#if anything it would have made him look more menacing

[leriexoxo]

Unknown Number

Idol! Chan x Stay! Reader

Tags: strangers to something more, voice kink, phone sex, anonymous sexting, slow reveal, idol!Chan is lurking, dirty talk, mystery man AU, smut 18+, blindfolds, unprotected sex, thigh riding, dom chan, praise kink, oral (f receiving) fingering

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: It starts with a text. A no-name number. A bold stranger in the dark. He saw your comment in a chaotic Stay group chat—“those fingers could ruin my life”—and now he won’t leave you alone. But maybe you don’t want him to. Because his texts are flirty, filthy, and just the right kind of fucked up. Because his voice notes make your thighs press together. Because he talks like he already knows what you sound like when you come. And the worst part? His voice sounds dangerously familiar.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

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The first text came at 12:43 AM.

Unknown Number:

hey. you awake?

You didn’t recognize it. No name. No contact photo. Just numbers. But something about the timing—and the boldness—had your curiosity flaring.

You hesitated, thumb hovering. Then answered.

You:

who’s this?

Unknown Number:

just a bored stranger. saw your number in that stay gc. figured you wouldn’t mind the company.

You blinked. That group had been pure chaos, a flood of usernames and selfies and people throwing their numbers around like confetti. You almost forgot you’d joined it in the first place.

You:

wow. bold of you to admit you’re creeping in there like that lol

also… which one were you? i don’t remember you posting anything

A pause.

Then—

Unknown Number:

i didn’t

i like watching more than talking

especially when the girls are that pretty

Your stomach dipped.

Flirty. Shameless. You should’ve blocked him.

Instead, your lips curled.

You:

so what—you just stalked and picked the first girl who looked like she’d be down to text a stranger?

Unknown Number:

no. i picked the one who made that comment about chan’s hands during that encore stage.

you said, “those fingers could ruin my life” and i haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

You froze.

Your heart stuttered. You remembered typing that. The GC had been flying, no way to know who’d even seen it. And now it was echoing back at you from some faceless man in the dark.

You:

you’re a menace.

admit it. you get off on lurking. Chan would be horrified.

Another pause.

Unknown Number:

maybe, but i think he’d understand

You:

oh yeah? why’s that?

Unknown Number:

because if i were him, i’d want to know exactly who says that kind of stuff about me.

especially if she meant it.

Your breath caught.

You:

…and do you?

mean it?

Unknown Number:

every word.

but you tell me—should i be worried you’re the type to flirt with strangers this easily?

You smirked at your screen, heartbeat kicking faster.

You:

maybe i just have a thing for mystery

or maybe i like the idea that some stranger out there is thinking about me when he should be sleeping

Unknown Number:

you should stop saying things like that

You:

why?

Unknown Number:

because now i’m wondering how you sound when you’re out of breath

You stared at the message a beat too long. It’s not even what he said—it’s the way he said it. Like he already knew he could be the one to pull that sound out of you.

You:

that’s a bold thing to say to someone you’ve never met. you don’t even know what i look like

Unknown Number:

don’t need to.

i like your brain first.

your mouth second.

the rest is just a bonus.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. Who was this guy?

You:

you talk like you’ve done this before

seducing strangers through a screen

Unknown Number:

i don’t.

just bored. and maybe a little curious.

You:

curious about what?

Unknown Number:

what kind of girl sends texts like that about chan’s fingers

and whether she texts even filthier things when she’s comfortable

You bit your lip, grinning.

You:

maybe you’ll find out if you don’t scare me off first

Unknown Number:

oh baby, if you scare easy… you wouldn’t have replied to me at all

The way he called you baby shouldn’t have made your stomach flip like it did. It wasn’t even a real person. You didn’t know who was on the other end. And yet—you couldn’t stop.

⸻

Day 3

Unknown Number:

still thinking about the way you said “ruin my life”

i wonder how far you’d really let someone take that

You:

depends on who it is

Unknown Number:

so if it were chan? you’d let him?

You:

you ask a lot of questions for someone hiding behind a fake number

Unknown Number:

maybe i’m just trying to find the perfect way to ruin you myself

Day 6

The texting hadn’t stopped.

It was not constant—but it was regular. Little things. Late-night provocations. Random check-ins. Sometimes he was sweet. Sometimes unhinged. But always flirtatious. Always suggestive. And always reading you too well.

Unknown Number:

you at work?

You:

yeah, bored af… why?

Unknown Number:

just picturing you trying to act normal after everything you said last night

like a good girl pretending she didn’t admit she wanted to be choked

Your fingers paused mid-typing.

You:

you’re twisted

i like it

Unknown Number:

i know you do

you’re just as fucked up as me and i haven’t even told you the worst parts yet

A few seconds of his typing bubble coming and going, before the next text dropped.

Unknown Number:

what’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined about him?

No warning. No easing into it. Just dropped into your messages like a match on gasoline.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. You could’ve played coy. Could’ve brushed it off. But it was late, your inhibitions were low, and this was him—your anonymous stranger, your chaos comfort. The one person who let you say anything without judgement.

So, you gave him the truth.

You:

i think about riding his thigh way too much, like full on grinding in his studio, late at night.

headphones on, shirt off, music playing like nothing’s wrong, but i’m coming on his leg while he pretends to mix tracks

There was silence after that. No typing bubble. Nothing.

