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formula-ghost · 17 hours ago

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Read Your Diary (FC43 x fem!reader)

Chapter 4: The Loneliest

CHAPTER SUMMARY: The end of the Americas triple header brings chaos, scandal, and conflict to your relationship with Franco. And after an unforgivable betrayal, your friendship may be beyond saving.

WORD COUNT: 9.6k

WARNINGS: SO MUCH ANGST, reader is going through it, Franco is mean and lowkey kinkshames reader :( also Franco is a lil freak at the end so SMUT MINORS DNI

TAGLIST: @scopeiguess @storyteller-le @xivilivix @htpssgavi @wierdflowerpower @justsisse @uncreativetm @ncrsbrg @tillyt04 @amz824

A/N: HAPPY HOLIDAYS YA FREAKS (affectionate). The long awaited chapter 4 is here! So sorry to dampen your holidays with this very sad chapter, but thank you all for being so patient with me while I was away. I hope you enjoy this extra long chapter as a reward for your patience!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

You’ll be the saddest part of me

The part of me that will never be mine

It’s obvious, tonight is gonna be the loneliest

You’re still the oxygen I breathe

I see your face when I close my eyes

It’s torturous, tonight is gonna be the loneliest

The morning light was torturous. It signaled the end of Franco’s short lived unconscious peace, and the breaking of the dawn forced him to confront the fact that it was race day. He hadn’t slept well. It had been one hell of a night.

One glance to the curtained window showed that the morning light was quickly going to be shrouded by rain clouds anyway.

But despite his tiredness, he got up. If he had laid there too long he would have started thinking too much. About the race. About what was at stake.

About you.

He didn’t have time for that. He pushed that mixed jump pile of emotions—what exactly they were, he couldn’t name—down to the pit of his stomach as he quickly showered and gathered his things so he could get to the circuit quickly.

But even in the shower, as he tried to wash the memories of last night away, he couldn��t. His own nakedness didn’t even seem to be his, not anymore. The words you had written, imagining every inch of skin, stuck to him.

A wave of nausea hit him, and he felt like he was going to puke.

And it didn’t get any better as he dressed and gathered his things. There was a journal shaped space in his bag now, hollow without the evidence of his deception. He had kept it on him always to avoid you finding out. But now, it didn’t matter. He knew every word. Even if you did discover what he’d done, he had crossed a point of no return.

The journal itself still lay open at the foot of his bed. Had he fallen asleep after reading it, or just not had the energy to return it to its spot after feeling the shockwaves of the words? He didn’t remember.

All he knew was that his head was pounding. His entire body felt disconnected from the mind that governed it. It was too damn early, and too important of a day to be distracted like this.

But it was all his fault. No one had forced him to read it. No—he had decided, of his own volition, to steal the journal. When you ran out of his room with tears in your eyes and ignored his calls for you down the hallway, he had glanced at the open journal, teasing him to commit this unforgivable offence. He ignored it then, leaving his room, but when he returned that night the temptation had become nearly too much to bear. So yes, just as you had accused him, he did steal the journal that morning before you arrived at the track. And he’d lied to your face about it.

And you believed him.

That didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting to the track and doing his job, showing everyone that he could do what he said he’d do. He had talked a big game—now was time to deliver.

So when he didn’t respond to your text that morning, you let it go. You knew how important of a day this was to him. Even though he never divulged the contents of his meeting to you, you had known him too long to not be able to assume that the stakes were much higher than anyone had originally thought.

Why else would he be so standoffish when you finally saw him at the paddock that morning, brushing you off and quickly leaving? Why else would he not speak a single word to you the morning before qualifying?

At first, the tonal change from last night—dancing in the pit lane and nearly meeting lips to a morning of being ignored—was shocking to you. But you knew Franco. And he had promised that you’d always have a place next to him. Maybe not this particular morning, when all he needed to do was perform. But always. And you trusted him.

So you let the transgression roll off you like the rain that continued into the morning. You took your usual spot at the back of the garage to avoid the ever present watching eye of the media cameras. After last night's stunt, you knew the world would be watching both you and Franco. You weren’t very keen to give the media what they wanted, knowing every gesture or word would inevitably be scrutinized. The fans, though, had been kind so far.

All the things that they had said—we’re rooting for you—had hit you like a ton of bricks last night, alone in your room. You, too, had been unable to sleep.

It was the effect of the ever-present possibility of what could be. You wanted Franco. All of him. His body, yes, but also his mind and his heart. You were in love with him, without a doubt, and since admitting it to yourself only a few weeks ago, you had fallen hard and fast. But at the end of the day, he wasn’t yours. He had a goal to work towards, and it wasn’t you.

But maybe one day it could be. Maybe when all of this was done, you’d still have him. That’s what he promised.

And for once, you’d allowed yourself to really and truly trust him.

You glanced at the screen that showed him sitting in his car before quali. His back was to you, and it felt odd to see him like this, so disconnected, as if you were just another fan rooting on your favorite athlete.

Sure, he was your favorite athlete too, but he was also your best friend.

You wanted so desperately to trust those words he spoke when he held you as you cried. You wanted to believe that his job would never come before you. So when those familiar insecurities rose in your throat like bile, you swallowed them down and forced a smile to your lips.

If the people were watching you, you’d give them a show. And if Franco had to perform today, so would you.

So you let that sparkle come to your eyes when the fans with paddock passes strolled in and out in front of the garage, straining their necks to catch a glimpse of Franco in his car, and you in the background.

Until it was time for quali. You had wanted to wish Franco good luck, but he had been so laser focused talking with his race engineers and fiddling with the car that you settled for whispering a silent prayer as he expertly rolled his car onto the track.

You were always nervous for him. Even when the stakes were much lower, you knew the skill it took for him to do this job, and how dangerous it was. And on days like these, where the rain just kept coming and coming in sheets, you couldn’t help but let your anxiety win, knowing that anything could go wrong.

But Franco was talented, and focused. He would be okay, and he’d exceed everyone’s expectations. You had to believe that right now, on track, all that was on his mind was becoming one with the road.

Unfortunately, Franco couldn’t focus as well as he needed to. His mind wandered, of course, to you. He had brushed you off earlier, unable to look you in the eye after what he’d read.

Maybe, if there had been more time, he would have figured out what he was feeling. But he had chosen the worst possible night to do what he had done. Maybe his manager was right, he was distracted, and now he had to live with the consequences.

Or maybe, if he had been a better man, he wouldn’t have read it in the first place.

Regardless, he had, and even now, when he needed to focus, the emotions swelled up in him, coming in waves.

The first was shock. He read each sentence carefully, over and over again, praying that something had gotten lost in translation and you weren’t really saying what he thought you were saying. The second was disgust—how could his best friend write such detailed fantasies about him?

The third wave, the one he tried to ignore, was something he couldn’t name. A pool of warmth that settled at the bottom of his stomach as he read each filthy word, and the inevitable vision of the scenes he couldn’t help but imagine. He could feel his blood pulse through his veins as he let his mind give in to everything your words had commanded him to picture.

But the fourth wave came quicker, pushing down whatever the third had been. It was anger. Anger at himself for betraying you like this. Anger at you for writing all this and hiding it from him. Anger at life for putting him in this situation. Anger at his manager because she was right—he was distracted.

He had been driving completely by muscle memory, even going silent with his race engineers. They angrily instructed him to return to the garage.

He obeyed, apologizing to them for being so caught up in his own thoughts. But as he pulled the car into the garage and sat, he couldn’t help but let his eye wander the garage to you, standing towards the back as always, hands over the race headphones that they gave all the VIP guests so they could listen in on the actions.

You looked so innocent. His best friend, just cheering him on from the sidelines, so blissfully unaware of what he had done. But what you’d done, too—the pages full to the margins of your fantasies—well, no one was truly innocent here, it seemed.

You looked up and gave him a reassuring smile, and he felt like he was going to lose it.

He darted his eyes away, and thankfully, the race engineers cleared him to quickly return to the track. He would one last clean lap to finish off Q1, then return to the garage for Q2.

But he couldn’t get your smile out of his head, even when he coasted through turn one. And that familiar queasiness returned in his stomach as he approached turn two.

The rain, and his distractedness, was too much to overcome. He spun and eventually hit the wall.

Back in the garage, you couldn’t breathe. The seconds of silence from his end of the radio felt like years as you waited to hear that he was okay.

All he let out was a sad, “Sorry mate,” to his engineer. But to even hear his voice was a blessing.

He eventually confirmed he was okay and made his return to the garage. His head hung low, weighed down by the expectations he had failed to fulfill. As his best friend, you wanted nothing more than to comfort him, to hold him and assure him that everything would be okay. But he didn’t even look at you.

Turning his back away from you, he just stood solemnly as he removed his helmet and fluffed up his hair, before leaving to go speak with the media.

As his car was wheeled into the garage, you thanked whatever God was listening to you that Franco had made it back to the paddock in one piece. The carnage was bad—and with the grand prix in only a few hours, the mechanics would have their work cut out for them.

The garage was soon becoming too chaotic for your liking, so you slipped out to make your way to Williams hospitality to hopefully catch your best friend once he left the media tent.

But Franco never appeared. You assumed he had been dragged from meeting to meeting, trying to salvage what was left of this clusterfuck of a grand prix weekend. You watched qualifying from the screens in hospitality, wincing when Alex crashed too, and offering another prayer for the sanity of the poor William’s mechanics.

The rain only worsened into the afternoon, when the Grand Prix would have to take place even despite the monsoon that raged outside. You still hadn’t found Franco; you occupied your time by chatting with the fans that were now drenched in the general admission sections. They at least were trying to salvage some joy from the weekend, and you were too.

But it bothered you that you couldn’t find Franco, and that he had been avoiding you all day. It was an odd juxtaposition; on one hand, you had become so comfortable in the space of the race circuit that you no longer hid from the people, but sought them out, taking photos and cheering along with Franco’s many fans. On the other hand, you couldn’t help but feel a prickling sensation at the back of your neck that something between you and Franco was wrong. But your anxiety had lied to you so many times that you no longer trusted your intuition.

So, again, you tried to shake it off. It was going to be okay. Franco was going to focus and bounce back and get points. And when he did, he’d pick you up and spin you like he always did. And his beautiful smile would be yours again.

When it came time to return to the garage to get ready for the race, you were hopeful but nervous, your emotions a delicate balancing act of steadying your fear with your desire to support the man you loved.

As you entered the garage, you saw him, fiddling with the cuffs of his fireproof race suit, clearly annoyed by the scrunched lines in his forehead. And then, his eyes traveled up to meet yours.

It was like time froze. You had two options: do as you usually would and go up to him and wish him luck with a hug that was too close and too long to be strictly platonic. Or, ignore him and just silently wish him luck, praying that at the end of the race, he’d come running to you as he always did.

You didn’t get to decide, though. Franco’s eyes darted away as quickly as he could move them, a subtle expression of disgust replacing his former frustration.

It felt like a knife to your heart. You slipped on your race headphones in silence.

He’s just having a bad day. He’s stressed. He wasn’t even looking at you. He did it without thinking. A million thoughts ran through your head, faster than the F1 car that you now watched Franco climb into, readying himself for the race.

You couldn’t look away from him, but he couldn’t even look at you.

All you wanted to do was go back to the hotel and cry. You’d always been too sensitive, people had said, and that was part of the reason you started suppressing your emotions in the first place. But since you’d started your healing journey with your journal, you couldn’t stop the emotions anymore. The blush, the tears—all of it was beyond you, now.

At least, if you cried, the rain would hide it.

That’s what you told yourself as you watched his car roll into the pit lane and onto the track. You prayed to whatever God was listening that Franco would be okay.

But it seems no God was listening to you that day.

It started almost comically, with Lance Stroll crashing into the gravel on the formation lap. A miscommunication between the FIA and the drivers caused confusion on when the race would actually begin. And when the race finally did begin, it was nothing but chaos.

You held your breath during the first spin. It was Nico Hulkenburg, not Franco. Thankfully. Everyone was okay.

You counted the laps in your head, like you’d counted Franco’s breath when he would fall asleep in your apartment during your many past sleepovers. Like you’d counted his breaths when you woke up next to him in Singapore.

Lap 32. He was okay.

In your ears, you heard his race engineer warning him of the wet conditions, advising him to take extra caution with all the water on the track.

Franco asked to box for wet tires. His engineer refused. He told Franco to survive.

A wave of anger rose in you. Is surviving not exactly what he was already doing?

Franco pushed back, asking if the engineer understood what he was saying. And again, he refused. An argument back and forth. Trust us, the engineer said.

And then, he crashed.

A hard hit on the wall and a skid across the wet road.

You felt like your knees were going to give out from under you. Everything was spinning.

The only thing that brought you back down to Earth was his voice in your ears. “I’m okay. I’m so sorry, guys,” he apologized.

In the aftermath of it all, you’d feel sorry for the William’s mechanics. But right now all you cared about was the man you loved and if he was really okay.

You didn’t care that he had been upset with you, for whatever reason beyond your knowledge. All you cared about was that he was alive and unharmed.

Your only want was to run to his arms, feel the warmth of his beating heart against your chest, assuring you that he was okay.

But he stomped into the garage and walked right past you, as if you didn’t even exist to him, like you were an invisible burden.

Your heart was pounding as if you were the one who had crashed. You watched as Franco disappeared into the paddock, likely heading to quickly speak to the media before sneaking off to God knows where.

Again, your mind went to the familiar choice, whether to go to him or hang back. But you’d been hanging back too much. You couldn’t stand it anymore.

You followed in his general direction, but the paddock was buzzing with reporters and team officials. You scanned the crowd for the familiar curls of your favorite Argentine, but to no avail; the frustration threatened to bring tears to your eyes.

Until you saw him darting through the crowd, nearly as fast as his own car, rushing to get away from all the people with their eyes on him. You had become one of them.

You navigated your way to the crowd and back to his driver’s room, waiting until you and Franco were out of the crowd to call to him.

“Franco!” you yelled, “Franco, wait up.”

“Go away, YN.”

That familiar stab in your stomach pulsed again. “Franco, I just want to know that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

He reached his room and slammed the door shut, locked it behind him. You sighed.

“Please, let me in,” you practically begged. He was silent on the other side of the door.

He had never shut you out like this before—literally or figuratively. You felt the tears begin to pool. With a shaky voice, you began, “Franco, I’m your friend. I just want to support you and be here for you when things go wrong. You’ve been ignoring me all day, and I’m just worried about you.”

His silence continued, and the quivers in your voice became more intense.

“If you want space, I’ll give it to you. But don’t shut me out forever. I want to be here for you. I… I care about you.”

Your heart beat with the near Freudian slip you had said. You were so close to saying I love you. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t said it before; you were best friends, after all, but the shift in the nature of your relationship had made the words take on a new meaning. You couldn’t say it now.

It seemed as if nothing you could say would have any effect, judging by the silence on the other side of the door. You had just turned to begin walking away when you heard the click of Franco unlocking the door.

You knew it was a silent invitation to enter. And when he carefully opened the door, just wide enough for you to enter but not enough so that anyone else could see, you saw the redness in his cheeks and the puffiness in his eyes indicating that he, too, had been crying.

It broke your heart.

You entered and locked the door behind you, instantly enveloping your best friend in a warm embrace. You wanted no distractions—just you, the man you loved, and the silence of the room that was only broken by your collective cries.

All you could do was hold him close, burying your face in his neck, relishing the smell of his cologne mixed with the sweat from the race and the familiar smell of the garage—mechanical, yet somehow like home to you now.

“I ruined everything,” he sobbed into your shoulder. The statement was cliche, but by the strength of his sobs, you knew he felt it was true.

“You don’t know that,” you reassured him. “So many other driver’s have crashed today. It’s a mess out there. You did the best you could.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. I’ve fucked it all up. I’ve ruined it. I let everyone down.”

He clearly wasn’t in a state to be reasoned with, and you knew that wasn’t the best thing right now anyway. He just needed someone to be with him.

“It’s going to be okay. I promise it will.” That, and a warm body pressed to his, was all you could give him.

But the thoughts cascading through his brain were much darker. He really had ruined everything. Yes, his crashes would likely lose him the Redbull seat. But what he really ruined was his relationship with you.

He had done the unforgivable, crossed the line that he couldn’t return from. Everything between you two would be different now, especially when you found out what he had done.

Part of him wanted to lie and act as if it had never happened. You never wrote those words, he never read them, and everything would go on as normal.

But he knew he couldn’t. It had only been a day and the guilt was eating him alive. And now, he had ruined his chance at securing his future.

Still, in the bottom of his stomach was again that jumbled feeling he couldn’t quite name—something like anger, or disgust, something… vile. His manager was right. You had become a distraction, through no action of your own. But the filthy thoughts that went through your head at the sight of him, all which you’d written down and he’d read… it excited and repulsed him all at once.

