why you’re already wet when you hear the front door unlock.

just a quick break — you looked too fucking good at the party. How could he not pull you into the bathroom and hump himself into you until he cums? Maybe if you’re lucky, he won’t cum inside you (he will).

favourite student — being put on a mission together with your teacher sounded fine, but sharing a bed kinda crossed the line. Although when you wake up filled to the brim with Satoru moaning above you the line seems out of sight.

Too big, but he wont stop — he’ll just convince you, you like the pain of being stretched out by his cock. Your tight pussy feels too fucking good to let you have time to adjusted.

Toji Fushiguro

what else did you expect? — you wore a short skirt around him. Of course he’s going to force you onto his cock like you’re his favourite fucktoy (because you are his favourite).

tummy bulge — what’s more to say? He’s so big and always fucks you so deep.

eye contact — you know Toji loves to see you black out on his cock, see your eyes roll back as tears slip down your cheeks. Just keep fucking look at him.

let me hear it, doll — of course he likes to embarrass you, and what’s more embarrassing that calling him daddy whilst he play with your puss?

Choso Kamo

just the tip — sometimes you’re not up to taking the entirety of Choso’s length and he’s more than willing to compromise for you! After all, it hardly matters he’s not all the way inside you, he still cums just as hard.

he’ll always offer up his thigh — don’t think Choso is the only pathetic sub in your relationship. He loves to feel you work yourself up on his thigh, holding you in a thigh hug reassuring that he will fill you up. Eventually.

size difference — he can’t bear to have you even an inch away from him. He wants to hug you, so close, so tight. So much that you can’t even touch the floor.

in your hands — nothing, really, just jerking Choso off <3

[hello-sweetheart]

Neat Freak

Steve’s parents don’t make him keep the house spotless. He really is just that clean and when Nancy tries to tell people there like “lol, sure” but she knows.

He’s a neat freak.

When she would stay over she would change into her pjs and make a small bundle of her day clothes on his desk chair, and steve would just. Fold them. Before getting in bed with her.

Doesn’t take long after for the others to realize it.

Robin thought it was just a guy thing, caring that much about their car. Scolding her for kicking her socked feet up on the dash, and leaving crumbs of toast when she had breakfast to go.

But then she visits his house the first time and Robin has never been good at using a coaster, too scatter brained to pay attention where she sets her drink down each time.

Steve, though? Without missing a beat he will move her glass to the coaster. Every time. Doesn’t even break his strike or pauses his conversation it’s just muscle memory by now.

The kids have had their will broken and no longer put up a fight.

Without being told to anymore, they toe off their shoes and hang their coat by the doorway. They don’t even do that in their own home. How Steve was able to get those wild animals house broken? No body knows.

His mom didn’t actually choose his room decor. It looks a bit barren but Steve likes it that way. It looks clean, easier to do so, too. Everything has its place tucked away from sight so it’s not an eye sore.

Even his plaid wallpaper and curtains he chose for himself. He spent all day finding the curtains that matched the closest and he was really proud of himself when found some.

“Steve, buddy, this looks mental.”

“But look,” (closest the curtains to show that even the pattern lines up seemlessly) “you almost can’t even see the difference between the wall and fabric. It’s like magic! It’s cool!” >:(

He’s very meticulous about his appearance. Dustin is absolutely flabbergasted when he sees his full hair routine for himself. Everything must be done a certain way in a certain order every time. It’s routine.

“Three puffs of the Farah Fawcett! THREE!”

“I DID THREE.”

“YEAH, BUT YOU DID THEM WRONG.”

When they discontinue it, Steve has a mini breakdown. He doesn’t like that his very specific and set routine has been broken. He’s convinced he’ll never find a hair spray to replace it. Everybody stocks up on cans of it to try and lower his anxiety.

He just loves cleaning, okay?

Ironing his kakis and polos until there are no wrinkles is so satisfying. Glass without finger smudges is so nice. His closet being organized by color is so efficient. When he’s worried, anxious, or angry he likes to keep his hands busy and it just calms him down going ham on a water stain in the bathroom.

When he hangs out at Eddie’s, he mindlessly starts picking things up here and there. It’s like heaven for him. He sees a mess and just wants to go to town. Eddie doesn’t mind as long as he knows where everything is in the end. He’ll admit that having his music organized alphabetically is pretty convenient.

It’s also a little funny to watch Steve iron his ripped jeans and battle jacket with an iron he brought from home.

“You’re a freak, Harrington.” Eddie has a shit eating grin. Steve flips him off.

“Fuck off.”