For a minute, you wondered if you’d finally gone too far. Made it too real. But then your screen lit up again—except this time, not with a message.

A voice note.

You stared at it.

The little waveform pulsed quietly, like it was waiting. And before you could think twice, you pressed play.

It started with a low breath. Like someone trying to keep their cool and failing.

Then—

“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me.”

The voice was deep. Gravel and heat and something so raw it skated straight down your spine. Familiar. Not too familiar—but something about it made your skin prickle.

“I shouldn’t be imagining it, but now I am,” the voice continued. Rough. Lazy. Wrecked. “You bouncing on my thigh, making those soft little noises you don’t even know you make…”

A pause.

Then a quiet, throaty chuckle.

“…and you expect me to sit still and pretend nothing’s happening? Baby, if you ever climbed on me like that, you wouldn’t be leaving the studio for hours.”

The recording cut off with the sound of a sharp inhale, like he was about to say more—but stopped himself.

Your heart pounded.

It wasn’t just the filth. Wasn’t just the way he said baby like he already owned your body. It was the tone. Something in it that teased the edges of recognition, like a song you couldn’t quite place. Not a perfect match—but a ghost of one. You frowned, replayed the voice in your mind, again and again.

And failed to ignore the stupid, impossible thought that whispered— No. It couldn’t be.

Could it?

You:

that voice

have we met before?

The message stayed unread for a few minutes.

And then—

Unknown Number:

not yet

—

You shouldn’t have replayed the voice note.

But you did.

Over and over. Lying in bed with your knees pulled to your chest, phone pressed to your ear like it held answers. And maybe it did—just not the kind that made sense. Because that voice did something to you. Tugged on a thread you didn’t know was loose.

Low. Deep. That exact kind of rough that spilled into your dreams when you thought about Chan whispering filth behind your ear.

Except… this wasn’t a fantasy anymore.

You’d said his name in front of a stranger. Described yourself melting on Chan’s thigh. And he hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t pulled away.

He’d responded like he’d wanted it. Like he was the one holding your hips down.

And God—that voice.

You tapped open a random behind-the-scenes video. Just to compare. Just to check.

Your breath hitched.

No. No way. Not possible. You were being insane.

Still… your chest felt too tight.

You:

i’m spiraling, don’t mind me

just casually obsessing over that voice note. you sound so familiar it’s driving me crazy

No reply. For hours.

But what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that while you were busy unraveling, so was he.

Because you’d told him your name once. Offhanded. Way back on Day Two, when he called you baby girl in a text and you laughed, saying—

“you don’t even know me, my guy. it’s [Y/N], by the way.”

And that was all it took.

He went looking. Lurking. He searched through the GC again, found your profile. Clicked your socials.

And then he saw you.

Saw the face behind the dirty little texts. The smile that curled when you teased. The thighs you said you wanted to ride his with. The lips. The eyes. The one bikini pic you posted with zero shame and a caption that said “it’s too hot out” like you didn’t just set his whole body on fire.

He stared at your selfies so long he forgot to breathe.

And when he finally responded— It wasn’t with a text.

It was another voice note.

You saw the waveform and your stomach flipped.

Pressed play.

“Just saw your page.”

His voice came out lower this time. Slower. Like smoke and honey and trouble.

“You’re real pretty, y’know that?”

A pause. You could almost feel him grinning.

“Exactly my type. That mouth of yours would look even better wrapped around my fingers.”

You choked on air.

“If I had you in front of me right now, baby… I’d ruin you. You’d be soaked just from hearing the way I breathe your name.”

Your pulse skipped.

“Should I say it? Should I moan it for you next time?”

Click. It ended there.

You stared at your screen like it had slapped you. Your thighs pressed together on instinct, heat crawling up your neck. He knew now. He’d seen you. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a game anymore.

It felt like a trap.

And you were walking right into it.

You:

what else did you see?

Unknown Number:

enough to want more

every. single. night.

You didn’t respond right away.

You needed time to breathe, time to cool down—except, you didn’t. Not really.

You were already wet before the voice note ended.

Already playing it back in your head like it was your favorite late-night playlist. That voice, so low and thick in your ears. That cocky little pause before he asked if he should moan your name.

You almost said yes.

Almost begged for it.

But instead, you smiled—schemed.

You weren’t stupid. He’d seen your socials. He was definitely stalking now. You had no doubt he’d clocked your Chan obsession.

So you decided to play a little.

Test the limits.

You:

i keep wondering what you’d sound like really moaning my name

like… if i had my mouth on you

would you curse? or say something soft in… korean maybe?

Three dots. Then nothing.

A beat.

Then the voice note came in. You didn’t even hesitate this time.

Click.

“…you’d hear both,” he rasped, already sounding out of breath. “I’d be praising you in English and cursing in Korean. You’d earn every damn syllable.”

Your mouth went dry.

“But you’d have to beg for it,” he added. “On your knees. All needy, telling me exactly what you want. Exactly how deep.”

Click.

Your core throbbed.

Still—you had a goal tonight. And it wasn’t just soaking your panties.

So you pushed further.

You:

you’re so good at dirty talk

you sure you’re not some secret idol who’s had media training or something?

you kinda sound like you know how to use a mic

You smiled as you sent it. Waited.