And these emotions all ran through him as he sobbed in your arms, a quiet solace from the world. Things were broken now.

But in this moment, Franco could act as if none of that was true. He broke the embrace and finally looked you in the eyes.

Your stomach turned with butterflies. He was so beautiful, even with his puffy bloodshot eyes and gentle blush dancing across his cheeks.

And as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, he gently cupped your chin, bringing your face to his, and kissed you.

The kiss was slow and tentative, soft, like you were something fragile. And this moment was fragile, evidenced by the silent peace between you when the kiss ended and you pulled away, staring at each other.

Franco was about to go in for another when his manager knocked on the door.

“Shit…” he muttered under his breath, and the reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks. He wordlessly got up and left with her, leaving you alone in his driver’s room.

You were scared of what would happen when he returned, so you spent the rest of the day in Williams hospitality before leaving the track alone.

You never saw Franco again at the track, but you figured he was in deep shit for his crashes, and that you should keep your distance. But sitting in hospitality, your mind in the clouds as you heard the celebrations of Max Verstappen’s win in the distance, you were haunted by the feeling of Franco’s lips on yours.

It was soft, caring, full of… no. You couldn’t say it.

You felt like there was a stone in your throat. You needed Franco now, but at the same time, you were terrified of what would happen the next time you saw him. So you left and went back to the hotel alone. You knew your usual routine; dinner together, spending a bit of time in his hotel room, then going to bed and heading home on separate flights.

And even though your journal had long left your mind, you imagined what would happen that night in his hotel room.

Another kiss, but rougher this time, more sure of what he wanted; and what he wanted was you. Hands wandering, hitched breaths, waking up next to each other in the morning light.

You felt like you were going to faint. But he never came by that night. No text, no call, no tentative knock on your door.

And even in the morning when you checked out of the hotel and made your way to the airport, still nothing.

You had hoped when you landed and turned your phone off airplane mode that you’d find a notification from him, but your texts were empty.

A day turned into a week. One week turned into two. No word from him. All your messages left on delivered.

It took you two weeks to get him on the phone. You had to call him out of the blue; that was the only time he answered you.

“Hello? YN? Are you okay?” He asked.

“I’m fine. Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you—”

He cut you off. “I’ve been busy.”

“I know,” you answered, slowly, as to not cause an argument. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.” You paused. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

He paused too, but his pause was more awkward than peaceful. Clearly what had happened in Brazil had changed things, to a point where even a phone call felt stiff and unnatural.

You continued, “Do you maybe want to get dinner this weekend? Our usual place?”

It was a neutral enough offer, something that would be absurd of him to refuse.

“Yeah, let's do that. I’ll pick you up on Saturday.” His tone was cool, but you took any opportunity you had for connection. He had said yes to your invitation; that was enough.

In the meantime, unbeknownst to you, Franco was losing his fucking mind.

He didn’t know why he had kissed you in his driver’s room. It was like he wasn’t in control of his body. But how beautiful was the result; his lips pressed to yours, so softly, felt like heaven. He relished every second of the slow and chaste kiss as if it would be his last.

And when his manager had ruined the moment, he realized that it might be. He snapped back into reality as he rushed down the hallways of the paddock with her. She was clearly pissed. She led him back to a small meeting room. The room was empty, but he knew soon the whole team would be there, and he walked in like a dog with his tail between his legs.

Before he had even sat, she took her place at the head of the conference table, small but imposing. He was in big trouble.

She inhaled deeply before beginning. “Franco, are you okay?”

He nodded.

“Say it.”

“I’m okay. I’m so sorry, I—”

“You were distracted.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“But it’s the truth.” He was silent. She continued, “Look, I get it. You don’t have much experience driving in the rain. You wanted to switch to wets, I heard the radio. You tried your best during the race.”

He fiddled nervously with his hair like a child being scolded, not even able to meet her eyes.

“I’m not upset that you crashed. Five other drivers crashed too. What I am pissed about is the media shitstorm that you’ve created. First that stunt last night, then crashing this morning? And I know you were distracted then, because you weren’t talking at all on the radio and then I saw you staring at YN before your last lap. What is going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” She was right. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He paused, stretching and scratching the back of his neck. He had always tried to keep his personal and professional lives separate, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that he couldn’t do that for much longer.

“I… things are just… weird with me and YN lately.”

“I can tell.”

He gathered his courage before his confession. “I think I’m in love with her.”

His manager sighed. “I figured.”

She sat, a more sympathetic expression crossing her face. She explained, “Look, we all love YN. She’s always been there for you. I’m not trying to tell you what you need to do in your personal life, you’re an adult. But I think you know what needs to be done.”

He did know. But he was so scared. So terrified of the unknown future now. He couldn’t even speak it.

His manager continued, “Well, after today, it’ll be hard to salvage the Redbull contract. But we have interest from other teams, too. Alpine, mostly. You still have a shot at a seat for next year. We can do this.”

She reached over to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. He smiled and nodded, knowing there was much work ahead to be done.

And that work had truly kept him busy in the following days, though not too busy to reach out to you. He just couldn’t do it. He knew if he gave himself anything he’d fall too far in. You consumed his every waking thought—but he couldn’t bring himself to respond to your messages.

Instead, he spent his late, sleepless nights online, reading what everyone was saying about him. A horrible decision, in retrospect.

The commentators had thrown him under the bus, calling him underdeveloped and inexperienced. Hundreds of people calling him “crashpinto” and saying he didn’t deserve his seat. To them, maybe lighthearted, but to him, it meant everything he had ever worked for becoming a mockery on Twitter.

When you called, he picked up on instinct. You never called out of the blue unless it was bad.

But you had just wanted to hear his voice.

Fuck.

He couldn’t do this. He knew he couldn’t do this. His manager had told him. The entire internet was telling him. But he agreed to see you that weekend anyway.

At least, that was the plan. But Saturday came and went and no word from him, no knock on your door, no answered text. Even a call went straight to voicemail—he had declined it.

All week, you had been looking forward to seeing him. You were wearing that dress you’d always fantasized about, the one that was his favorite color, the only one you felt truly beautiful in.

You had gotten dolled up for dinner. You wanted to finally tell him how you felt.

And he stood you up.

You cried yourself to sleep that night. How could you not? Franco was sending you mixed signals and you couldn’t do it anymore.

But when you woke up, it was worse.

A million notifications. At least, that's how it felt. Disoriented, you opened your phone to a video from last night; Franco, walking around Madrid, with an actress. He had stood you up for someone else.

And not just any someone. You had heard of this Argentine actress. She was…controversial. Older. Beautiful.

And Franco had spent the night with her. At least, from the video and comments, that’s what you would assume. They were seen outside his apartment. He was reportedly very…talkative with her. Touchy.

You wanted to puke. The comments didn’t make it any better.

FRANCO BABY GET AWAY FROM HER

How could he do that to YN?

I know he and YN weren’t official but if a man danced with me in the rain one week and was caught with the most problematic actress of Argentina the next, I’d commit an act of violence.

He is so fucking stupid, does he really think this is gonna help his PR after Brazil?

OMG they are so cute! They could be Argentina’s power couple <3

The last comment made you cringe. The replies to it were not kind.

You read through far too many comments before checking your texts. No message from Franco, of course. But from someone else: his mother.

Call me when you can xx

You took a moment to compose yourself. Taking a deep breath, you dialed her number.

Her voice on the other line was comforting.

“YN, dear, how are you?”

“Hi,” you said, “I’m… I’m okay.” You lied, and she knew it.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I’m not really okay. Franco has been acting…odd lately.”

“I know. That’s what I called to ask about. I’m sure you’ve seen the video?”

You swallowed hard, as if you could force the pain down to your stomach and ignore it. “I have.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I haven’t heard from him for weeks, since Singapore. I thought I raised him better than this. The press is saying he was covering his face in the video because he didn’t want us, his own family, to know.”

“Seriously?” you questioned, aghast. But your shock was also at the implication of the statement—us, his own family. Even his mother considered you part of the family. But you were invisible to him, it seems.

“Yes!” She responded. “And for good reason. I’ve never seen his father so angry. He’s throwing away his whole career for some… woman. He’s distracted.”

That word: distracted. It felt more powerful now than ever before.

“I mean, he hasn’t seemed like himself lately. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“I don’t either. I actually wanted to ask you to check in on him. He isn’t answering anyone, but I just need someone to talk some sense into him. Just go over to his apartment. If I was there, I’d be on his doorstep with a wooden spoon.”

You could hear the frustration and restraint in her voice. The visual of Franco’s mom on his doorstep with a spoon ready to discipline him was almost comical, if not given the context.

“I’ll try. But if he’s not listening to his own mother, I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”

“Well, if you at least try, that’s enough.” She sighed. “YN, I’m so worried for him.”

“So am I.”

The line grew quiet. You could tell his mother had more to ask, but was restraining herself. You were grateful; you didn’t have the energy to tell the insane back and forth you’d undergone with him in the past few days. You were exhausted.

So you bid each other goodbye and you readied yourself to go to Franco’s apartment and confront him. This couldn’t go on forever.

You were surprised that he ever even answered the door. You knocked tentatively at first.

“Franco, it’s YN. Let me in.”

He wordlessly shuffled to the door and opened it, not even stopping to greet you as he went back to his couch to scroll on his phone.

“Hi,” you greeted, awkwardly, as he was clearly uninterested. He just gave you a small nod.

You sat down next to him. You weren’t quite sure what to say. You opened your mouth to begin, but he cut you off.

“If you’re just here to lecture me, don’t.”

“I’m not here to lecture you.” Except, you kinda were. “Franco… everyone’s worried about you. I’m worried, your mom is worried too. She asked me to check in on you.

He placed his phone down and laughed, an exclamation dripping with sarcasm and contempt. “I’m sure she did.”

“Franco—”

“No, she sent you over here to come scold me, didn’t she?”

“No,” you lied. “You’re just not acting like yourself—”

“No, don’t start with that. You’re here to tell me how badly I fucked up, aren’t you? Well you can save it. The entire internet and all my managers and sponsors and everyone else on the planet beat you to it.”

“Franco, will you let me talk?” You asked.

He ignored your question. “I already fucked up my chances at a Redbull seat, so might as well just keep doing it, right? Go big or go home.”

“Don’t you still have a chance with Alpine?” You had heard the rumors. It didn’t matter, though. Franco still had a chance at a seat, yes, but he was no longer the golden boy of F1, the perfect replacement for the driver that always crashed.

“Why does it matter? Redbull or Alpine or… Chinese F4 or whatever the people come up with. It’s over.”

In an ordinary conversation, you would have chuckled. But this was no laughing matter.

“Franco, everyone's rooting for you. We all want you to succeed, and we know you can. I know you can. I believe in you. Why are you doing this?”

He paused. “Doing what?”

You weren’t quite sure how to answer that. Ignoring you? Kissing you? Or spending the night with another woman?

“Doing things that hurt your reputation.”

“What, are you worried about the brand?”

“Yes. I am. And you should be, too.”

“Oh, fuck off. If you were really worried about ‘the brand’ you wouldn’t have been acting like you did in Brazil.”

“What do you mean?” Your voice was full of pain. He’d never used that kind of language or cruel tone with you before.

“Acting like we’re a couple.”

“Franco, you initiated all of that.” The truth cut through both of you, leaving you raw and vulnerable. “And I thought you meant it. Was it all just… a lie?”

It couldn’t be. The dancing was public. But the kiss had to be real. Away from the cameras, the scrutiny, the potential of what could be. Just you and him. Two people who loved in each other—but in what exact way, it was impossible for you to know.

His only response was curt. “Don’t ask me that,” he whispered.

Silence blanketed the room for a moment.

“The actress,” you asked, “Do you love her?” It was a simple question, asked while still ignoring the elephant in the room of what had really happened in Brazil.

“Why do you care?” he asked, his voice dripping with contempt.

You looked at him with bewilderment. “I care because I’m your friend! She has the potential to ruin your reputation, so I mean, it’s kind of different depending on if she’s the love of your life or just a quick fuck.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re so concerned about my love life. I don’t ask about yours.”

You weren’t quite sure where his agitation was coming from, but it shocked you nonetheless. You responded back with your own passive aggression. “That’s because I don’t have one, Franco. I’m too busy flying around the world watching you race to go on dates.” It was true. But you left out the obvious fact that you were in love with him.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“You asked me to be here!” His words cut sharper than a knife. He had practically begged for you to be there.

“Well, if it’s such a bother, then don’t come to the last three races. I need to focus, anyway.”

“It's not a bother. I enjoy being there! Franco, I’m just trying to talk to you, please don’t take out your anger on me.”

“You’re not trying to talk. You’re trying to tell me what to do, just like everyone else does. You all act like I’m a stupid child who can’t make any decisions on my own.”

Your anger grew. “Maybe it’s because you make decisions like this! You have a reputation to uphold and you’re choosing to associate with people like her?”

“You’re just jealous,” he said, with a thick venom in his voice.

Your heart skipped a beat. You pushed your nervousness down and let anger replace it. In an equally snarky tone, you rolled your eyes and replied, “Look, obviously you’re not going to acknowledge whatever happened between us in Brazil. But I am not jealous. I’m your friend and I want to help you. And besides, not every woman wants to fuck you, Franco.”

“Oh, but you do.”

If your heart had skipped a beat before, it had just dropped into your stomach now. Was it that obvious? Before you could even summon any rebuttal, Franco continued, “You know what actually happened in Brazil? You found me out. I stole your little diary when you left it in my driver’s room. And I read every fucking word.”

All the color had drained from your face. Every single word—where you had declared your love for him, and written all your fantasies about ravishing him and him ravishing you. Every fear and frustration and moment of sadness that you had poured into that journal; he had read it.

“What, nothing to say now?” he snapped at you.

He was right; what could you say when your best friend had crossed a line, only to find out that you had crossed the line so much further?

You could feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t have the strength to push them away as you had always done. What was the point, anymore?

Your only response came out like a sad whisper. “Why would you do that?”

But clearly, he felt no sympathy for you. “Why would you do that?” he retorted. “Everyone tells me constantly that you’re a distraction. And they’re right. Because I’m trying to win points and you’re in my driver’s room writing fantasies about us fucking. And then I crash and lose everything and you want to act like you’re so innocent, just wanting to help. Well I know what you really want. And it’s disgusting.”

For a second, you really thought Franco was insane. Somehow, he had managed to manipulate the situation into making this your fault.

But if he had truly read every word, how could he come to the conclusion that all you wanted was his body? How could he not understand how deeply you loved him?

In mere moments, a million ways to convey this went through your head, But it was no use. He was beyond the point of reason. And your friendship was beyond saving.

You had nothing to say, and it felt like if you didn’t get out of there right that second, you’d go insane. “I think I should just go…” you muttered as you turned to grab your things and exit his apartment.

“No, you don’t get to do that! You don’t get to just run away from this.”

Your anger returned at his refusal to let you go. “If you can do whatever you want, then why can’t I?”

This time it was him who was silent.

Just as you were finally about to leave, you heard his voice behind you, “I’ll prove you wrong.”

His four simple words released the flood of your anger. You turned to him. “Prove me wrong? All I’ve tried to do is tell you that you’re wrong, that you still have a chance to save this if you do the right thing. But what if you don’t, Franco? What if you don’t get a seat for next year? You know what will happen? She’ll leave you. And the entire world will forget about you, everyone except for me, because I’ve always been here, even when you were nothing. But this is how you treat me, you’re mean and you lie to me and you betray my trust and you blame everything on me! So don’t come crying to me when everything falls apart.”

And so you left. And that was that.

The next few days went past like a blur.

You could only remember small snippets. A set of emails; your VIP passes had been revoked, your flights and hotel reservations canceled.

A video of him kissing her in a nightclub. A video of her going home with another man. Rumors. Pain.

All of the sudden, you weren’t in his life anymore. But life just…went on.

You knew it would be best to just get off social media for good, now. Try to move on with your life. But you couldn’t help it. You watched the gossip pages, the F1 updates, his own page.

His comments were full of angry people, lambasting the actress or trying to defend you. His managers even had to issue a statement.

In your head you could hear his manager’s voice, scolding him. You knew exactly what she’d say.

And halfway across the world at the Las Vegas Grand Prix, you were right.

The few days in between the video of the actress, his argument with you, and the Grand Prix weekend felt like a century. But he was here, for better or for worse.

Still, the icy glare of his manager cut through him. He’d gotten an earful after the video leaked. The tension still hadn’t settled.

But media day had gone fairly well; little mention of you or the actress. In fact, everything had gone smooth—a little too smooth, going into qualifying.

One last meeting before he’d have to get to the garage. The garage itself had felt oddly…quiet, without you there. Yes, he’d canceled everything in the hot aftermath of your argument.

But he couldn’t ignore your absence, like a hole in his chest.

He went in and out of focus—he was doing that a lot, these days—as the meeting dwindled and staff filtered out of the room one by one, until again it was just Franco and his manager.

She felt the tension in the room, and knew it was a delicate balance. The wrong mention at the wrong time could ruin everything. So she didn’t mention your name, knowing that it could affect his performance.

“Hey, kid,” she teased him, “You’ve got this. You’ve been through a lot—Hell, you’ve put me through a lot, but you’ve still got three more weeks to show the world what you can do. And I believe in you.”

He only gave her a reassuring smile before he went to the garage.

The smile was fake. He knew it. She knew it. Maybe the fans knew it.

You certainly knew it, watching the Sky Sports broadcast from home. It was an odd duality; you couldn’t stop watching, but every time they showed Franco, you felt like you’d been stabbed right in the heart.

And across the world, Franco felt that same pain. His manager hadn’t brought you up, but her words were far too similar to yours. I believe in you.

Of course she did. That was her job. But you? You believed in him when he was fourteen and couldn’t figure out how to wash his clothes alone. You believed in him when he was sick and when he crashed and when he fucked everything up.

Everything you had said just echoed in his mind, over and over, every night. He hadn’t been sleeping well.

But this was his own fault. He had ruined it. He had read the journal. He had revoked your VIP passes.

He had no one to blame but himself. And it was eating him alive.

When he was younger, he fell in love with racing because of the freedom it gave him. When he was in the car, it was just him and the road. No one could touch him—he could drive into oblivion if he wanted to.

But now, even in the former bliss of that sacred space of his F1 car, his shoulders were weighed down by the weight of all he had done.

The quali session was almost over when he crashed.

There were no words anymore. He retired the car and went back to the garage in silence.

At home, you just cried. There was nothing else you could do.

It wasn’t long before Franco heard a familiar knock at his driver’s room door—his manager. He had spoken to the media, answered all the questions perfectly. But he had cost the team more time and money. He had let everyone down.

He opened the door without speaking a word, bracing for his scolding.

But when his manager entered, her expression was not one of anger. “Franco, talk to me. What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. I just lost control of the car and—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He paused, a strange sense of deja vu washing over him. He sat down and brought his head to his hands. The words wouldn’t come out.

“Where is YN?”

“She’s not here.”

His manager’s tone grew angrier. “Yeah, I’m aware. Where is she?”

“At home.”

“Why isn’t she here? What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Franco said, his frustration growing at his manager’s insistence.

“Well, obviously something happened, because she’d have to be dead or in jail to not be attending one of your F1 races.”

He looked up, furrowing his brow. “You told me to do what I have to do. So I did.”

“She didn’t take it well? That's… surprising.”

His anger was now tinged with confusion. “Well, most people don’t take it well when they’re called a distraction.”

“...Franco, did you tell her that?”

“Yes, that’s what you wanted me to do!”

“Oh my—no, God, Franco, that’s not what I meant!”

The driver got up, ready to angrily speak with his hands. His manager didn’t cower one bit. She asked, “Franco, what the hell did you tell her?”

“I told her she was a distraction and that she didn’t need to come to the last races. And I told her that she doesn’t need to scold me because you already do that enough. I did what I had to do, exactly what you told me to do!”

His manager took a deep breath. “When I said that you should do what you had to do, I meant that you needed to sit down and tell her how you feel.”

Oh.

She continued, “Yes, you were distracted because of your feelings for her. But she isn’t a distraction. She’s your friend, right? And you love her. So why would you say that to her?”

He began, “I—I don’t know. I don’t…” He couldn’t even finish his sentence.

“Jesus Christ, Franco. What has gotten into you?”

He couldn’t even speak.

“Is there any chance in hell that this can be smoothed over before the race next week?”

He shook his head. No. Not after he had deliberately stood you up to go out with the actress. Not after he had spent the night with her, imagining your lips on his instead of hers. Not after everything he had said. Not after he’d rescinded his gift he’d worked so hard to give you by univiniting you to all the remaining races.

No, things were definitely not going to be smoothed over anytime soon.

Qatar. Still no word from him.

You’d contemplated reaching out a few times, but every time you’d gather up the courage, you’d remember what he said. There was no point anymore.

He crashed within the first laps of the race. It wasn’t even his fault, but still. The damage was done.

The once promising young driver was now the laughing stock of the internet from all the work he’d made for the Williams’ mechanics. Unfortunately for your mental health, you’d still been keeping up with F1 news.

Your absence hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Has anyone else noticed that since YN hasn’t been at races, Franco hasn’t been performing well?

REPLY: Yeah, he does seem kind of off, even in interviews :(

REPLY: He didn’t do well in Brazil and she was there tho

REPLY: Yeah, but Brazil was a mess, no one except Max did well

REPLY: Call me parasocial but I 100% believe that he confessed his feelings and she didn’t reciprocate them. Why else would he immediately crash twice, hook up with a famous actress, and then YN isn’t at any races?

You laughed from the sheer absurdity of it all. Their assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth.

But time kept passing, like your entire world hadn’t been destroyed.

And again, as Franco traveled across the globe for races, his world was crumbling too.

It was becoming apparent that he wouldn’t get a seat for 2025. His time in F1—at least, for now—was coming to an end. And you were gone.

As he checked into his hotel room in Abu Dhabi, he could feel that familiar weight coming to rest on him. It hadn’t let up through the entire triple header.

And when he was alone in his room, he couldn’t hide from it anymore.

You were just a phone call away. All he had to do was press a button and apologize. You were kind—he’d always loved that about you—you’d forgive him.

Or maybe you wouldn’t. Or maybe you couldn’t.

He couldn’t bear the thought. So he didn’t call. Instead he tried to shake it off and take a shower, washing away the grit and grime of the airport, and the metaphorical dirt that now clung to him, the guilt of all he’d ruined.

But even in the shower, his thoughts wandered to you, back in Brazil. You had held him, and he buried his head in your shoulder, taking in the sweet scent of your perfume and the warmth of your embrace.

His hand trailed from his hair, where he was rinsing out his shampoo, to lower on his body, over his toned stomach and the happy trail that dotted his stomach.

He imagined his hand was yours.

No. This was wrong. But you had done it, hadn’t you?

He finished his shower in record time. Now, sitting on the edge of the bed in just a towel, he remembered that night in Singapore.

Had you thought about him like this? You must have. Yes, he remembered, you wrote about it.

He had kept the journal. It was there, in his backpack, at his feet.

He didn’t even think when he did it, reaching down to grab the small leather bundle of sin, letting his towel fall to the floor and not bothering to pick it up.

Climbing on the bed, he opened the journal again. His hand gripped his aching cock, but God, how he wished it was yours.

He read. I keep imagining that night at the hotel in Singapore, when he came out of the bathroom with just his towel on.

Yes, he remembered. The memory of your closeness made his hard length twitch. His eyes darted further down the page.

So I get on the bed and straddle him, the only thing between us being my skirt, panties, and the thin fabric of the towel. I can feel him, how badly he wants me.

He pumped himself up and down, slowly at first, then harder as your words got filthier. He imagined the scene; you on top of him, his hand being yours. God, how badly he wanted you, no, needed you right now.

Then I’m in control, kissing his neck, leaving love bites up and down so that everyone knows he’s mine.

Yes, he was yours. His body was yours. His mind was yours. Everything that he was, was yours. How badly he wished he could tell you that. But all he could do now was keep himself on the edge, denying himself the sweet release as you’d imagined.

He moans softly into my ear, bucking up his hips into me for just a bit of friction. “No,” I tell him, “I didn’t give you permission for that.” He whines in protest, but I just smile at his frustration. “My sweet boy…”

He mimicked the scene when his hips jerked involuntarily, eliciting a low groan from his throat as he released all the pent up anger and frustration. He hadn’t meant to finish this early, but your words and the memory of your lips on his had an effect on him that he couldn’t control.

But even as his breathing slowed and he moved to clean up the evidence of his debauchery, he couldn’t help but wonder how you’d punish him for disobeying your commands.

God, he fucking missed you.

Even with the clarity of his release, he didn’t seem to be thinking clearly. His phone still lay open, the screen on your contact.

One phone call. That’s all it would take. One phone call and you could be there at the end of it all, just as you’d always been there at the start.

But he still couldn't do it.

He tapped the settings icon and hit “block caller.”

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queer-ragnelle · 2 days ago

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hi I was wondering what your opinion is on how to deal with anachronisms in arthurian legend. so many stories include jousting—which didn't exist in early medieval wales. which historic kingdoms do you chose to include, and from which period, and what if two kingdoms sound really cool and you really want to mention them both but one existed in england circa 500ad and one existed around the norman conquest? thank you!

Hey!

I could've sworn I answered this before but I must've been thinking of a conversation in my writing group. Anyway the short answer is:

Do whatever you want! Anachronism is a feature not a bug! Harness it!

The fact is, all of Arthurian Legend is anachronistic and it's great. We don't even have concrete proof that Arthur, as we understand him, existed. We don't have written sources from the era Arthur supposedly lived in, only artifacts. There are some sporadic texts throughout the early Medieval period which mention Arthur, then the majority of what we understand as part of the Legend began with the work of 12th century authors. When Chrétien de Troyes was writing his stories, he depicted the world he lived in. The same goes for Marie of France and Wirnt von Grafenburg and Sir Thomas Malory and of course the many many Anonymous authors throughout the entire Middle Ages. They wrote about knights as they, personally, perceived them, as if the Saxon conflict took place in the 12th, 13th, 14th, 15th, etc centuries. After that, modern authors did similarly, while keeping the setting Medieval.

I have found that reading the forewords, author's notes, and letters of modern writers tackling this same dilemma has helped me tremendously. I have a deep respect and admiration for John Steinbeck, both his The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights and his other novels captivated me, so I cherish his philosophy regarding the creative process. In letter to his editor, he wrote:

He gets it!! Everyone is writing for their audience. Themselves, too, but with special attention to the current era and what that looks like.

When it comes to the nitty gritty stuff, you'll drive yourself crazy if you focus too much on what's "possible." Now Persia Woolley and I have our creative differences, but in her author's note at the start of book 1, Child of the Northern Spring, she wrote:

This makes a lot of sense to me. She has adopted a similar method as J. R. R. Tolkien did regarding the stories "coming out of Middle Earth." No, a Hobbit may not have called the circular green thing covering the entrance/exit to his home "a door," but that is the name of the object as the reader understands it, so that is what the author or "translator" has decided to call it.

In the end, you'll just have to sit down and make decisions. If you intend to use the names as they were in the era Arthur lived, it'll be more historically accurate, but unless you also provide a map and name key as Edward Frankland did in Arthur The Bear of Britain, you risk confusing your readers who only comprehend these locations in their Modern form. On the other hand, if you use exclusively Modern names, there's a chance it could break the immersion of your readers who perceive the story as Medieval.

I personally like to have of Medieval and Modern terms as well as technologies and cultural aspects. The fact is that we simply don't know enough about history to ever be 100% accurate about anything, so breath easier and offer yourself some allowances. I haven't scanned this book yet, but in the author's note of Phyllis Ann Karr's The Follies of Sir Harald, she wrote:

This is especially funny considering I don't recall any mention of a specific year to which the "historical accuracies" could be compared, but I assume she means the 12th century, when Chrétien de Troyes lived.

It comes down to what sort of story you want to write. Is it going to be Historical Fiction as Edward Frankland, Persia Woolley, and Bernard Cornwell wrote? Or will it be more loosely "Medieval" such as Cherith Baldry, John Steinbeck, and Phyllis Ann Karr wrote?

It really comes down to your own point of interest which kingdoms you include. I generally tried to stay accurate to the 4th-6th century, a huge 2 century window, which gave me enough wiggle room to pick and choose some names that made clear what I was talking about. Most if not all ports and islands retained modern names for ease of comprehension: Beirut, Isle of Wight, Mainland Orkney, and even Drake's Island, which is named for Sir Francis Drake, who wasn't born until the 16th Century, simply because its older name, St. Michael from the 12th Century, was not only too recent to be "accurate" anyway, but may have caused confusion with the giant of Mont St. Michael, which was of more importance to me than the impossible accuracy of landmasses in the Plymouth Sound. I did away with wooden longhouses in favor of stone castles; some I "built" on top of abandoned Roman forts that can still be visited today, others I invented completely from scratch, each brick and syllable original to my work. Many aspects called for improvision, so I did the best I could to make it all appear cohesive, even if historically those names or practices or fashions or whatever weren't actually as synchronized as my writing would have you believe.

This applies to characters too.

I refer to the main character as Gawain, although he claims it derives from the older name Gwalchmai. Other Mabinogion characters retain their Welsh names, such as Owain, Morfydd, and Bedwyr. Yet others take after their French names, such as Kay, Perceval, and Mordred. I even sometimes use both names, such as with Welsh Cynon/French Calogrenant, who was named the former at birth and referred to as such by Morfydd, but then Christened as the latter, which is what the majority of the cast call him. The Vulgate gives Yvain, son of Urien and Morgan le Fay, a bastard half brother called Yvain the Bastard. Because I had already changed the first character's name to Owain, so too has his brother's name been changed to Owain, as well as introducing a moniker of his own to more clearly identify him as a separate character without constantly referring to him as a bastard. They are from Rheged, but Owain the Bastard is known as FitzEden, as he was born in his mother's house near the Eden River. If you look it up, Rheged/Cumbria are the same general area, so I've linked the character to it through a name I made up for him. Owain FitzEden he now is. Did people use the term "Fitz" in the 5th century? No, they didn't have surnames. Was the river called Eden at the time? Probably not. But I did it anyway because I'm not writing in the 5th century, I'm writing now, for you, for me! And because I like the character enough to "bend the rules." It's not like historical Owain mab Urien had a pet lion, anyway!

It doesn't matter if these characters have "era appropriate" names or come from locations which didn't exist until recently. Say Lancelot is from Brittany or Less Britain or Gaul or France or Benwick or the Lake Kingdom, who cares! I've seen them all in one book or movie or another and they all register the same to me: Across the channel. Foreign. A new guy.

I had to do all of this twice, once for Medieval Britain and again for Medieval Persia. So trust me when I say it's time consuming. You're going to take a lot of notes for your own reference that your readers will never see but will help you keep an internal consistency once you decide what kingdoms and names to keep and what to avoid. The key is to stay accurate within your own world. Even if two kingdoms didn't exist at the same time, if you want to include them, do so, but then you have to follow through with that. Your readers will figure it out so long as you avoid giving the same area too many different names or accidentally changing a location's name between scenes. Locals may call their village something the outsiders don't, that's cool for worldbuilding, but every time you do it, you're making a bid on your reader's ability to hold all that information. So do so sparingly and with good reason.

Reading helps a lot. All the books I've mentioned do a good job of this and would be useful tools for understanding what your preferences are and what the vibe of your story will be. I hope that answers your question and gives you a bunch to think about! Take care. :^)

#arthuriana #arthurian legend #arthurian mythology #arthurian literature #elegy of an empire #writing #ask #mordred-galahad

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hisfavegirl · 3 days ago

Text

Beneath the Veil of Sin.

Pairing : Modern!Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Summary : This is a story of a love too powerful to ignore, yet too dangerous to embrace, where desire thrives in the dark, and the cost of passion may be more than either of them can bear.

The city lights were a blur as the car hummed steadily down the highway, the night air cool as it filtered through the slightly cracked window. You were on your way back from Daemon’s office party, a glamorous affair filled with work colleagues and polite conversation. You had always found such events to be a mix of excitement and discomfort, but with Daemon by your side, it had been far easier to navigate the endless smiles and small talk.

Daemon was different tonight, though. Even more handsome than usual, dressed in his perfectly tailored suit, his silver hair slightly tousled from the day’s events. He always had this air of confidence about him, but tonight, there was something more—a kind of quiet grace that made your heart beat just a little faster. The way his jawline was sharp, the way his eyes always seemed to hold a certain depth, even in the dim glow of the car’s interior—it was hard not to look at him.

As you stole another glance, you caught Daemon’s eyes flickering to you in the rearview mirror. There was a brief pause before a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he chuckled softly.

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement, but the kind of softness that made it clear he knew exactly why you was looking at him.

You blushed, a little caught off guard, but managed to stutter out, “No, it’s just… you look really good tonight.”

Daemon’s smile widened, but his gaze quickly returned to the road. “Always the charmer,” he teased lightly, his voice rich with affection.

The hum of the engine and the soft rush of wind through the window filled the quiet moments that followed. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was a kind of quiet that you had come to appreciate—a silence shared between two people who didn’t need words to understand each other.