Unknown Number:

haha! you’re cute

That’s it? No voice note this time. You narrowed your eyes, smirking.

You:

i’m serious though, i listened to one of chan’s old vlives today

he’s got a sexy ass voice, kinda deep like yours when you talk slow. you two could be twins

You watched the “read” receipt pop up instantly.

No response.

You:

wait…you’re not him, right?

imagine

Nothing.

Your phone stayed silent for almost ten whole minutes.

And then it buzzed again—another voice note.

You could already feel the grin spreading across your face as you hit play.

“I’m not him,” the voice crooned, low and slow like warm silk. “But if I was… you think I’d let you get away with saying shit like that without consequences?”

You bit your lip hard. The recording continued.

“You’d be bent over that couch before you finished the sentence, baby. Face down. Ass up. I’d remind you exactly what my voice sounds like when you’re full of me.”

Click.

You didn’t realize your thighs had clenched together until your muscles ached.

And still—you weren’t done.

You:

you’re really good at this

whoever you are

maybe too good, maybe i should be scared

Unknown Number:

then stop teasing or i’ll make you say my name while you come

Your pulse jumped.

And for the first time all night… you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you already had.

⸻

Your legs were already trembling.

You’d been edging yourself for the past ten minutes—hand under the sheets, replaying that voice note like it was a playlist you couldn’t live without. Every time he said baby in that ruined growl, your fingers slipped lower. Every time he whispered what he’d do to you, your breath hitched.

And then you got brave.

Your thumb hovered over the record icon. You didn’t think. You just pressed.

You let the silence hang for a second—just your breathing, soft and needy. You let him feel how real it was.

Then you whispered, voice hushed, drenched in heat:

“Wanna know how I sound when I imagine Chan fucking me?”

Another pause. Then a soft, teasing whimper. Just enough to make his imagination snap.

“I moan his name like it’s the only word I know,” you purred. “I picture him grabbing my throat, whispering dirty things in that deep voice and accent, and I can’t help it. I’m already dripping.”

You let your breath hitch again. Just once. Just enough.

“I imagine him pushing me up against the wall in his studio, whispering ‘good girl’ against my mouth, and I lose it. I come just from his voice.”

Click.

You stared at the screen, heartbeat in your throat. No regrets.

He didn’t answer immediately.

But when he did—oh, God.

It was instant.

Unknown Number:

baby.

Another voice note dropped in seconds later.

You didn’t even brace yourself this time. You wanted to hear him break.

Click.

“You really wanna play that game?” His voice was pure gravel now, thick with restraint. You could hear the tension, the crack in it.

“Do you have any idea what you just did to me?”

You bit your lip.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep saying shit like that. Fuck—you’re dangerous.”

Another pause. A breath. Something almost like a growl.

“You wanna take this further?”

Your breath caught.

“Take a chance on me. Meet me. Let me ruin you for real.”

You blinked, heart hammering now for a different reason.

Then the final blow—

“I’ll tell you my name in person,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “But you’ll be screaming it by the end of the night anyway.”

Click.

You stared at your phone, stunned. Soaked. Shaking.

Unknown Number:

yes or no

one word baby, and i’ll tell you where to find me

You didn’t text back. You couldn’t. Your hands were shaking too hard to type. So you hit the call button.

Just like that.

Your thumb hovered for half a second before it connected. And then it rang. Once. Twice.

He picked up.

“Fuck,” he breathed—just that.

And it hit you low.

His voice—real, not filtered through a voice note. It filled your ear like silk-wrapped sin, deep and slick and raw.

“You really called me,” he said, almost laughing under his breath, like he couldn’t believe it either. “God, you sound—”

“Wrecked,” you rasped. “I sound completely wrecked.”

His inhale was sharp. You could barely get words out.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you whispered. “Your voice—your fucking voice—it’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had about Chan, but worse.”

He choked. “Worse?”

You whimpered softly, dragging your palm across your soaked core, no longer caring if he could hear.

“He ruins me,” you breathed. “In my head, he’s so mean. Doesn’t even give me time to adjust. Just whispers, ‘take it,’ and—”

“Jesus Christ,” he growled.

“—And I do. I take it like a good girl. Like I’m supposed to.”

He was silent. But you could hear his breathing—heavy, desperate. Like his hand was wrapped around himself already.

You swallowed, voice dipping lower. “I imagine riding his thigh and crying when he doesn’t let me come. You think I’m sick for that?”

“…No,” he rasped. “I think I wanna see it.”

You bit your lip hard. “You’d really watch me fuck myself stupid over your voice?”

“I’d hold your hips down,” he said. “Make you say please. Make you scream.”

And you moaned. Right into the speaker.

Soft. Real. Honest.

He gasped—just a little. That sound did something to him. You felt it.

“Say it again,” he whispered. “Say my name.”

“Chan—” It slipped. You didn’t even think.

And he shuddered.

“Fucking hell. Say it again.”

“Chan—” breathy, broken.

“Keep going.”

“Chan, please,” you whimpered. “Please, I need—fuck—I need you inside me, I can’t—”

His voice broke, cracked, fractured in your ear. You still didn’t hear it. You didn’t notice.

Because in your head, this wasn’t real. There was no way your ultimate fantasy, your favorite idol, the man who owned your soul with one smirk on stage—was the stranger breathing ragged into your phone right now.