You watched as his hand rested casually on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping lightly in time with the beat of the music playing softly from the car speakers. The steady rhythm made everything feel calm, grounding me in this moment with him. The road stretched out ahead of us, endless and wide, but in the moment, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

After a few moments, Daemon let out a soft laugh again, almost to himself, before speaking up. “You know, you make me nervous when you look at me like that.”

You frowned slightly. “Why?”

He glanced at you again, his eyes warm. “Because I know you see right through me. And sometimes, that’s a little… too much.”

you tilted your head, trying to read his expression. “I don’t see anything I don’t like,” you said, your voice sincere.

Daemon’s eyes softened, and he gave a quiet chuckle, the sound almost like a secret. “You’re something else, aren’t you?” he mused, a hint of admiration in his voice.

You leaned back against the seat, the warmth of his words settling comfortably in the space between us. You didn’t need anything more, not right now. Just this—being here with him, sharing the quiet of the drive, was enough.

The road ahead seemed to stretch forever, but for once, You wasn’t thinking about where we were going. you was thinking about right now.

The car rolled steadily down the highway, the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic sound of the tires against the road were the only things breaking the silence. Daemon had his hand on the wheel, his fingers lightly tapping to the beat of the song playing softly in the background. The quiet comfort of the ride should have been enough, but there was a subtle shift in the air-an unspoken tension that had started to grow between us.

You didn't expect it. One moment, everything was calm, and the next, his hand—warm and firm-was gently brushing against your thigh. You froze for a moment, your breath catching in my throat.

His touch was so casual, so light, yet it sent a ripple of heat straight through you. You could feel the weight of his hand resting there, his fingers barely grazing the skin of your inner thigh.

You looked over him, catching his gaze for just a brief second, and he seemed completely at ease, his expression not betraying any hint of the small, quiet power that his touch had over you. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath, and finally managed to say, your voice barely more than a whisper, "Daemon... you should focus on the road."

He glanced at you, his lips curling into a small, playful smile, his eyes flickering with amusement. "I am focusing," he teased, his voice low and smooth, like a whisper just for you. But his hand didn't move. Instead, it lingered, his fingers slowly making small, deliberate circles against your thigh.

You couldn't help but glance down, feeling the heat of his touch spreading through your body, making everything else seem distant and irrelevant. The weight of the moment was heavy-too heavy. You should have told him to stop, You should have pulled away, but something inside you stayed still, rooted in place by the connection between two of you.

Daemon's gaze flickered back to the road, but there was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and the smile tugging at his lips only deepened. "You're not making this easy, you know," he said, his voice teasing but layered with something darker, something you couldn't quite put your finger on.

You shifted in your seat, your body betraying you as you tried to pull away, but his hand didn't budge. It stayed there, light but persistent, a quiet reminder of how much of a hold he had on you.

"You should really pay attention," You muttered, your voice almost breathless now, your heart hammering in your chest.

Daemon chuckled softly, a sound that made the air between you crackle with something that felt dangerously close to something more. "I'm paying attention to you, princess," he said, his fingers tightening ever so slightly, as if to make sure you felt the weight of his touch.

The warmth from his hand, the subtle pressure, made your pulse race even faster. You felt trapped between wanting to pull away and wanting to stay exactly where you were. The air in the car felt thick, heavy with the unspoken, and you realized that this-this moment, with Daemon's touch lingering so close-was pushing you into dangerous territory.

"Daemon..." you whispered, your voice shaking, but before you could say anything more, his thumb brushed a little too close to where you could feel the fire building inside of you.

He didn't say anything more. His gaze was locked on the road, but you could feel the shift in him, the same tension that you felt in the pit of my stomach. For a moment, the world outside the car felt irrelevant. All that mattered was the two of us in this small space, tangled up in something neither of you knew how to untangle.

You bit my lip, your mind racing, and you realized that no matter how hard you tried to fight it, Daemon was never going to let you forget just how much control he had over you.

His hand, still resting on your thigh, seemed to burn through the fabric of your dress, and your breath caught in your throat. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, a touch so light yet so possessive that it left me both frozen and restless, trapped in the tension he had created.

Finally, his voice broke through the quiet, low and full of something dark and simmering. "I've been holding back since the party," he murmured, his voice rough as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. "Seeing you in that dress, the way everyone looked at you... it's been driving me crazy."

You couldn't breathe. The weight of his words settled into the pit of your stomach, making everything inside you stir with a dangerous desire you hadn't expected. His hand remained steady on your thigh, each stroke sending jolts of heat through your body.

The thought of everyone at the party-his colleagues, the way they looked at you, the way they wanted you— made you feel both exposed and wanted in a way that was completely intoxicating. But it was Daemon's reaction, the way his jealousy flickered beneath th urface, that made you pulse race even faster.

Daemon's grip tightened ever so slightly, his thumb brushing a little higher on your inner thigh, and you shivered. "Seeing their eyes on you," he continued, his voice darker now, "like they couldn't wait to get their hands on you. It made me see red."

You bit my lip, trying to ignore the overwhelming sensation of his touch, but your body betrayed you, leaning ever so slightly into his warmth. You knew he was still looking at you, his gaze intense, but your own eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, unwilling to meet his. The emotions swirling between you-desire, possessiveness, and something much deeper-felt too much to handle.

"Daemon," You whispered, your voice barely audible, torn between wanting to pull away and the undeniable pull toward him. "You shouldn't be doing this."

He chuckled, low and deep, his fingers curling against my skin. "But I want to," he said, his voice thick with desire. "And I think you do, too."

You wanted to protest. You should have protested. But in the face of his touch, of the heat radiating from him, You found your words stuck in your throat. The world outside the car seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you, caught in this dangerous, forbidden moment. The tension was suffocating, and yet, You couldn't bring yourself to pull away.

Daemon's gaze never left you, his smoldering eyes flickering with something dark and intense. "You don't know how hard it's been to control myself," he murmured, his voice low, almost like a growl. "I've wanted to kiss you all night. I've wanted to take you and show you how much I need you."

The raw honesty in his words was enough to make your breath hitch, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. He was dangerous, his words and touch dangerous, but there was something thrilling in that danger, something you couldn't ignore.

His hand moved again, this time higher, pressing against your heated core. "And seeing the way they looked at you," he added, his tone harsh now, "it made me want to claim you in front of everyone."

You moaned as you felt his hand start to stroke your core, his movements slow and sure. making small circles, which sent heat throughout your body. you leaned back in the car seat and spread your legs, the daemon who saw it just laughed softly. "look, my beautiful girlfriend turned into a whore because of my touch?"

Then you could feel him remove the g string you were wearing and insert two fingers, you arched your body because of it. his thumbs started to stroke your clit sending shivers through your body "Daemon.."

Daemon glanced at you before he finally moved his two fingers, curling them to touch your spot. He could feel your walls squeezing his fingers, and made him imagine how your walls would wrap around his hardening cock. He growled at the thought. "fuck, you look so hot you know that?"

His fingers continued to curl in and out of you, making the knot in your stomach tighten. You tried to hold back your moans, but to no avail. He added another finger and his thumb continued to stroke your clit as it began to swell. you opened your eyes, looking at him with a lustful gaze. your body arched again when his finger touched your spot, daemon just chuckled darkly he knew the power he held over you.

Your body begins to tremble as waves of pleasure wash over you. Slowly he pulled his finger that was wet with your fluids, then he sucked his finger. Feeling you on his tongue, he let out a hum of approval. "You taste so sweet my love" Your breath quickens, you lean back weakly, gathering your strength after the pleasure that he gave you.

Your eyes darted toward him, catching the way his jaw tightened, the way his grip on the steering wheel grew firmer. He looked calm on the surface, but you knew better. The restraint was costing him, and something about that knowledge sent a thrill through you.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you lifted your hand and placed it on his thigh.

His reaction was instant. You felt his muscles tense beneath your palm, the warmth of his body radiating through the fabric of his suit pants. He inhaled sharply, his grip on the wheel tightening as his knuckles whitened. His gaze didn't leave the road, but the change in his demeanor was unmistakable.

"Careful," he said, his voice low and strained. It was a warning, but there was no real threat in it —only a challenge, one that made your pulse quicken.

You let your hand rest there for a moment, testing the waters. His thigh was firm under your touch, and the heat of his body seemed to seep into your skin. You shifted your fingers slightly, just enough to remind him of your presence, and his reaction didn't disappoint.

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and you swore you heard him curse under his breath.

"Is something wrong?" you asked, your voice innocent but laced with a hint of mischief.

His laugh was low and humorless, tinged with disbelief. "You know exactly what you're doing."

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Do !?"

The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were fighting a smirk. He glanced at you briefly, his eyes dark and full of something dangerous. "If you're trying to test my patience, love, you're doing a damn good job."

You smiled, letting your fingers move ever so slightly, tracing a small, teasing pattern on his thigh. "You seemed tense," you said softly, your tone laced with mock concern. "I thought I'd help."

His laugh this time was low and guttural, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "You're playing with fire."

"Maybe," you said, your voice steady despite the way your heart raced. "But I don't think you'll stop me."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension between you crackled like a live wire, and you could feel the weight of his desire pressing down on you, almost suffocating in its intensity.

Finally, Daemon exhaled sharply, a sound that was part frustration, part surrender. "You're going to drive me mad," he muttered, his voice rough and unsteady.

"Maybe," you repeated, a small smile playing on your lips.

Your hand rested lightly on his thigh, the heat of his body radiating through the fabric of his suit. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

Daemon's gaze remained fixed on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white against the dark leather.

You let your fingers move slowly, tracing light, teasing circles on his thigh. His reaction was immediate-a sharp intake of breath, his jaw clenching as if he were trying to maintain control.

"Careful," he warned, his voice low and strained, but the edge in his tone only encouraged you.

Feigning innocence, you tilted your head and let your fingers trail a little higher. "What is it?" you asked softly, your voice laced with a playful curiosity.

His grip on the wheel tightened further, and his gaze flicked toward you for the briefest of moments, dark and smoldering. "Don't push me," he said, his voice a warning, though it lacked conviction.

You smiled, emboldened by the way his body betrayed him, the way his breathing had grown heavier. Your fingers continued their slow ascent, the teasing touch deliberate, testing.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stop?" you asked, your voice soft but teasing.

Daemon let out a low, guttural laugh, his head shaking slightly. "You're playing a dangerous game," he said, his voice rough.

"Am I?" you countered, your hand moving higher still, brushing against the fabric of his suit in a way that made him shift in his seat.

His reaction sent a thrill through you. His breathing was heavier now, his composure slipping, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. But just as your hand ventured too far, his own hand shot down, gripping your wrist firmly, stopping you in your tracks.

"Enough," he said, his voice sharp, commanding. His eyes darted to you, dark and filled with warning. "Don't push me unless you're ready to handle what comes next."

You leaned your body closer to him, your lips very close to his ear "maybe I can handle what will happen after this" then you bit the tip of his ear which made him moan softly.

Your hands began to unbuckle his belt, his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Your hands then stroked his hardened cock, and you pulled it out of his pants. seeing his erect and red cock made your mouth water. Without thinking you brought your mouth to suck on the tip causing Daemon to moan.

"fuck love, you are something else" he growled as he pushed your head down, forcing you to take his cock into your mouth. The tip of his cock touched the tip of your throat causing you to gag. You start sucking his cock, you bop your head in a slow and steady rhythm. His hands don't stay still he helps you by guide your head.

"fuck, your mouth fits so perfectly on my cock" he growled as he pushed your head to force his cock all the way down your throat. tears were already gathering in your eyes, due to choking on his cock.

His gaze remained on the road, but every now and then he glanced at you. His beautiful girlfriend was sucking his cock in the car. You could feel his cock starting to twitch in your mouth, he growled softly before finally cumming in your mouth. you suck his cock one last time before lifting your head and swallowing all of his cum. He laughed softly and shook his head, you sat back in your chair and smiled at him. "you really are something else my love"

The car slowed to a stop, the tires humming gently as Daemon pulled into a quiet, deserted area. The streetlights were few and far between, casting long shadows over the road. The silence in the car felt suffocating now, even more so than before.

Your heart raced as Daemon put the car in park. His hand remained on the wheel for a moment longer, his fingers curled tightly around it. You could feel the intensity building between you, an electric charge in the air that made it hard to breathe.

He turned to you then, his gaze dark and unyielding, like a storm waiting to break. There was no trace of the calm, collected Daemon you knew—his eyes were filled with something raw, something dangerous. The tension between you thickened, and you felt an unfamiliar pull, a magnetic force drawing you closer to him despite your mind screaming at you to stop.

Daemon didn’t speak at first. He just watched you, his stare heavy and possessive. The way he looked at you, as though he were seeing right through you, made your pulse race even faster.

“You’ve been testing me all night,” he said, his voice low and filled with a hunger you couldn’t ignore. The words were barely a whisper, but they felt like a command. “And now I think it’s time for you to learn what happens when you do.”

His voice, thick with desire, sent a shiver down your spine. The air around you seemed to get thicker, charged with the unspoken need between you. Daemon’s eyes never left yours, dark and intense, as though he was trying to read every thought in your mind.

You wanted to speak, to protest, but no words came. The weight of his gaze made your chest tighten, and before you could stop yourself, your breath hitched. You were no longer sure whether you wanted to stop or if you were ready to give in.

Daemon leaned in, closing the distance between you, his face just inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin, his lips barely brushing your ear as he whispered, “Don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

Every muscle in your body tensed, but you couldn’t pull away. His words, that commanding, dark tone, ignited something deep inside you, something you’d tried so hard to push down.

Daemon’s fingers brushed your chin, lifting your face so that your eyes met his once more. “You’ve had your fun,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, “but now it’s my turn.”

The moment his lips brushed yours, everything else ceased to exist. Time slowed, the world outside the car fading into nothing as Daemon's kiss deepened, slow but firm, as if he were claiming you, marking you in ways words couldn't capture. His lips were warm, commanding, and unmistakably sure, and the way he kissed you made your heart race with a mixture of anticipation and something far more dangerous.

At first, the kiss was gentle, a teasing exploration, as if he was testing your reaction.

But as his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, the kiss turned more urgent, more possessive. He wasn't asking for permission anymore. He was taking, and you found yourself unable to pull away.

Your breath hitched as his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you into his chest. The heat between you was consuming, and you felt a wave of desire surge through you, igniting every nerve in your body. His lips moved with a rhythm that felt as if he had been waiting for this moment, and you couldn't help but respond in kind, lips parting slightly as a soft, breathless sound escaped you.

Daemon's mouth was insistent, demanding, and each press of his lips sent a shockwave of heat flooding through you. His kiss wasn't just about passion-it was about claiming you, taking ownership of the space between you, and you could feel it, deep in your bones.

You could feel the tension in his body, his restraint slipping as his hand slid lower, fingertips grazing your side. He made no attempt to pull back, and neither did you. Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his suit, pulling him closer, as if you couldn't get enough of him.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. You both just breathed in unison, hearts racing, the air between you thick with unspoken words. Daemon's eyes were dark, his pupils dilated, and the look in them was more than a promise-it was a claim.

Before you could fully process what was happening, you found yourself straddling his lap, Daemon's hands guiding you there with a possessiveness that made your heart race. His lips were on yours again, this time with a hunger that matched the intensity in your veins. Every kiss was a mixture of passion and control, his mouth pressing against yours with a force that was almost overwhelming, but you didn't want him to stop.

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. His breath was ragged against your lips, his chest rising and falling beneath you, and you felt the steady, insistent pulse of desire in every movement.

Daemon's hands slid to your back, pulling you even closer, his body hard and unyielding against yours. The feeling of him-so close, so present-was intoxicating, and for a moment, all your thoughts and doubts vanished. There was only him. Only this moment. Only the way his lips moved against yours with a rhythm you instinctively followed.

His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. The sensation of his mouth, claiming, taking, was enough to make your heart pound louder, the world around you growing smaller with every touch, every caress.

You moaned softly, and the sound seemed to fuel him. His hands slid down your body, tracing the curves of your waist before they settled on your hips, urging you closer to him. Every touch sent shivers through you, your senses completely consumed by him.

As your hands worked through his hair, tugging him closer, Daemon growled softly in approval, his lips trailing down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You shuddered at the sensation, your body reacting to every movement of his with a desperate need.

In that moment, everything felt heightened-the way his body felt beneath you, the heat between you both, the unspoken promises in every kiss. Your hands roamed over him, feeling the firm muscle of his chest and shoulders, as if trying to memorize the feel of him.

His fingers brushed against your side, sending a wave of heat through you, and you couldn't help but arch into his touch, the desire surging through you with every second.

His hands moved with purpose, steady and sure, as he adjusted the seat. The sound of the seat reclining echoed in the car, and before you could fully comprehend it, you found yourself leaning back into the now-angled seat, His body moving with you, keeping you close.

His lips didn't leave yours, deepening the kiss, and his hands roamed with greater urgency, his touch both gentle and commanding as he traced the curve of your body. The world outside was a distant memory, the night air and the dark road no longer mattering. It was just the two of you now, caught in an overwhelming tide of desire and tension.

With a swift motion, his hand slid up to your neck, his fingers gently gripping it, not in a way that hurt, but in a way that made you feel tethered to him. He controlled the rhythm, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the solidness of him beneath you, the way he held you as if you were the only thing that mattered. Your hands continued their exploration of his chest, pulling at his jacket, desperate to feel more of him, to pull him closer, closer, until there was no space between you at all.

His breath was ragged against your lips, and as his hand moved to your side, you gasped, feeling his touch trail up the edge of your ribcage. He was so close, so in tune with every shift of your body, that you felt as if you were slowly losing yourself in him, consumed by the weight of his attention.

Without breaking the kiss, he moved one of his legs, shifting you even closer, your body now pressed fully against his as the seat allowed for a deeper connection. His hands moved lower, his grip tightening as his fingertips brushed the edge of your clothing, and your heart raced as you knew there was no turning back.

He then lifts you up slightly, guide his already hard cock towards your already dripping core. As he pushed his cock in, the warmth of your walls wrapped around him and the way he stretched you so deliciously made you both moan together.

"fuck, i love it when you squeeze me like this" his hands found your waist and guided you to move your hips, you moaned feeling him fill you from this position. You could feel him all over, his veins rubbing against your walls making you go crazy. you tug his hair as he too started to slam his cock into you, chasing his own pleasure. you feel his warm breath on your neck, kissing you and moaning your name.

He keeps slamming his cock into you, and you move your hips against him to chase your pleasure. You could feel his cock starting to twitch inside you, he growled before slamming his cock roughly into you, making you moan his name.

The you feel the knot in your stomach tightening. indicating that you are about to come, he realizes it because your walls are squeezing him tightly. "come undon for me love" with his command, you let out your release. wetting his cock. then you also felt him cum inside you.

As his lips brushed against yours once more, the kiss was soft, almost tender compared to the intensity of moments before. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the moment, feeling his warmth envelop you. The taste of him lingered on your lips, and the world outside seemed to disappear as the sensation of his touch consumed your every thought.

Daemon’s hands were gentle as he helped you sit back upright, guiding you carefully into the passenger seat. His fingers brushed your skin, lingering just long enough to remind you of his presence, yet not forcing you back into the whirlwind of emotions that had just passed.

"That's enough for tonight, you should rest" His hand reached out slowly, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a tenderness that seemed to contradict the intensity of what had just happened. The touch was gentle, soothing, as if he were trying to reassure both of you in the midst of the silence that hung between you.

As the car rolled up the driveway, the familiar sight of your home came into view. The soft glow of the lights from the front porch illuminated the pathway, and you could make out the figure of your father standing near the entrance, waiting for your arrival. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in the way he stood that made you feel the weight of his gaze.

Daemon slowed the car, eventually coming to a stop in front of your house. The sound of the engine dying down was replaced by the silence of the evening, the only movement being the gentle swaying of the trees in the wind.

Your heart raced slightly as the car came to a halt. You hadn’t fully processed everything that had happened, and now you were faced with the reality of stepping back into the world you left behind for a moment. Your father’s presence, so steady and commanding, was a stark contrast to the whirlwind that had just passed between you and Daemon.

Daemon turned to you, his eyes dark and unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—perhaps a question, a thought unspoken—before he opened the door and stepped out of the car. You followed suit, your heart pounding in your chest, though you couldn’t quite place why.

As Daemon walked around the car, you noticed your father had already taken a step forward, his expression softening slightly as he saw you. His usual composure was still in place, but there was an edge of concern in his eyes, though it wasn’t directed at you. He was waiting, his gaze shifting between you and Daemon as Daemon approached.

Without a word, Daemon opened the car door for you, his hand offering silent support as you stepped out of the vehicle. His touch lingered on your arm for a moment longer than necessary, and you met his gaze briefly, the unspoken tension between you hanging in the air.

Daemon then straightened, turning to face your father. A small, polite smile curved on Daemon’s lips, and without missing a beat, he greeted your father with a casual, but respectful tone, as if everything between them was normal.

“Harwin,” Daemon said, his voice smooth, but there was an underlying layer of something—something heavier between them that neither of them acknowledged directly.

Your father, in return, gave a small nod, though his eyes briefly flicked to you, a question hidden behind his composed exterior. “Daemon,” he replied, his tone equally neutral, though there was a certain weight to it. “How’s everything?”

Daemon’s response was equally measured, and while they exchanged pleasantries, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the conversation hanging in the air, unspoken and layered. There was so much more beneath the surface, but neither of them said it aloud.

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @callsignwidow

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lightlycareless · 1 day ago

Text

Merry Christmas y'all!! I hope you had a wonderful time with your loved ones ❤️

I didn't get to enjoy this holiday that much because of... women issues. iykyk But still, I got to finish this and play some games so it wasn't all that bad :)

There's another piece that I also intend to upload soon, probably tomorrow lol but the bottom line is we getting two Christmas specials :> which I hope you enjoy!!

warnings: none. fluff. you and naoya are married and naomi already exists, however, it's not entirely centric on them. Mai and Maki's mom is the protagonist here :')

Happy reading!

“If you go through with that change, you’ll be over the budget.”

Junko doesn’t know why she even bothers warning you so when it always ends up the same way: you go over your pre-approved spending limit, the elders question you about it, Naoya covers for it—or more like demands them to back off and pays for the difference.

In fact, he seemed to encourage it too, given how he never reproached you about it and even admired your ill choices—certainly unbefitting of your responsibilities as the future Lady of the House.

More so since there’s a new motivator behind your actions this time around.

“But it’s going to look so pretty, right?”

If she already thought the enthusiasm you had for your first Christmas at the Zen’in estate was too much, preparing everything for your daughter’s first celebration was beyond her expectations.

“It’s Naomi’s first Christmas, surely you must understand why I need to make this extra special for her.”

No. she doesn’t. She didn’t even do it for her own daughters, did you really expect her to suddenly grow empathetic to your cause?

The best thing you could do for everyone was stop, at least then she wouldn’t have to deal with complaints about the bad job she’s supposedly doing by guiding you through your new responsibilities.

But you’d become stubborn, just like your husband, marking this as the newest bane of her existence for all eternity to come.

“Hurry, Naoya! We’re just waiting for you! I already have everything set up so let’s go!” you urged whilst holding Naomi with one arm, pulling Naoya onto the main garden with the other—and he laughs alongside you while doing so, after days of endless teases, how could he not be thrilled by your surprise too?

“Careful, my love. I’m not confident our dumpling enjoys being jolted like that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” You lament, immediately glancing down at your precious baby —just short of a year old— dressed up in a cozy polar bear fleece onesie that made her look even cuter. Alongside her big, round, golden eyes that told you there was nothing to worry about, for she was equally excited to see what you had in store for her. “My adorable princess, are you ready for your first Christmas?”

The baby gurgles, giving the two the most adorable sound capable of curing all ailments in the world, if possible.

“It’s our first Christmas as a family too.” Naoya notes, and your heart flutters at the thought.

“It is.” You respond, looking up to him with pure adoration—unconditional love. As well as partial disbelief, like you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that one of your biggest dreams had come true.

A family.

Composed of a baby girl who couldn’t be any more perfect, a beautiful, sweet little thing that wholly compasses your love for Naoya.

And a husband, loyal, dedicated, protective—who wants nothing but your well-being, and of course, your love. Which he has more than enough to return.

You didn’t care for what Naoya had gotten you this year, not even dared to wonder, because the best gift you could’ve obtained was already in your arms.

“You’re making me cry, Naoya, that’s not fair!” You pout, he chuckles.

“Then don’t, just think about how happy Naomi is going to be when you reveal her surprise.”

Alongside the gathering crowd composed of Mai and Maki, whom you promptly invited the moment this idea crossed your mind, eagerly tugging at their mother’s sleeve as they wished to keep up with you.

“Come on, mom! We’re going to miss it!” Maki insisted. “I want to be there when it happens!”

“You two should be in bed by now!” Junko scolds, gently fighting back against their daughters, but ultimately failing against their unparalleled enthusiasm.

“We’ll go to bed as soon as we see it, we promise!” Mai quickly arranges. “Please, mom? I’ve never seen anything like this before!”

At her unwanted impotency, Junko naturally stretches to find a culprit behind their erratic behavior and make them responsible!

Or more like she wants to directly confront you for being their obvious prime instigator and demand you to stop filling their minds with senseless ideas, less you desired to suffer the consequences!

But of course, it all takes her back to the initial point. There is no use in her frustrations if by the end of the day she’ll just get the same result: you’ll promise to be more careful with your actions, ask the twins to be more obedient towards her… and let your enthusiasm get the best of you once more, completely disregarding the Zen’in’s inner workings.

So instead of wasting her time, she simply makes them promise to go to bed soon after you do whatever it is that you have planned and move on; arriving just a few seconds after you and taking their respective positions, the best seats as you’d put it.

And once ready yourself, you’d look over to your staff, signaling them to begin.

A wide smile on your face as the results of all your careful planning comes to life, bright colored lights decorating the garden, from the flowers to the trees, in all its festive glory—in such hypnotizing manner that those present could only gasp in awe at its beauty.

But if that wasn’t enough, you also made sure to pace everything correctly; a combination of dazzling entertainment that proved to be a complete success given the way your enthralled daughter bubbled whenever her favorite color appeared, or when encouraging her to do so.

“I think our little princess likes it.” Naoya declares, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close.

“I knew she would.” You murmur proudly while resting your head over his shoulder. “And you? Do you like it?”

“I love it, just like everything you do.”

Junko looks away the moment two lean in for a kiss, just in time to avoid any further embarrassments—as if she wasn’t struggling enough with her unruly daughters and your senseless spending.

But even amongst all these inner conflicts, a part of Junko cannot keep her away from looking at your work. The one she previously disregarded as unnecessary, but now, before it’s intricacy… she can’t help but feel calm. Nostalgic even, though this sentiment wasn’t uncommon during these festivities.

Yet, to her it was. Almost intriguing that someone like her, that has never taken interest in commemorating such things in the past, less so after getting married, could feel such a way.

Though one quick glance at her daughters, the beaming, wide-eyed children that were equally enthralled as Naomi in the face of your celebration, would provide the answer. Because just like your child, they too were essentially celebrating their first Christmas together. As a family.

After brief consideration, perhaps finding it unnecessary to cut short this harmless moment, Junko decides to let her guard down and enjoy the rest of the evening. Soon captivated by the following fireworks, courtesy of the nearby village, which she was never aware could be seen from there.

Not that it mattered to ponder about such a possibility now, not when she allowed her mind to diverge instead into a universe where enjoyable moments like these were an everyday norm—and not an example of defiance.

ugh I needed to give them the spotlight :') idk why it just came to me; but omg hahaha I'm sorry if y'all were expecting something a bit lighthearted but I promise the other oneshot I'm working on is 🙈 just needed to get this one out of my system.

Now, without anything else to add, I hope you have happy holidays!! Thank you so much for your support 🥺❤️ really, I could not be here without you guys.

Take care and hope to see you soon!!!

#naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

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alessiathepirate · 2 days ago

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Resident Evil 4: Seperate Ways

THE WITNESS: Albert Wesker x fem!reader

Summary: Ada saw something she shouldn't have seen. And she immediately knew that he didn't deserve her at all.

Note: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistakes I may have made while I wrote this short story.

Oh, and Merry Christmas everyone :)

Warnings: swearing

●●●

Ada was sure she never should've seen it. No one should've.

Yet she did, and she knew she'd have to take it with herself to the grave if she wants to keep her head -- and if she wants her to be healthy and safe.

Albert Wesker wasn't emotional. He was head strong, dedicated and evil, the kind of man who'd sell the world to keep his own power. He had no place in his body for love or hate, yet what Ada saw, was another side of him, a side she never imagined could exist.

He was vulnerable. He had a weak spot, a spot she could use if she would've had the soul to do so.

He had an admiration.

Her.

Ada's partner in this stupid Spanish job she hated so much...

They were in Mendez's home, they were sitting on Mendez's bed as Wesker gave her an injection against the virus she had gotten infected with. Meanwhile Ada was in the window, holding onto the rope for dear life as she almost fell from surprise -- he was so gentle; with her. He was touching her as if she was made from the thinnest glass, as if he didn't want to taint her with the sickness he was carrying.

"Thank you." she said quietly with a small smile.

And Cupid be damned, Ada knew he didn't deserve her.

He didn't deserve the way she was looking at him or speaking to him. He didn't deserve her at all.

"I'm sorry I've caused so much trouble. I didn't mean to be a liability."

Liability. Wesker's favourite word. Everyone around him was one: Luis, Leon -- hell, even Ada herself.

"You've never been a liability." Wesker argued. "Your presence doesn't effect the mission in the wrong way in the slightest." he put the needle away and then gently put his palm on her forehead, to see if she had a fever or not. "However, if you are looking for one - or more - then consider Serra as one, or Ada."

"Hey!" she said as she pulled his hand away. "Ada's doing her very best."

"Ada is causing us trouble. If she weren't an important asset, then I would've gotten rid of her a long time ago." Wesker put his hand back on her forehead, not taking no for an answer. "And I'd be happy if you left this job for her. Her... failure wouldn't matter to me at all."

"Don't say that! I like her. And I'm fine now. I can continue."

Wesker let go of her forehead, and instead, put his hands on her cheeks, his pinky fingers touching her neck, holding her hostage for his will.

"You don't understand, do you?" he asked, then continued: "I want you to quit this job and leave. I want you to come back with me to my lab and assist me there, and only there."

She looked him in the eyes with a pained expression, and Ada hated him for causing her sadness.

"Why? Because you consider me weak?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because I consider you important."

Ada wasn't her, yet her own heart was beating fast at the words as she read between the lines.

Did he just... tell her that he loved her?

She seemed to understand the meaning too, because she just smiled and leaned closer to him with a grin.

"Come on, I'll be fine. You know I'll be."

"I always make sure you are..." Wesker said, then leaned in to press a kiss tk her forehead. "...dear."

Ada thought it was time to go, as she was too close to looking out the window and noticing her. And that... could be dangerous. Something Ada should avoid.

Ada grabbed onto the rope of her grappling hook, and climbed up to the roof, as quietly as possible.

Then she started to think...

Poor girl. She didn't know what kind of bear she was poking...

#resident evil x reader #resident evil x fem!reader #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x fem!reader #alessiathepirate

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your-thorn · 2 days ago

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Maybe I should be injecting my life into my reblogs since I don't express it much, even to you.

Left alone with a killer, a scalpel to the throat left me off kilter. Not that you didn't heal the slit, you were the only one that bothered to care about it./ locked in a closet all alone as a child, wondering when death would come knowing my pain would be compared and trialed. You held me while I was triggered in it, whispered love into me, my love has the mighty wit.

Left alone with that bottle of iodine, "may cause death" on the label. This fairytale is a lost fable; familiar to few but seen by many, drop in the ocean, jar of pennies. You cared when I spoke about this, no longer scared when we kiss. / would rip the skin from my body, no razor to use, only nails to make me bleed... who knew that would be a sign and not a seed.

The only hands that held me close, the way my stepdad held me felt morose. Often telling me to be wise, asking me why his relationship doesn't thrive. Shared a room with 4 other girls, where they my sisters? Who knows... / studied long, all day... 15 hours of my day wasted away. Everyday for 5 years made my brain suddenly think very queer but you made me feel that my purpose was real.

Though my pain started early, you were the only one who saw I was hurting. Nurtured me like my parents should, grew up in the hood. Many people gossip and experienced police brutality but never cared about the children's inherited insanity.

Mercury, lead, iron in the water. Radiation in the air, anger becomes tinder, firestarter. You make me feel normal, like I can be me for.the rest of eternity. Maybe I don't write as often but it's a coping mechanism, a once full coffin.

You bear the blessing of art well, mine was gathered from my time in hell, felt genuine pleasure from idealized thought, was all alone... which is why I say they're all thots.

Which is why I only think about you, I won't be caught slacking nor lacking. My love for you is nothing on the trash that's strewn along my desert roads. All these people are npc's that live in our world, they all cost too much energy to interact with anyways. Boring and trash, all they'll get is backlash.

I'll do this more often for you, relate myself to your poetry too, I love you and everything you are that leaving you alone could only get us so far until the hurt and pain build up inside and leave your heart no where to hide.