There was no way Chan could be real. No way he’d call you baby in that exact voice. No way he’d whisper—

“Say yes.”

Your lashes fluttered.

“To what?” you asked, dizzy.

“Say yes,” he repeated. “To seeing me. Let me prove what I’ll do to you.”

You swallowed hard. You wanted it. All of it.

Still clueless. Still soaked. Still talking to the one man you thought was impossible.

“yes.”

⸻

The car ride felt longer than it was.

Your thighs stayed pressed together the whole time, hands fidgeting in your lap. You kept reapplying lip balm even though it was perfect. Kept checking your phone even though he hadn’t messaged again—not since you said yes.

Just one message. “Penthouse” One pin drop location.

No name still. No other clue.

But you went. You had to.

You reached the building—quiet street, upscale high-rise. Your heels clicked softly against polished marble floors as you made your way through the lobby, every step heavier than the last.

Penthouse suite.

Of course.

He had money. You knew that already. The voice, the confidence, the way he said he’d show you what your fantasies felt like in real life—he wasn’t bluffing.

You stopped in front of the door.

Stared.

And then, hand trembling, you raised your knuckles and knocked once.

Silence.

And then—

The door opened. Your heart stopped.

The man standing there was familiar.

Too familiar.

Too—

“���Chan?” you whispered, eyes wide, stomach lurching.

He leaned against the doorframe, black hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair messy like he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. His chain glinted in the soft hallway light.

One corner of his mouth curved up.

And that voice—that voice that had ruined you all night—slid through your skull like molten sin.

“Surprise, baby.”

You froze.

Mouth parted. Eyes locked on his. Brain not catching up.

You were standing face to face with Bang Chan.

Your idol. Your obsession. Your late-night fantasy.

The man who whispered filth into your ear like it was made for you.

“You’re—” You choked. “No way. There’s no fucking way—”

Chan stepped closer. Just one slow, predatory step.

“You called me Chan when you moaned,” he said, dark eyes locked on your lips. “You knew.”

“I—I thought I was just—I didn’t think—”

He laughed softly, jaw flexing. “But it was always right there in front of you baby”

You backed up a step, but his hand shot out—gripped your waist. Firm. Steady. Possessive.

“I’ve been dying to touch you since the second I saw your profile, Y/N. You think I didn’t notice the way you talk about me online? You practically begged me to ruin you.”

Your knees buckled slightly.

“Now,” he murmured, dragging you inside and shutting the door behind you, “I’m gonna make good on every filthy thing we both said.”

Your back hit the wall.

“But this time,” he whispered, voice all gravel and heat, “you won’t be able to pretend it’s just a fantasy.”

His mouth hovered inches from yours. Pupils blown.

Close enough to feel the heat, to smell the faint trace of his cologne—clean, smoky, dark. Your pulse thudded in your ears, wild and loud. You still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t breathe.

Chan’s hand slid from your waist to your jaw, slow and steady, like he was testing how much of you he was allowed to own. His thumb grazed your bottom lip, tugged it slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Still think this is a dream?”

You shook your head, barely.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I don’t want you waking up anytime soon.”

You leaned in, lips parted, waiting—begging—for his mouth.

But he smirked. Didn’t kiss you.

Instead, he leaned to your ear, breath hot against your skin, and whispered—

“You thought about me in this hoodie, didn’t you?

Your stomach dropped.

“Imagined me pulling it off, pressing you into my mattress—making you forget your own name.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching together.

“I heard every sound you made earlier,” he murmured. “You didn’t even try to hide how wet you were.”

“Chan—” you whispered, but it cracked.

“Mm. Just like that. Say it again.”

“Chan—”

He groaned.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, leaning back just enough to look you over. His gaze dragged down your body—slow, heavy, hungry. “Fuck, you’re exactly my type. Pretty little mouth, skin I wanna bite, and thighs begging to be spread.”

You shivered, hands gripping the front of his hoodie.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

“Not yet.”

You blinked. “W-What?”

His mouth was at your neck now, barely brushing your skin. Not kissing. Not biting. Just hovering.

“You already gave me everything over the phone, didn’t you? Your moans. Your voice. Every filthy thing you wanted me to do.”

His voice dropped to a sinful purr.

“So now I wanna watch you beg.”

You gasped.

“You gonna let me see how desperate you get for me? Right here, baby. Against this wall.”

You swallowed hard. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers trembling.

He grabbed your wrists—lightly, but enough to stop you.

“Mm-mm,” he hummed, lips brushing your cheek. “I said beg.”

“Chan, please,” you whimpered, arching your back just slightly, pushing your chest against his. “You don’t know how badly I need you.”

“No,” he said, low and lethal. “I do. And that’s why I’m not giving it to you yet.”

His hand slid up your thigh—almost. Almost.

Then it stopped.

“You think I’m cruel now?” he whispered. “Wait until I’m inside you and still not letting you come.”

You whined—loud.

And he laughed, dark and breathless. “There she is.”

Then finally—finally—he kissed you.

Not soft, Not sweet.

Claiming.

Tongue first. No warning. Hands gripping your hips like he owned them. You barely got a breath in before he pressed you harder into the wall, lips devouring yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it whole.

And then—he pulled back, chest heaving.

“One more chance to back out, baby,” he said, voice wrecked. “Because after tonight, things are gonna be different.”