Merry Christmas and happy new year, but happy birthday to you too, @yousta who has fluffy paws and claws galore also has a heart built of high repor, others may see the surface but I see what's underneath.

My true love here, forever and always, rings on our fingers, our bodies in our arms, nothing can stop this from being what we want it to be. ♥︎

Unedited by @your-thorn for the eyes of @yousta but I guess others can read it too.

Of course there's more pain I can write about and how you help me with it, I'll do more at some point :)

The way you reflect, obsession to respect is perfect.

It feels like our souls connect, with my heart so direct

I'm not a worthless reject but someone who'd kill to protect.

Earth seemed so wrecked,

they left me on the shelf, for so long I tried to kill myself.

Oh my why?

I was hoping to see someone like you as soon as I'd die

you'd pet my hair, tell me no lies with my head on your thighs, muttering your love until the darkness dies

but here's better cause I recognize that same love from your eyes.

with those genuine vibes amidst feeling the butterflies.

I'm high off this world because my love's been realized,

by you

it's you, everything you, everything you do

I even love myself too

#♡prince♡

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poetess-trobadour · 8 months ago

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"I didn't change my number

I only changed who I reply to"

My (unpopular) take on zodiac vibes, part 8 ♏️✨️

#zodiac #astrology #horoscope #scorpio #vibe #pantone color: plum violet #i may be reading too much into it but bear with me #have you ever tried plum wine #it's intricate and outlandish and sweet and sour and the whole blend tastes just like scorpios to me #violet #i also love how violets as flowers can symbolize things like spiritual passion and mystical awareness cause that kinda checks in as well #billie eilish #changed #digital collage #mood #aesthetic #Spotify

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xxplastic-cubexx · 2 months ago

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what is your favorite thing about charles and your favorite thing about erik? separately, as in what you like most about their characters :]

a devious question this one is, my friend!!! it's hard enough for me to explain my thoughts cohesively, but having to pick ONE thing i particularly love is difficult. with characters like charles and erik, theres been so much done with their characters over the decades and so they have so many components to them that make them so interesting and fun to observe. BUT I TRY FOR YOU TODAY. under the cut i kinda ramble and the size of this text box makin me anxious

i think if i were to be simple and broad, what i enjoy most about charles is his determination to help others, even if he isn't really thanked and/or if people don't even like him. ofc, this isn't to say he hasn't done wrong- to be honest, the fact he does wrong/questionable things at times is another aspect of him i really enjoy, maybe because- broadly speaking- he's meant to be altruistic (intent vs outcome and all that). i don't know if that's super exciting to most people, but it is for me

as for erik, my reason for liking him is easier to explain tbh. To Be Simple And Broad, his progression from villain to antihero over the decades has been fun to observe (as much as i have so far anyhow) and analyze. i think to be a bit more specific, him using his rage and pain as justifications for his villainous actions is definitely what compels me the most: hurt people hurt and the sort, an idea i've always found interesting (something something vicious cycles and the like). yet now, he recognizes this wasn't really. A Just Thing To Do and is beginning to change that, which i enjoy

#snap chats #may you forgive me anon i always feel awkward explaining things AVELKJEAKLJ #i feel esp awkward cause i haven't read toooo much of the comics yet- like ive read. an ok amount so far krakoa wise #can you guys tell im fighting god himself to Not write a fuckin. NOVEL #im so sorry i have an over-explaining problem my mom was mean to me growing up but anyways #i definitely want to read more and more outside krakoa. the more i read the more im fascinated by these two and their history #but to continue my prattling. as if the three paragraphs above arent enough This Is Not A Thesis RELAX #i think a. 'poignant' moment i think adds to what i like about charles too is that soliloquy where he recognizes people dont like him #yet he could always be worse- like if he's bad now to others imagine if he really just said Fuck It All #it's simple but so am i whaddyagonnadoboutit. i mean that point itself could be discussed but i'm trying to keep this brief bear with me #i so bad want to know what issue that's from tho all i know is that it's from krakoa but i neeeed the whole context #i think like. an additional bullet point to charles i also like is his loneliness #and i say this cause- I Say From My Amateur-Psychology Armchair- it's a component of why he's so earnest to help #but im keeping this point in the tags until i can confidently verify that with myself after some more reading #Unfortunately a favorite pass time of mine is psychoanalyzing characters like why else you think i major in psychology smh #im going to force myself to cap the post here because i ended up typing like 20 more tags just rambling #and as i said id like to keep this simple and clean !!!!! i have sat here for like four hours answering this ngl #ignore the fact half that time was spent getting distracted by solitaire and riffling cards ok I Am Very Easily Distracted #but fr when it comes to charles and erik- charles esp imo #i feel like i need to write a whole paper just so i can mention the nuances of the characters and like. EVERYTHING #because again six decades is A Lot of time for writing decisions to be made and for their characters to change over time #im a glazer but i wanna be a nuanced glazer yk. is that glazing at that point-- w/e anyway #its a lot. so today you will have to tolerate a very Blah answer from me which i must apologize for #down the line once ive read a comfortable amount more varying from multiple eras maybe ill revisit this question more in depth #as of right now tho .... chat i wanna get legion of x so bad i skimmed it and hhhhhhhhim gonna throw UP #i need to shake charles like a ragdoll BUT ANYWAY. bye bye for now lovelies !!!!!!!#please forgive me if i didnt answer your question efficiently ..#here i am saying i wanted to keep the tag count brief and yet !!! jesus christ. shut up My God I REACHED THE TAG LIMIT

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good-beans · 5 months ago

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💖

#you all thought my vent post meant i *wasnt* going to be sappy but you were wrong >:3 #i do have the self control not to semd random dms like im drunk texting or something LMAO #but i just.#you mean so much to me.#i may be slow (or nonexistent) with replies but still youre patient and share with me what you love #and i always want to see it #im always excited about it #i may be awkward in conversations but still you reach out and give me a piece of you and i cherish that #i love stumbling over my words and sending lame reaction images with you #i love laughing with you and singing with you and i think you have a beautiful laugh and a beautiful singing voice #i love reading your writing whether its fluffy and silly or indulgently angsty or bearing a piece of your soul #i am grateful for your kindness and hope you know it is appreciated #and even if we never talk im grateful youre here #im happy we exist in this space together in the spirit of art and community and kindness #or if we used to talk more or if we will talk in the future #my memory isnt good in some aspects but i Do remember people and their passions and their creations and their kindness #and so im grateful #💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖#OKAY GOODNIGHT #rose rambles #oh i had a sappy line about art too that i accidentally lost but i love looking at your art!!#original things or fandom things or personal things -- it makea the world more beautiful

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when-did-this-become-difficult · 1 year ago

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"sorry but i want to hit every american talking about not wanting to vote democrat anymore with hammers. lol" I want to hit you with hammers too, lol. twinsies

like it's not enough that we have to vote democrat we also have to pretend all the time that we looooove it and that it's the greatest thing on earth...shut the FUCK up

i'm a poll worker i'm a canvasser i've voted in almost every election i physically legally could. and i'm here to tell you. i will bitch and whine about the democrats and the democratic party any time i goddamn want and twice on sundays. and AS somebody who has cold called and doorknocked for local dems in a red fucking state, if you think that you can shame people into not mentioning how broken down and furious and desperate the democratic party and democratic politicians makes them feel, and that you will somehow succeed in this, and that will somehow CONTRIBUTE to democratic successes? get a FUCKING grip

#negativity #vent post #that was an exceptionally stupid post for me to have to read on my friday #anyone with a heart and a brain doesn't want to vote democrat anymore jsyk. now i may still do it. but by god if im not caterwauling all th #way...#the patronizing attitude is too much to bear i want to smash #you want to use hammers? I WANT TO USE HAMMERS #I CANT EVEN TELL YOU HOW MUCH TIME AND GENUINE ENERGY AND CUSTOMER SERVICE ATTITUDE I HAVE EXPENDED #TO GET ONE OF YOUR FUCKING PEOPLE IN CONGRESS #ONLY FOR HER TO IGNORE THE SHIT OUT OF ME EVERY TIME I SEND A LETTER #ONLY FOR HER TO DISRESPECT—OPENLY PUBLICLY DISRESPECT—AND PATRONIZE WOMEN OF COLOR WHO TRY TO ASK HER #NOT TO USE THEIR TAX DOLLARS TO KILL THIER FAMILIES.#YOU WANT TO KILL? I WANT TO KILL.#BUT GUESS WHO'S ACTUALLY DOING THE KILLING RIGHT NOW.#THE GUYS. THAT WE. VOTED FOR.#SO YEAH ITS REASONABLE TO NOT WANT TO VOTE FOR THEM ANYMORE ACTUALLY!!!!!!!!!

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helianskies · 8 months ago

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ugly maths.

i hate maths, right. i don't usually like numbers, and if i do like numbers it's gotta be an 8 or a 48 and nothing else.

thing is, i've recently caught myself doing maths again. ugly maths. the kind of maths that, really, i've been trying to avoid as much as possible because, well, it's ugly!

you... wanna see?

okay, fine... but don't say i didn't warn you!

ugly, see? look at all those numbers! not a 48 in sight!

huh? what's that? you don't see what i'm on about? oh... oh! hang on, lemme just—

better? yes? no? no? okay, what if i—

mmh, yes. ugly numbers. see it now? can you see why they're ugly?

here, i can make it worse.

these numbers are ugly. the maths they make me do is ugly.

now i'll level with you: the worst ones by far are the yellow numbers. the maths they make me do it the ugliest.

why ugly?

because it makes me ugly.

those numbers turn me into not only a suddenly number-obsessed fool, but a fool who also cannot understand these numbers and what they mean and why i feel like they reflect on me and my ability.

87, 75.

the thoughts are as follows:

• the orange numbers are big, so why are you being ugly about the yellow ones? you should be happy with what you have. so many nice big numbers! not everyone receives that.

• is it that there are two different audiences for these two different fics? perhaps. they are quite different works, with different appeals, and different themes. maybe you are reading too much into it.

• why are you obsessing over numbers anyway? you don't like maths! you left maths behind when you were 16, put it down!

okay, okay, fine! i'll put the maths down. right here, in fact!:

that 87 was an 83 at the start of the year. the 6161 it is attached to was a 5453.

4, 708.

ugly maths.

the 75 is a nice number. in fact, compared to 87, it is beautiful, radiant, enchanting. at the start of the year, 75 was 48. wow. now that is one sexy number!

27.

mmmm.

6161, 1061.

5100.

87, 75.

12.

mmmm.

you know, my most favourite comment left recently on a fic of mine was 2 characters long: :(

it made me :)

well, actually, it made me >:) because it was left in response, presumably, to one of the key scenes in a new chapter which left the exact impression on someone that i hoped it would.

they must be the only one who reacted like that, though.

have i mentioned that that 87 and 75 include author responses?

i won't try to do more maths, there. it might not end well for me. the maths is making me tired enough as it is, and i have an early start tomorrow.

oh! but, that being said, i have another set of ugly numbers to show you, so keep 87 and 75 in mind.

ready?

838, 245.

(want a hint? the green numbers!)

838, 87. 245, 75.

9.6, 3.3.

ugly maths. it's ugly again, see? i don't like it. i'm seeing numbers within numbers within numbers, and i can't seem to stop!

the numbers make me ask new questions:

• why is it not good enough?

• people seem to engage more with one fic over the other, so shouldn't you prioritise?

• is all this maths this really good for you?

no, it isn't.

i want to avoid ugly maths. ugly maths makes me want to tear my hair out. it makes me want to start from scratch. it makes me want to grab someone and scream. it makes me want to cry and press a button that has tempted me many times before when the numbers become too ugly to bear.

ugly maths turn me into an ugly person.

ugly maths make me obsessive, paranoid, anxious, regretful, vindictive, spiteful, alone.

i hate maths. i hate numbers, just like, it feels, the numbers hate me.

#helia rants #cw vent #i'm okay but i'm not #this has been playing on my mind over the last couple of weeks #it's aimed at the sky rather than anyone here #i know i'm not the best myself as commenting. i justify it to myself by affirming i don't read much. which i don't.#since the start of the year i have tried to comment on everything i have read #bearing in mind i may also dm someone rather than comment because i want to scream and ramble about their fic more personally #that being said. i know i'm not the only one who finds themselves doing ugly maths #and in turn starting to feel uglier too #i don't like looking at the numbers #i was doing well at the start of the year #but as i open my drafts and look to a new chapter and at the notes i wrote #i can't stop myself from opening the fic. from seeing where it's at. from seeing if it's changed. from checking my inbox to see if...#if only...#what it's meant is that i've come to a point where a fic i loved has become exactly that: a fic i loved. past tense #the other fic is still a fic i love. but i know deep down that that is tied to the numbers too #i hate that this is what i've become #because i have tiny fics. fics with 50 hits and maybe 1 comment. and i love them. i still love them #but when it comes to the big ones. the multi-chapters. the hefty fics. after a point all i see are numbers #and those numbers have come to determine both my happiness and fulfilment as a writer #and so i am ugly. i am sad. i am pathetic.#and i don't know how to stop.#helia's stuff #this was meant to save back into my drafts. i was editing tags. tumblr decided it should post. so... so be it.#also this is not an attention thing if anyone dares go 'oh but you're a good writer uwu' i might do something we'll all regret #this is also not a 'ffs comment on my fics will you 😒' hell no #it's just about me. and my issue. and my unhealthy relationship with these fucking numbers.#gotta get this shit out of my head somehow :)

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byanyan · 7 months ago

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the amount I've been hoarding away some of the memes I've seen on the dash over the last week or so is so not okay for someone with as many drafts as me ashfjdh

#me: i want to focus on getting through all my drafts when i get some energy back #also me: but good & juicy memes........#I'm thinking I'm gonna lean more into doing whatever the hell pleases me once I get back to writing tbh #but I'm almost definitely throwing all the drafts into a paused queue that I won't start posting until they're all finished #will I reblog a meme or two to play with as I do that? probably. almost definitely.#fresh stuff always helps get my brain going again ahdjgsg #but know that drafts will be happening!!!! I did delete some stuff but like. not enough lmfao. I have too many great threads #that I can't bear to let go of and i've kinda accepted that at this point #sorry I'm so slow y'all pls know that me taking forever to get to shit has nothing to do with how much I'm enjoying our threads #the fact that I'm clinging to them despite wanting to start completely fresh & dump everything says a lot more about how much I love em all #anyway. may or may not write tonight? I'm going with the flow tonight & rn the flow is telling me to keep reading #I finished my reread of the second book in the millennium series last night (& stayed up way too late in order to do so ahdgksg)#& I've started my reread of the third today and I just. I can't stop. it's too good.#if I find the willpower to put it down at some point I might dabble in poking at smth but. if not perhaps tomorrow uvu #(also want to note I've been marking the books through my reread with pink page flags #whenever smth really smacks me in the face with how much byan was inspired in some way by lisbeth lmfao)#ANYWAY. love u guys!!! I'm lurking & hoping you're all doing well!!! 💜💜#━━ ˟ ⊰ ✰ ooc ⋮ don’t @ me.

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luveline · 11 months ago

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𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky.

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely.

Total quiet.

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?”

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?”

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…”

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?”

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.”

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.”

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh.

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated.

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry.

“Spencer?” you ask quietly.

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?”

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?”

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups.

“Where are you?”

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him.

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.”

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?”

“Where was I?”

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed.

“Still where?”

“Did you hit your head?”

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.”

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk.

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.”

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.”

“…What?”

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.”

“I annoy people.”

“You don’t annoy me.”

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here.

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?”

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection.

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?”

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly.

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?”

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.”

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says.

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room.

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark.

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly.

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!”

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer.

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask.

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again.

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.”

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath.

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers.

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year.

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.”

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.”

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!”

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity.

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek.

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.”

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly.

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says.

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway.

“I don’t want to be alone forever.”

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates?

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess.

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.”

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol.

“She kind of looked like you.”

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.”

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Is that why you make all your jokes?”

“What jokes, babe?”

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.”

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.”

“Spencer, you remember everything.”

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.”

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him.

You’re happy to.

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled.

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse.

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully.

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally.

“Can I come home with you?” he asks.

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.”

— —

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.”

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.”

“So you want three?”

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.”

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time.

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?”

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him.

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory.

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that.

The avocado is making him feel sick.

“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?”

“I think I'm gonna throw up.”

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes.

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button.

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.”

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.”

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.”

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now.

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said.

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say.

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again.

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.”

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do.

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask.

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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enbyhyena · 6 months ago

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Hey, wait! Please stop scrolling for a sec!

Please bear with me and read to the end! I promise it'll be worth it.