“Please—”

He led you down the hallway with his hand on your lower back—no words, no teasing now, just heat radiating off his body like it was built to burn you.

The lights were low, but his room still felt rich. Sleek lines, black sheets, cool-toned walls. And you—blinking at your reflection in the floor-length mirror across from the bed—trying to remember how to breathe.

“Sit,” he said, and you did.

The bed dipped beneath your weight, silk beneath your fingers. He stood in front of you, hoodie still on, eyes dark and patient like a man who already knew how the night would end.

But then—you stilled when you saw what was in his hand.

A blindfold.

You looked up at him, breath catching.

“Trust me?” he asked softly.

You nodded. He stepped closer, brushing hair away from your face before tying the fabric around your eyes. Not too tight. Not uncomfortable. But enough to change everything.

“You don’t need to see me tonight,” he whispered against your cheek. “You’ve heard me. Felt me. Begged for me.”

He guided you backward, hands careful on your shoulders, until you were flat on the bed.

“Tonight,” he whispered, breath ghosting your throat, “you only get sound. And touch. And need.”

You whimpered, arching instinctively, trying to find his mouth, his hands, anything—

But he just laughed. Dark. Low. Almost cruel.

“Desperate already?” he murmured.

“Chan, please—”

“Mm. That’s the one.”

Then his hands—warm, wide—slid down your sides. Slowly. Reverently. But he still hadn’t really touched you.

Until— He moved.

Positioned you without a word. Straddled his thigh between your legs, gripped your waist, and pulled you flush against him.

You gasped—sharp, involuntary.

The muscle flexed beneath you. Solid. Hot. Right where you needed him.

“There,” he whispered. “Didn’t you say you thought about this?”

You nodded frantically, blindfolded and panting.

“Riding my thigh while I whisper all the things I’d do to you?”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, already grinding.

“That’s it, baby. Show me.”

He let you move. Just watched. Let you use him, breath heavy and dirty in your ear as he spoke.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you cried.

“Messing up my pants like a good girl. Gonna leave a stain right there, huh?”

He flexed again.

You whined.

His lips brushed your ear.

“You want my cock already, but I’m making you come just like this. Wanna hear how greedy you sound.”

You moaned—loud, desperate.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Or I’ll stop. We don’t come until I say so.”

“Chan, please—please—”

But he stayed still, hand pressing lightly on your lower back.

“You’ll come when I let you. Not a second before.”

And that broke you.

Your body shook, thighs trembling as he slowed you down, holding you in place.

“You wanna be good for me, baby?” he breathed, lips against your neck. “Take the blindfold off and get on all fours.”

You froze.

He tugged the blindfold free.

You blinked, dazed, ruined.

“Turn around,” he said. “Now.”

And you did.

Hands on the sheets. Ass up. Back arched.

You looked over your shoulder—heart stuttering when you saw him standing there, hoodie off, black tank hugging his chest, chain catching the light.

“You’re gonna take me now,” he growled, stepping closer, voice low and possessive. “Every inch. Every word. Every fantasy.”

“And after that?” you whispered, eyes wide, skin burning.

His smile turned sinful.

“You’ll never think of me as your idol again.”

You felt his body behind you before you heard him move.

A warm palm smoothed over your back, from the dip of your spine to the curve of your ass. Gentle. Reverent. Worshipping. He breathed slow, like he was grounding himself. Like if he wasn’t careful, he’d devour you whole before he even got inside.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured. “Fuck, baby. Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”

You tried to answer, but the words melted on your tongue when he leaned down—chest grazing your back, lips brushing your neck.

“You let me hear you. Let me tease you. Let me own your body before I ever saw your face.”

His fingers slid under the waistband of your underwear, dragging slow.

“And now that I have all of you…” He kissed your shoulder. “You’re not leaving my bed until I’ve ruined you.”

You whimpered.

He laughed, breath hot and low.

“Still so shy? After everything you said to me?”

You turned your head, lips parted. “I want it. All of it.”

That broke him.

The sound he made wasn’t human.

He tore your underwear down and off in one swift pull. Fingers gripped your thighs—tight. Spreading them wide. Exposing you completely.

“Fuck me…” he breathed. “So wet. And you haven’t even been touched yet.”

“Chan—”

He dropped to his knees behind you.

And licked a stripe up your center.

You screamed.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled against you. “Sing for me.”

He devoured like a man starved—tongue precise, relentless, cruel. Two fingers slipped inside, curling just right. Your moans turned messy, hips jerking, hands clawing the sheets.

“That spot?” he rasped. “Right there?”

“Yes—yes—please—”

He spanked your ass once, hard.

“Then take it.”

You shattered—body convulsing, legs trembling, gasping his name like a lifeline. But even through your orgasm, he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t let you rest.

“One more,” he ordered. “I want you crying before I even fuck you.”

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled. You came again—harder, louder, incoherent.

And then— He pulled away.

You blinked back into the world to see him standing over you, eyes blown black, jaw clenched.

He grabbed your hips, dragged you up and back, and lined himself at your entrance.

“Last chance to run.”

You shook your head, tears on your lashes. “Want you.”

He thrusted in—slow, deep, unrelenting.

You both moaned—his hands squeezing your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise.

“So fucking tight,” he growled. “Like you were made for me.”

You whined, head dropping.

He started slow. Intentional. Torturous.

Then leaned over, mouth at your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat.

“Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll forget your name. Gonna fill you so full you’ll know who you belong to.”

Your moans spiraled into sobs. You were wrecked. Completely gone.

And still—he praised.

“Good girl. Taking me so well. Look at that pretty pussy swallowing me whole. Just for me.”

You lost track of time. Of the room. Of anything but the sound of your bodies slapping together and his voice dragging you through every layer of hell.

Then he flipped you. Straddled you.

Fucked you facing him. Eyes locked. One hand holding your face.

“I wanna see you come again,” he whispered. “Right here. Look at me while I ruin you.”

You nodded, tears spilling, body ready to shatter.

He slammed into you—hard, deep, ruthless.

“Now,” he ordered. “Now.”

And you screamed.

Came harder than you ever had. Back arched. Vision gone. World spinning.

He held you through it—kissed your forehead—whispered filth you couldn’t even process.

Then he followed you—coming with a groan so low and raw it vibrated through your bones.

He collapsed over you, breath tangled in your skin.

You lay there, chest heaving, both of you coated in sweat and bliss and something dangerous.

Then— A kiss to your temple.

—

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dangerous.

Your bare skin still touched his, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex, sweat, and the kind of risk you weren’t supposed to crave. His fingers traced lazy lines down your spine, like he didn’t want to let go. Like he was still memorizing how you felt stretched around him.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what the fuck was there to say? He wasn’t your friend. He wasn’t just a stranger. He wasn’t even just some faceless number anymore.

He was him.

And he knew exactly who you were now too. You could feel it in the way he looked at you. Like you were something forbidden he couldn’t stop tasting.

You shifted, chest rising and falling against his, still breathless.

“I probably should go,” you murmured.

His hand flattened against your lower back.

“Should you?” he said.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t let go. Didn’t stop you either.

You pulled away slowly. Found your shirt in a messy heap on the floor, sliding it over your head without bothering to fix your hair. Your thighs still ached. The inside of them still sticky. You weren’t sure if you were shaking from pleasure or adrenaline or both.

“Is this the part where I pretend this didn’t happen?” you asked, voice light but not teasing.

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes dragging across your figure.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

A beat passed.

Then another. And then—

“I probably should’ve stopped this,” he added, quieter this time.

“But you didn’t.”

You turned to face him fully now, shirt barely covering anything, mouth still swollen from the way he kissed you like he wanted to destroy you.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

You stepped toward him, slow.

Deliberate.

He watched you like prey—like the only reason he hadn’t pounced again was because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop the second time.

“I’m not asking for anything,” you said, standing between his knees now. “I know what this is.”

His gaze flicked up.

“What is it?”

Your lips twitched.

“Stupid. Risky. Completely fucking insane.”

He smiled.

And fuck, that smile—you could feel it between your legs.

“But you want more,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I do,” you breathed.

“So do I.”

You swallowed hard.

The air between you practically buzzed.

No confessions. No declarations.

Just need.

And beneath it all, the low, simmering thrill of getting away with something you shouldn’t.

“So what happens now?” you whispered.

His hand slid up your thigh. Not possessive—familiar.

“You wait for me to text you,” he said. “Then you come back. Let me fuck that fantasy out of you again.”

Your breath hitched.

“And if I don’t?”

He smirked.

“Then I’ll send you a reminder.”

His fingers dipped between your legs through your shirt, slow and cruel, and you nearly collapsed right there.

“I’ll see you again,” he added, voice rough against your throat now. “You know I will.”

You kissed him. Hard. Brief. Addictive.

Then slipped from his grip like a storm cloud—messy, dark, full of promise.

You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t need to.

The second the door shut behind you, your phone lit up.

Unknown Number:

Next time, I want you riding my face before you even say hi.

Your smile was sinful. And your reply came fast.

You:

Next time’s too far away.

-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: ‘Unknown number’ portrays one of my most vivid imaginations about how i wanna meet Chan 😩 we’re all delulu so dont look at me like that! But yeah, Chan is always lurking? Well i hope he lurks and finds this fic too 😏😏❤️❤️

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000

[sacredsorceress]

lifeline / bob reynolds

PAIRING: bob reynolds x f!avenger!reader, enemy?void x reader SUMMARY: When you sleep, the Void visits you. This time, you can't hold your worries in and Bob is there to save the day. WORD COUNT: 3k A/N: originally based on this request, but I might have gotten a bit carried away with it! a lot angstier compared to my other bob fics so far but I hope you enjoy!! first time writing the void. WARNINGS: this one's a doozy! 18+, ANGST, violence, mentions of attempted murder, insecurity, general mental illness references, lack of self-worth, terror, anxiety- i probably missed something, but just anything that was in thunderbolts*

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・bob masterlist・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

When anyone asked you about your relationship with Bob, you'd reply that he was everything you asked for and more. They'd laugh and tell you that they were happy for you two. That they had had their doubts at the start, but seeing you now, smiling, a vision of the lovesick girlfriend, they were relieved to know they had nothing to worry about.

And you wouldn't correct them. By all means, dating Bob was everything you asked for. But that more... that addition that you hadn't anticipated, hadn't calculated for when you wished on shooting stars at night begging for another half...

'that more,' you wanted to tell them, 'they should be worried about.'