My name is Nexys, and I am queer and disabled. For years I have been striving to create the most tight-knit safe space (that's ACTUALLY safe) on the internet, using content creation as common ground. And we're really starting to take off!

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 9 days ago

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I LOVEEEEE YOU FICS OMG OMG

If you could be so kind to write a DomgojoxBratreader where he is her academic rival and they are always arguing but they start falling for each other. She is sassy and he matches her energy 🙏🏽🙏🏽

I pushed her back to the wall and said “You done?”

Tags: dom!Satoru x fem!Reader, brat!Reader, brat taming, academic rivals, rivals to lovers, slight angst, maybe hurt/comfort, hea, cursing, smut, mdni, spanking, slight impact play, cunninglingus, unprotected sex, this shit gonna be nasty i fear.

An: This all takes place when they're in a like Jujutsu Tech College... bare with me lmao. It's basically the events from their highschool years, but I made it to where they happened while they were in college, so all the characters are of age here. I looooove the academic rivals trope after I wrote my Hiromi fic 😩 you can read that here if you’re interested! Also, so sorry but this is a long one... 7.3k words...

Thwak!

Your body jolts forward a bit as you’re slung unceremoniously over Satoru’s shoulder. His large palm wooshes to connect with your bottom once more.

Thwak!

“Why is it always the small ones who I can throw around so effortlessly that talk the most shit?” His face is occupied with that shit eating grin as he gives your ass another spank just for the hell of it. There’s nothing you can do about it anyways. He may as well have his fun.

“Put me down, Satoru!!” You whine, trying to jostle your way out of his grip, but he’s having none of it. Your fists pound at his muscular back, but he continues to laugh. Without your cursed technique, you’re really are just a weakling to him.

“Where are your manners, princess? That’s no way to speak to your upperclassmen.” He taunts as he continues to carry you around with ease. “Maybe if you call me senpai, I’ll put you down.”

“Fuck no! I’m not doing that, weirdo!” You huff as your body continues to wriggle in his grasp. Geto watches with an amused look on his face. He makes no effort to stop Satoru’s shenanigans since you really were asking for this by provoking him all day today.

Your cursed technique is the only one that comes close to countering Satoru’s, so you’re the only person he’ll bother training with. However, he’s a complete asshole to train with.

When you’re losing, he gets all cocky and mouthy, talking about how weak and pathetic you are. When you’re putting up a good fight, Satoru somehow gets even more energetic. His cursed energy output increases exponentially, and he gets touchier too because he can’t cope with the euphoric feeling of actually having a challenge.

Principal Yaga was the unfortunate soul who had to tell Satoru that it was inappropriate to bear hug you for so long after a good sparring session. One time, you were trapped in his arms, completely unable to move for almost an hour as he rambled about how much he enjoyed getting that energy out. His face was also coincidentally(?) shoved in your chest. He, of course, claims it was nothing sexual, but you were completely pressed against him. You felt him grow hard against your thigh.

Either way, you always felt like you had a chip on your shoulder. You didn’t just want to he known as the one who could “almost counter Satoru”. You wanted to be known as the one who could beat the strongest sorcerer of today.

Unfortunately, you weren’t strong enough to beat him in combat yet, so you usually provoked him with words. All day, Geto has had to listen to you and Satoru bickering back and forth with each other.

“Well, at least my eyes aren’t off putting to look at.”

“My eyes are beautiful, princess. You’re just mad that you can’t get a date meanwhile I have girls falling all over me.” Satoru of course childishly stuck his tongue out at you.

“Bold of you to assume I can’t get a date.” You fire back with a small huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Oh? Does the princess have a date? Make sure to let me know how that goes.” Satoru laughs, and his hand ruffles your hair uncaringly.

“You can ask your dad tomorrow morning how it went.” You’re use to Satoru’s sass by now, and you know how to perfectly match his freak as some would say.

Satoru shoots you a small glare, which only elicits a giggle from you. You decide to push it further. “Yeah, I’m thinking about giving you a sibling. What do you think about that, hm? Maybe we’ll make another six-eyed freak with the limitless technique, so you aren’t that special.”

Satoru’s nose twitched in disdain. Not only did he not like the thought of not being special anymore; he despised the thought of you sleeping with his dad.

And that’s how you ended up thrown over his shoulder as he carried you towards the training matts. “Quite the mouth on you, princess. If only you could fight as good as you yap.” He smirked as he gave your ass a light spank. Once he realized the amount of control he had over you in that moment, it was game over for you.

“Let me go, Satoru!” You shrieked as Gojo continued to manhandle you over his shoulder. After a good twenty minutes of him holding you up, Suguru finally spoke out.

“You two are starting to sound like an old married couple. Put her down, Satoru.” Geto’s calming voice finally laid down the law to which Satoru reluctantly abided by, allowing for your feet to touch the floor.

You caught your breath as you were put down. It had been taxing to wrestle in his arms and scream for him to stop it. He knew you couldn’t activate your cursed technique while had full control over your body. Plus, if you were to activate your technique, you would’ve likely hurt Geto in the process. Satoru knew you wouldn’t even entertain the risk.

While Satoru was Suguru’s one and only friend, you were more like a little sister at Suguru’s side. He was the only one who didn’t view you as “Satoru’s counter”. To Suguru, you were just “y/n”. He saw you as an underclassman with an unprecedented level of potential.

He also often helped you with your studies. While Satoru was technically the brighter one of the two, Suguru was a true teacher. He explained even the most complicated topics to you, much to Satoru’s displeasure.

You didn’t miss the scowl on Satoru’s face each time you came up to both of them to request for Geto’s help. You didn’t miss the way he’d stare at both of you with a slight pout and how he’d try to tell you the answer before Geto could explain it.

You figured that it was just Satoru being spoiled. He didn’t like not being the center of attention when it came to you and Geto.

Satoru turned towards you, and he opened his mouth to continue on his little beratement of you when the door to the training area was abruptly opened. Principal Yaga stepped through the doors and called Gojo and Geto to his office.

The principal ended up sending the two young men out on a mission, and that was when everything changed between you three.

*** *** ***

Things between you three went dry for a while. You knew the details of what happened, but you didn’t dare talk directly to Satoru or Suguru about it.

Both of the men went their own separate directions, leaving you behind in the dust as if you were a child of divorce. Satoru took on an ungodly amount of training, barely ever at the dorms to do anything. Suguru occupied himself with a massive amount of missions.

Suguru was getting skinnier too. His long black hair was becoming thinner by the day, and he always looked so painfully tired. You felt like you would be a burden on him if you asked for any help from him.

Satoru was training so much, putting on more muscle in every place of his body. He didn’t ever invite you to spar with him anymore. He never taunted you in the hallways or even made direct eye contact with you.

They were both so preoccupied in their own grief that they seemingly forgot about you.

Things didn’t stop there either.

Haibara’s death shook Jujutsu Tech to its core. Nanami dropped out of the program. Suguru dropped out and was now a wanted criminal. Shoko wasn’t on the teaching path anymore, moving to learn more RCT to prevent something like this from happening again.

It was just you and Satoru on the teaching path. “Class” if you can even call it that - was so depressing that you barely bothered to show up for lectures anymore. Satoru was taking on every single mission, filling in for Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara’s absence. He wouldn’t even speak to you about Suguru or anything else for that matter.

Feeling so incredibly alone, you were curled up in your dorm late one night. Your face was sticky from tears, and your breath was so uneven. You just needed to talk to someone.

You didn’t think he’d answer, but Suguru sounded happy when he picked up the phone.

“Y/n, how are you?” His voice was like a double edged sword. It was so comforting to hear his voice, but you also remembered the lives he took.

You two spoke for over two hours. You vented out every single grief and complaint to him while he calmly tried to convince you that Jujutsu Tech was a waste of your time.

He was so good at buttering you up, making you feel like his way of thinking even made sense. You were so desperate for a friend; you couldn’t care less that you were essentially signing yourself up for a cult.

“Come to me, y/n. We could do great things together. It’d be like old times. I need you here with me.” A cult leader preying on someone when they’re at their lowest.

You agreed, hanging up the phone to start packing your bags. You couldn’t take living here anymore anyways, not after everything. Satoru probably wouldn’t even notice that you’re gone.

Quietly creeping down through the dorms, duffle bag in hand, you flinch when a sudden hand grips your shoulder from behind. You let out a sharp gasp followed by a small cry before you turn around quickly.

Satoru was standing behind you, no humor in his face at all. He was shirtless. His abs and muscular arms were on full display as he was only wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, and his hair was slightly damp from a shower.

“Where are you going?” He asked in a tone you’d never heard him use. He was being stern with you as if you were a child.

You shift uncomfortably underneath his gaze before you brush his hand off your shoulder. “I’m going to go stay with a friend.” You give him a half-lie, not able to tell him to his face that you were leaving.

“Pretty large duffle bag for going to stay with a friend, don’t you think?” His hand effortlessly takes the duffle bag off your shoulder, and he pulls it away from you before opening it, taking notes of the contents inside. “I don’t know why you bother lying to me. My six eyes know when you’re not telling the truth.”

You try to take the duffle bag back from him, but he dodges and bats away all of your attempts. “I wasn’t lying!” You shout, getting frustrated and impatient with him. “It’s not like you even care. Give me my shit back.”

Bright blue eyes look up at you, and his pupils dilate, the size of small pinholes. “I don’t care?” He asks before letting out a humorless laugh. It’s eerie seeing him like this, like a stick that just about to snap if anyone applied anymore pressure to him.

“You don’t. You don’t even talk to me anymore, even when I try talking to you! You and Geto completely blew me off.” Hot tears burn in your eyes as you’re forced to face how you feel right in front of him. “At least Geto wants to talk to me now.” You murmured quietly, shifting your gaze to the ground.

“You talked to Suguru?” Satoru asks, eyes wide and full of anger. His palm comes up and grips your hair pulling it back so you’ll look him in the eyes.

You let out a sharp hiss as his fingers are digging into your scalp. “Let go of me!” You shout, trying to free his hand from your hair.

Things finally start to click in Satoru’s head. You were leaving him, leaving him to go stay with Suguru. His stomach coiled in white hot rage and jealousy. Could you not see all he had done for you? Yet, you still choose Suguru, who had done nothing for you.

Your body feels weak and unstable as you’re suddenly teleported to the training mats in the gym. “Satoru, what?” You ask as you look around as best as you can. He finally frees your scalp.

“You want to go be with him?” He asks before throwing your duffle bag against the door. He then leans over and starts to stretch his legs. “You’ll have to beat me. Prove to me that you’re strong enough, and I’ll let you go. I won’t keep chasing you.”

"Satoru, you're talking crazy..." You reply as you glance over to your duffle bag that was slumped against the door. You had no want or intention of fighting Satoru. "I'm allowed to drop out if I want."

"So what? You just quit? You're just going to let me win like that? Bullshit, yn. I know you better than that." Satoru's eyes bore holes into the very depths of your soul. He does know you better than that — knows that you're not one to back down from a challenge.

Your jaw tightens as you watch him, anger coiling in your stomach. He can never just let you have what you want. Everything was a fight to him. He always gets what he wants because he's the fucking starboy of Jujutsu, and you're just "close enough" to his counter.

You rip your sweatshirt away from your body, tossing it off the matt. Your torso was clad in a thin tank top that you didn't necessarily plan on letting anyone see. You roll your neck. If he wanted to fight, you'd give him one last one.

"Atta girl." He whistles with a smug grin. His body is still in a fighting stance, waiting for you to take yours.

You don't even bother to respond to his praise. You know he's only acting like this to get under your skin more. "Make it count, Satoru. This will be the last time I ever fight you."

"Oh, I make it count each and every time."

It's not long before you two are completely at each other's throats. The amount of cursed energy emitting from the training area was absolutely devastating for the school. Building foundations literally shook. The lights flickered constantly, and a few even blew.

You two were lucky it was in the dead of night. If anyone was awake to witness this, they would've already put a stop to it, but most citizens must've chocked the movements up to small earthquakes in their sleepy haze.

Your body was tired and bruised, but you weren't going to give up. You wouldn't tap — no matter how many times Gojo put you in different submission positions. You always managed to break free and hit him with your elusive technique — something his infinity couldn't recognize.

He had grown so much stronger since your last sparing session. All of the training and missions had done him well. His chiseled body felt heavier against you. His grip was tighter. He was faster, stronger, and smarter.

Strangely enough, Satoru was mostly silent during this fight. He didn't taunt you or call you pathetic like he normally did. Besides his quiet grunts and growls from blows or primal rage, he was deadly silent.

This was serious to him. This wasn't like a fight with a meaningless curse. This wasn't like a cute little sparring session with you back in the day. This was you, and your role in his life. He would be damned before he let you fucking quit and leave him.

"Come here." His voice was deeper, rougher — predatory almost as he went in for another submission. His eyes were trained on you, and he had one objective in his mind: to keep you.

You slipped up, misjudging Satoru's distance from you. Before you could evade him, Satoru's large calloused palms gripped the underside of your thighs, and he lifted your body up with ease, shoving your back against the wall.

"You done?" He growled lowly against your ear, his breath fanning against your skin. His chest was rising and falling harshly. He was also bruised, but he'd fight you for the rest of eternity if it meant you wouldn't leave him.

Your breath was faster than his — literally panting as you took the moment of reprieve and rested against the wall. It had been so long since you too had sparred, you almost forgot how handsy he could be with you in the middle of fights.

His slender waist was between your thighs, still only covered by his grey sweat pants. His abs were glistening in sweat, and his hips created a perfect V dipping into his waistband. You instinctively had your legs wrapped around him — making him support your weight.

"I'm not going to let you win." Your voice is low and shaky from the fight. Your nerves were wound up after the night you had.

"Then, stay. Keep fighting me." His body pressed closer to yours. If anyone walked in on you two, it would definitely appear as if you two were doing things other than fighting.

"He needs me, Satoru..." You murmur, turning your head away from his. Suguru said it himself. He needed you. Satoru just wanted you to keep playing catch up with him.

Satoru's jaw clenched, and he pushed your back against the wall harder. He supported your weight with one of his hands and his waist as his other hand roughly grabbed your jaw. His fingers digging into the soft skin of your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

"If he needed you so fucking badly, why did he leave you here with me?"

You look at him with lost eyes as the reality of the situation finally starts to sink in. Your big brother, Suguru, had changed into someone you could hardly recognize. You tense — immediately trying to push those thoughts out of your head.

He can recognize that you're still trying to deny it. He jolts your body a bit, making your eyes snap open to look at him again.

"I need you, yn." His voice is raw. He's almost pleading with you. He sounds so convincing, but you can't help but doubt him.

"No, you don't..." You whisper as tears sting your eyes. Suguru didn't need you. He hadn't even bothered to call or text you. If he needed you so much, why didn't he reach out?

"Oh really?" Satoru lets out a humorless laugh. "So, I'm just fighting you at three in the morning for fun? I'm just fighting to keep you here with me for the thrill of it." His hand is unwavering on your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eyes as he speaks.

His eyes look so tired and drained. If you left, how would he have any moments rest. He's barely sleeping now as it is, and if you leave, he'll have to take on your missions on top of everything else.

But something tells you it's not even about that. This fight is the closest thing he's felt to human connection in months.

The rawness of his tone and emotion tugs at your heart strings, but it still feels like you’re giving up to him.

“Fighting at three in the morning sounds typical for you. You just don’t want to lose your favorite punching bag.” You spit back at him.

His hand — so pale and veiny — trails down from your jaw to your neck, and he squeezes just hard enough to make you feel all tingly inside. “Is that what you think? Do I need to fuck some sense into you?”

Your face warms from his crude words, and your hands squeeze his shoulders. His lips curl into a smirk as he witnesses your inner struggle, but he knows the truth. His six eyes know your tell: the way your thighs squeeze around him as if you’re trying to subdue your arousal.

He knows good and well that your pretty cunt is weeping for him, but he’s not going to give into yours or his own desires yet.

“I didn’t fight Nanami when he left.” His voice is back to a steady state, speaking the words carefully to ensure you understand what he’s trying to convey. “I even had the opportunity to fight Suguru to come back. I didn’t.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, making it feel like your stomach flipped upside down. You want to open your mouth to speak — to demand to know why he didn’t fight them to stay, but his hand was still firmly wrapped around your slender throat, holding you back from talking.

“How dense can you be, princess? It’s always been you. No one else.” A heady whisper against your ear. His hand subtly relaxes on your throat.

Then, you remember all the looks he gave you when you’d ask Suguru for help. You remember the times he would fight or outright just butt into your conversations, demanding to be the center of your attention.

“I knew you wouldn’t win, but even if you did, I lied. I’d still chase you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I just let you slip past me.”