The thing about dating Bob, was that sometimes when you closed your eyes, you weren’t sure if you were living through a memory or a nightmare. Some were obvious- your teeth falling out, zombies, chainsaw killers- those were dreams and you knew it. But others, like a rewound record spinning you back to dance to the same song over and over, you weren’t sure were concoctions of your own mind or his.

Now though… this one you were sure was him.

“Where’s Bob?”

Your voice reverberated against the sterile, linoleum walls of the lab. Discarded lab equipment had been strewn across the floor and you could hear the crunch of test tubes under your feet.

On the far end of the room on an abandoned examination table, sat a familiar silhouette.

“Asleep.” The Void said.

His shaggy hair hung in front of his face as he pushed himself to his feet.

Your hands formed fists at your sides to stop them from trembling.

"Why am I here?" You asked.

The void chuckled as he made his way towards you. Although it wasn't your first time seeing him, it was more haunting now than it had been before you had truly known Bob. The void was a shadow, a cutout of the man you loved with the parts you admired most replaced with... nothing.

As if he could pull back the curtains and peer into your mind, he spoke again.

"You can't save him y'know." He said, "you can't even save yourself."

It was difficult to maintain your composure as he stepped ever closer. You knew the Void was a plague in your boyfriend's mind, but you never considered that he would be able to infect himself into yours as well.

It was hard to fight a demon who could get inside your head.

"What do you-"

His frame towered over yours just the same as Bob's did, but rather than comforting, it was menacing.

"I know you're scared of us." He chuckled, circling around you like a shark after his wounded prey. "He sees the way you look at him."

With love.. worry... concern. It wasn't that you were scared of Bob, but of him. Of the slithering, conniving darkness that loomed behind his eyes and whispered in his ears when you weren't there. Of the power that coursed through his veins that one day, you feared, you wouldn't be able to stop. You feared that some day he wouldn't be Bob anymore.

You knew you weren't scared of Bob, but did he?

Your voice trembling, you spluttered out words.

"I- I don't-"

The void's eyes narrowed.

"You should be."

His hand crushed your windpipe as your own rushed to your throat to ease the burn. Your feet dangled in the air, feeling for some sort of surface to push yourself off of but you were met with nothing. Instead, you thrashed in his grasp.

"How? How? How?" He asked, bringing his face to yours. "How will you save yourself against a god? You make it easy, y'know. Sleeping next to him. You want so badly to save him that you'll kill yourself for it. You're even more pathetic than him."

You gasped for breath and remembered Bob's words.

Get used to the pain. It won't kill you. Struggling will only make it worse.

"You think he's the sick one, but you're worse." He tilted his head, brighten golden eyes boring into yours. "You're the one sleeping next to a ticking time bomb. One of these nights," he whispered, breath fanning your face. "You're going to wake up with my hands around your throat, just like this, and see me instead of him."

You squeezed your eyes shut

"And the worst part?" He said. "You'll have no one to blame but yourself."

When you opened your eyes, the tangible darkness was gone... and had been replaced with Bob's face.

Before you had time to react, everything faded to black.

With a gasp, you shot up from your sleep. The comforter felt as if it was suffocating you and you needed out, out, out. Eyes burned in the darkness as you rapidly kicked off your sheets, climbed out of bed, and reached for the lamp on your nightstand. With a click it doused the room in its glow.

Still in bed, Bob tossed in his sleep, groaning at the blinding light.

It was Bob. Perfectly pink cheeks, a crinkle between his brow at the inconvenience, and his same soft fingers, reaching up to rub sleep from his eyes.

Not him. Not the Void.

Your brain might have known it, but your body hadn’t caught on.

Your heart raced rapidly in your chest and you wheezed as your lungs chased to meet its pace. Your hands shot up to your chest to try to quell your racing heart as you paced around the room, the burning in your chest growing insatiable.

“Baby?”

His voice cracked from the lack of use as he pushed himself to sit up, eyes still closed as he adjusted to the lamp.

“I’m… I-I-I’m fine, Bob.” You stuttered. “Go back to sleep.”

Bob had heard that story before. Usually from his own lips.

Hearing those words fall from yours- frantic, uneven- he sobered up quickly.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, reaching his hand out for you. “What… what happened?”

You wanted to tell him. You did. A good girlfriend would be honest, wouldn’t they?

But would an even better girlfriend spare her boyfriend the grief of a monster he couldn’t control? What would telling him do? It would relieve your stresses at the price of his own, making him spiral knowing that the Void was just ever beneath the surface, waiting to make his mark on you.

Tears burned behind your eyes as you leaned against the dresser to catch your breath.

He was in your head. You knew its what he wanted: to get in your mind and make you second guess yourself, Bob, your relationship- but the knowledge didn't make silencing his eerie voice in your head, mixed with the smooth tones of the one you loved, any easier.

He wanted Bob and you were in the way.

But what was better? To tell Bob and only further upset him, giving the Void exactly what he wanted? Or to keep it to yourself and know that he was waiting, plotting on your demise while Bob was none the wiser?

You felt a warm hand touch your shoulder.

You flinched, and pulled away on instinct. As you did, you clamored into the dresser, knocking spare trinkets onto the floor.

Bob held his hands up in the air in surrender. The worry painted on his face made your heart plummet to your stomach.

"Bob..."