“Asshole.” You finally managed to speak, earning a dark chuckle from him.

Thwak!

His hand that had been supporting you slapped against your bottom. The familiar sting causing you to let out a breathy gasp.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you princess?” His hand unabashedly caresses your bottom, soothing the pain.

“I don't think you'd like me as much if I did." You respond gripping onto his shoulders as your body is under his control.

Thwak!

"Probably right about that." He murmurs before he leans into you. His pale blue eyes were half-lidded as he took you in. He's grown tired of denying himself. He's devoted his life to Jujutsu. Now, he just wants to finally do the things he wants to do, and you just so happen to be at the top of his list. "Are you going to play nice, or do I need to keep reminding you who's in control here?"

“I’m letting you have control.” You hiss. Probably not the wisest decision, since Gojo merely lets out a dark laugh. His hand tightens back around your throat, and your back hits the wall with a small thud.

“You’re going to eat your words, sweets.” He mumbles lowly, towering over you as he has full control over your body. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this? Do you even know what you do to me?”

His hardened length presses right against your core as if on cue, and he lets out a small groan from the contact. You bite back a noise that would let on your arousal because fuck… you’re wetter than you should be right now.

Too bad Satoru already knows the truth behind your flushed face and heaving chest. His six eyes really give him the advantage.

“I’m going to have fun with you, princess.” He quietly laughs as he drags his hips up and down, giving you the smallest bit of friction and pleasure. Both of you let out respective pants and noises — both of you were such a mess for each other.

Just when you were finally getting use to his rhythm, Satoru pulled back harshly, letting your feet touch the floor once more. Your legs subtly tremble as you stand on your own. You were still so exhausted from the fight, and now, you were feeling needy on top of it. It was like a perfect mixture for disaster.

You clench your jaw, not wanting to just give into him just because he said some really thoughtful words and looks so devilishly handsome. Sure, you were probably going to fuck him if he kept going, but you were not about to sit there and beg him to fuck you. There’s a perfectly good vibrator stashed in your duffle bag for this exact reason.

You start to walk towards the doors. Though, you weren’t planning on going to Suguru. You’d just… go stew in your dorm about how infuriating Gojo is, and then you’d get your frustrations out in a different manner.

“Oh no you don’t.” He says with a playful nature as he roughly grabs you right back up in his arms. “Gonna make me really work for it, aren’t you princess?” He carries you, despite your honestly pitiful attempts at getting away from him, and he bends you over one of the bleachers in the training area.

“Sato-“

“Shut up.” He lowly growled before grabbing something out of his pocket. His black blindfold crumpled in his hand before he reached over your back. One of his large hands grabbed your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and his other hand shoved his blindfold into your mouth.

“If you spit that out, I’m replacing it with my cock.” He warns lowly before letting out a small laugh at your panicked expression. Your face is so red from pure embarrassment of the situation. It doesn't help when Satoru's large gruff hands grab ahold of your shorts and yank them down to your ankles. Anyone could walk in here right now. Sure, it was late at night, but Yaga was notoriously a light sleeper.

Before you could even think about spitting out his blindfold and cussing him out, a harsh slap clapped against your bottom. Your teeth clamped down on the blindfold, masking a husky moan. Satoru definitely had a bit of an obsession with spanking you.

His eyes devoured you as your ass rippled. His hand gently rubbed your poor abused flesh before he spanked your other cheek. Your body jolted forward. A small muffled whine came from your lips, but Satoru knew you loved this.

You were practically dripping all over the bleachers for crying out loud. "Messy girl~" He taunted with a small laugh. "I think she's cryin' for it, sweets. She wants a spanking too."

You quickly start to shake your head, your body tensing at the thought. His fingertips gently smacked your drooling cunt, causing for an obscene wet noise to infiltrate your ears. You can't even stop the moan that's muffled from his blindfold. Your vision goes a bit blurry from tears of stimulation and slight pain, but fuck, it makes you clench around nothing. You were practically aching to be filled.

"Mmm~ you liked that didn't you, princess?" His hand rubs over your ass, groping you so shamelessly. "One day you might actually learn that I know your body better than you do..."

His finger trailed between your soaking wet folds, spreading your wetness around your clit, drawing out a shaky moan from you. Your legs started to lightly jitter, and it felt like your knees would give in any moment now.

"Poor, poor thing. You look like a newborn deer trying to learn how to walk." He taunted as his fingers circled around your entrance.

You were half tempted to spit the damn blindfold out, but you knew Satoru wouldn't hesitate to keep you gagging around his cock for hours if you kept being disobedient.

Another small slap to the button of nerves sent you forward. Your eyes fell shut as you savored the sensations tingling straight from your core. Your knees went inwards, and you had to support your body with your arms on the bleachers.

"That's it... Who's a good girl?" Satoru breathily purred from behind you. You were such a fucking beauty like this, finally caving in to your desires. You wanted this as much as he did. There was no point in denying it. His fingers went back to rubbing tight circles around your clit to soothe the little painful shocks.

You couldn't even formulate the words to tell him just where he could shove his dick. His ministrations felt like pure heaven, and your stomach tightened slightly. If he didn't slow down, you were sure god was going to come down and pluck you from the Earth.

Seeing the accumulation of energy with his six eyes, Satoru knew exactly what was going on. He smirked as he continued rubbing the swollen numb between his fingers. Your poor wet pussy making the wettest clacking noises he's ever heard. His mouth was practically watering for a taste.

Dropping to his knees behind you, Satoru wasted no time burying his face directly into your cunt. He immediately went to work, using his fat tongue to lap up all of your delicious juices. He gave you tender kisses of encouragement.

"See how you're treated when you're being good?" He taunted lowly right against your cunt. The vibration from his words had you clawing at the bleachers for mercy.

You whined and slightly thrashed, trying to fight the orgasm that was threatening to take over. It was too much- You couldn't cum all over Satoru's face right where you two had spent the most time at each other's throats!!

His tongue prodded at your entrance, and he moaned as he felt your wet velvet heat. You were made to house his cock in there -- he knew it. He'd always been god's favorite, so it made sense that god would bestow such a wonderful woman with the most delicious pussy to him.

His thumb rubbed tight circled around your clit as his tongue flicked in and out. It wasn't a minute later before you were basically gushing into his mouth. A muffled squeal left your throat, and you tried to claw away. Your cunt clenched and clenched, and Satoru nearly pitied your slutty pussy. It really just needed to be filled with dick. His dick.

His hands braced your thighs as he gave you a few more sweet kisses straight to your core before he stood up. He slid himself between you and the bleachers so he could hold you up. Your body collapsed against his chest, and you panted heavily. Not even your best vibrator and favorite smutty book could get that sort of orgasm out of you.

"Don't bite me." He warned with a ragged laugh before his fingers delved between your lips and pulled the blindfold out of your mouth. You didn't have the energy or resolve to even say anything to him. Instead, you opted to bury your face in his bare chest.

"My poor princess. Did I wear you out?" His voice was still teasing, even though he literally knew that he just made you see stars.

"Shut up, 'toru." You mutter into his chest, causing for his heart to swell. He loved that nickname, and he loved how you were like a cat pretending like you didn't like being pet by him.

His fingers pressed beneath your chin, and he pulled you up to look at him. Now, his dick was swelling from how precious your face since you were so fucked out already. Wordlessly, he leaned down and pressed his lips against yours.

Your heart slammed against your ribcage. Getting your pussy ate from the back by him was one thing, but now, he was being all sweet and kissing you?? You can remember all of his sweet words and how he looked when he said them. He was being genuine. He really had feelings for you this entire time.

You wanted to stomp your foot on his toe for taking so long to finally tell you, but his kiss was so sweet and intoxicating. You took a deep breath before intertwining your lips with his.

The sound of lips smacking together filled the training area. You felt the air shift around you. Your passion started to burn hot within the kiss. Both of you chased each others' lips like it was a goddamn need — not a want. Your head actually started to spin as he gripped your jaw and started to nip at your bottom lips with his teeth.

You pulled back - nervous as to why you didn't feel good. Your eyes widened as you took in the change of environment. You were in Satoru's dorm, sat upon his bed. His room was surprisingly clean and warmly lit by a Himalayan salt rock lamp right next to his bed.

"Sorry sweets, I felt like taking this somewhere more private." Satoru merely laughed as his body towered over yours. "I wanted to be able to take my time with you." His voice dropped down an octave, whispering into your ear before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you watched him hook his thumbs into the waistband of his grey sweatpants. They did absolutely fuck all to hide how his dick was straining directly against the fabric. He had a huge tent right in his pants, and his cock had created a small dark stain right on his crotch area from leaking copious amounts of pre-cum.

Once his pants were down, your eyes marveled at just how pretty his cock looked in the warm glow of the lamp. His dick was long, and he had such pretty veins decorating the underside and side of his cock. His tip was flushed a pretty cherry red, and he had a pearl of pre-cum leaking from his slit.

"Aw you flatter me, sweets~" Satoru laughed as he petted the top of your head, affectionately ruffling your hair. You scowled up at him, only making him laugh more. There was nothing like seeing you all defiant and pissy with him... except for seeing you all fucked out and pliant under him.

"C'mon~ give it a kiss." He demanded as his long fingers tightened around your hair, guiding your plush lips straight to his dick. You would rather die than give into him like this. Your legs kicked out from you, kicking him straight in the shin.

He hissed quietly from the pain before giving you a dark grin. "You know, I wanted our first time to be sweet and passionate, but you make it real fucking hard to be nice to you, princess." He let go of your head before shoving you back onto the bed.

"Maybe because you make it real fucking hard to want to be nice to you." You retorted as your eyes narrowed. He settled between your legs with a small grunt. Even while you were arguing with him, your cunt was still soaked.

He was almost tempted to take the words out of your mouth by giving you more of his tongue, but his cock had been neglected long enough. "You didn't seem to have a problem after I gave you your best orgasm." He commented with a lopsided grin.

You stayed still against his bed swallowing harshly. Were you two really about to...? Just hours ago, it felt like you two were trying to kill each other. Hell, two days ago, it felt like he had forgotten you even existed.

"This doesn't make up for anything, Satoru." You warned as you kept your gaze hardened. Your body was to receptive to him to deny that you wanted... needed him, so you weren't even going to deny yourself the pleasure that he could give anymore. But this didn't make up for the fact that he had seemingly left you behind for months...

even if he only did that so you didn't have to bare the weight of his mistakes with the star plasma vessel..

even if he only worked himself to death so you could try to focus on your studies instead of being thrusted into being overworked with missions after Suguru and Nanami dropped out...

No, this didn't make up for any of that.

His touch softened as he cupped your cheek in his hand. His thumb stroked your smooth skin, gazing down at you like he was holding the world in his hands. It made you want to squirm and hide.

"So, this is meaningless for you?" He whispered quietly into your ear as his cock slipped between your sopping folds, grinding the underside of his length against you.

Your words got caught in your throat as you gasped for air. You felt your face immediately warm. Shit, you hated feeling this vulnerable... especially in front of your sworn rival.

"Am I only as useful as that cute little vibrator you stowed in your get-away back?" Satoru continued. His hips rocked back and forth, and you found yourself getting squirmy with each time his tip bumped against your entrance.

He was just too damn big to slip inside. It'd take work and lots of perseverance. Luckily, Satoru seemed to be surprisingly patient in that regard.

He groaned as he felt your slick coating his cock. Your body was fucking made for him: made to be his counter and made to take his cock.

You hid your face in his muscular shoulder, stifling a small whine. Damn his six eyes. That vibrator was a godsend some nights when you were stuck being alone.

"Answer me, princess." He drawled as one of his hands reached back to hold your head gently as if he were embracing you. His hips kept a steady rhythm, driving you mad.

"N-no..." You stuttered out, cursing your voice for betraying your arousal.

"Aw, sweets." He cooed in your ear, moving his hips with a bit more conviction now — testing the waters of pressing his giant cockhead against your entrance before going back to dry humping you.

You let out of noise of frustration, hating how easily it was for him to tease you like this. You knew it was going to hurt, but fuck, you were going to cry if you didn't get some relief soon.

"Shh, shh, I'm gonna give you what you need, sweets." He whispered into your ear, pressing a tender kiss to your cheekbone. "You gotta be a good girl for me though."

His arms cradled you as he peppered your neck in kisses. Your hips were rolling to meet his with each thrust. The slickest noises between you two filled the room as his long cock continued to rub against you.

"I'll b-be good, please." You finally choked out, giving up on arguing with him. You were too desperate now. There was no point in trying to hide it.

Satoru doesn't even attempt to hide his smug reaction to you being all submissive and needy underneath him. He drags his hips all the way back until he pushed himself forward — splitting you wiiide open for him.

"Fuck!" He groaned as your tight wet heat enveloped him, practically sucking you straight inside your sloppy pussy. One of his hands reached up and gripped the headboard for support. His back muscles flexed from the new positioning.

"Sh-shit-! Wait, T-toru... ah~! It's not g'nna fit!" You cried out, nails digging into his flesh as you tried to cope with the intrusion of his thick cock.

"Should've thought about that before you fucking begged for it, princess. Now, you're gonna shut the fuck up and take this dick like a good girl, yeah?" His voice was rough with need — no longer teasing. No, this was just primal domination now.

His cock continued to painstakingly shove it's way between your spongy walls, making room for himself right inside you until he was buried to the hilt. His hand had a vice grip against the headboard, and it took all of his mental fortitude to not bust immediately.

He made the mistake of looking down at you. Goddammit you're too pretty like this while taking his dick so well. Your lips were parted as just a small dribble of drool seeped out of the corner of your mouth. Your eyes were glassed over, and he could've swore he saw hearts in your pupils as you looked up at him.

All your attention was finally on him.

His hips set an unforgiving pace, fucking yours directly down into the mattress as he used his headboard as leverage. At least no one was in the dorms anymore besides you and him. There was no one to bother with how obscenely loud you were whining and moaning for him.

Though, Satoru would've still faced his peers with a shit eating grin the next morning if they still lived here. He was so damn proud to finally have you underneath him.

"T-toruToru~! Toru, oh fuck me~"

"At least that smart mouth of yours is good for something." He growled as his cock continued to rudely bully its way directly to your womb. Your legs were barely able to stay wrapped around him as he pounded his hips against yours.

His white hair stuck to his forehead as sweat started to build up for both of you. He usually hated the feeling, but nothing could tear him away from your sweet, sweet pussy right now.

He huffed as he shoved your legs up onto his shoulders, forcing you into the meanest mating press you could imagine. Your eyes rolled back as you practically kissed your last coherent thought goodbye.

Satoru fucking Gojo was going to had already fucked you stupid.

His cock was ruthless, pressing drabbles of precum directly against your cervix. His hips were practically drilling into you out of sheer muscle memory at this point. He just wanted to rut into until the day he died.

"Yeaaah~ look at you now, princess. Ngh.. can't talk back to me now, can ya? Did Toru fuck that.... mmm- poor little brain of yours stupid?" His hand let go from the headboard, gripping your cheeks with his pointer finger and thumb to make you look up at him. Your mouth parted for him as you gazed up at him.

He gathered a small bit of saliva in his mouth before he directly spit into yours, earning a wanton moan from your lips.

The bed continued to squeak and rattle from the repeated abuse. The headboard was now knocking against the wall without his hand to stop it.

"T-toru.." You cried, trying to warn him of how your tummy was tightening. It felt like every cell of your body was working for this orgasm. Your back arched as you felt yourself tighten around him.

He was already ten steps ahead of you, literally seeing your orgasm before it came. "Cum on my cock, princess. Go ahead. 's okay. I got you." He murmured into your ear right before he felt your gushy walls constricting around him, practically trying to milk his cock.

Goddamn, was it working.

A groan ripped through the air as his dick pulsed inside you. He had been holding on for all this time. He couldn't stop the groans and whimpers that fell from his lips as he finally let go and filled your cute cunt to the brim with his warm cum,

You two stayed still, catching your breaths, and neither of you dared to talk and ruin the moment. It was a silent agreement. Neither of you could fight the attraction between you two any longer.

"I missed you." You finally spoke up quietly. Satoru was vulnerable earlier after the fight. It was your turn now.

"I know." He responded quietly. He regretted taking so many missions and hiding from you. It was his way of trying to make the best out of a shitty situation, but all it did was make both of you unhappy. His nose nudged your cheek gently. "I missed you too."

His lips pressed soft kisses along your jaw. He would take more time later today to fully explain the breadth of his feelings for you, but for now, he was happy to pamper you in affections and aftercare until you fell asleep from overexertion.

Also... he would definitely have to make up some sort of story to tell Yaga and explain why your duffle bag was still in the training area... and why it had a pink vibrator inside.

FUCK FINALLY THE END.

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