"Y/n," Bob said, ever so slowly lowering his hands. "Let me help. I can help."

You were never much of a crier. Neither of you were. It was a last resort- the water crashing against the dam, splintering its cracks over time until it could no longer hold and the floodgates were opened.

You felt it now: the concerns that you had tried so hard to repress for Bob's sake, shoved so far down that you yourself had almost forgotten that they existed. But it was a foundation with only more rooms built on top- rooms flooded with tangible memories, fears, worries. They had all built up, one upon the other until it felt like you had run out of room. Like one more thing would make its walls splinter and burst.

And he- that shadowy void that represented everything you hated about yourself- got in your head, took a look around and decided to torch the place. The smell of it all made your eyes water.

Unable to speak, you flung yourself into your boyfriend's arms with such a force that he let out an oof. And as you buried your face in his chest, a sob escaped your throat.

"Talk to me," he pleaded, cradling your head in his arms against his frame. "I want to help."

Although he had the untapped abilities of a god, after a year, Bob had finally learned to accept that he may never be the hero that he was promised. He may never be the guy that children keep posters of, or the man a bus full of people cheer on after he saves them from a cliff.

This knowledge hadn't come to him naturally from a budding self-confidence, but rather, the realization that he didn't need to be the hero of everyone if he could be one for you.

And you had enough of your own abilities that you didn't need his super strength or flying- or any of the other Sentry powers- all you needed was what God himself gave him: Bob.

"I can't." You cried, holding him tighter to you.

His hands that had been brushing back your hair stilled for a moment.

"Was it... was it him?" Bob asked.

The way you froze against him and your breath hitched told him everything that he needed to know.

Bob would be lying if he said a chill didn't run down his spine; it would have been a futile endeavor regardless because they all knew Bob was terrified of him. To know that he was there, lurking beneath the surface-

But this wasn't his turn to run. Bob had done that more times than he would be proud to admit. He had cried into your arms, screamed into the pillow, threw punches at dummies in the training room pretending they were him. Bob had been the victim.

Seeing you here, vulnerable than ever in his arms, he knew it was his time to be the hero.

"Hey, hey." Bob cooed, cupping your cheeks in his hands. "He can't hurt you."

Bob wasn't sure if that was true. What he was sure about, was that as much as he'd let the void consume his own life, he wouldn't let it touch yours.

"It feels like he can." You said, catching your breath. "And fuck, he knew it would get to me, so it would get to you and he could-"

He knew this spiral. It was as familiar to him as his own face.

It felt sick coming from your mouth. You believed you had to suffer in silence, bear it all with a grin so you could protect him. He didn't know whether to blush or cry.

Instead, he shut out the voice in the back of his head leading him right into the trap you told him about: that he was worthless, that he ruined your life, that made everything worse, that you were afraid of him, and brushed the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs.

"Do I look like him?"

You scrunched your eyebrows and shook your head.

"No."

And he could never. As much as he had Bob's shape, his voice... the Void could never be him. He could never be your sweet boy with the unruly hair who touched you like you were glass. The Void didn't sing along to songs on the radio to make you laugh or tuck you into bed. He didn't help you bake the team's birthday cakes or give you butterfly kisses when their backs were turned.

The Void may have been the monster in his head, but he was your Bob.

Bathed in the warm light of the lamp's glow, you could see the sweaty curls sticking to his forehead and the worry lines that had begun to etch themselves into his forehead. But mostly, you could see his pupils blown out from the love they held for you.

"Look I- I'm just some loser from Florida." Bob said. "With a girlfriend wayyyy out of my league. But that.. that other guy's a dick. And I'm... I'm gonna fix it." He nodded as if he was convincing himself moreso than you. "I don't want you to worry about me, okay?"

A snort escaped your throat as a barely-there smile graced your face.

"I'm always going to worry about you." You sniffled.

It was the most simple fact in the world. It didn't matter that he was physically impenetrable or that he had lived ten lives before you two even met: you were going to worry about him until your dying breath.

And he knew that. Every day when he woke up with you beside him, Bob could feel it in your love for him. It made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

He would be remiss if he didn't make sure you felt it too.

"Just let me worry about you for once." Bob whispered, a crooked, exhausted smile on his lips. "Please?"

And as you looked up at him, his tired eyes gazing down at you as he blinked, the Void felt worlds away from the man standing in front of you.

"Okay." You nodded, nudging your cheek against the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

Bob shook his head and reached down for one of your hands.

"Don't be." He said, leading you back to bed. "I want to be there for you."

Bob lifted up the sheet and ushed you underneath it.

"My hero." You playfully sighed, reaching up to brush his curls back.

Bob didn't say anything, but at your adoring compliment, he stood up a little taller and felt a heat rise to his cheeks. Your hero. He liked the sound of that. The hero's hero.

Without another word, he leaned down, kissed your cheek, and shut off the lamp.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

The next morning when you had left to grab a coffee with Ava, Bob hesitantly made his way to the kitchen where he knew Yelena would be sat for breakfast.

When he entered the room- robe haphazardly thrown on, hair a tangled mess from his tossing and turning, and dark circles forming under his eyes from the lack of sleep- Yelena drank him in.

"You look like shit." She said bluntly.

It was such a contrast to the night before that he couldn't help but chuckle awkwardly, running his hand up and down the back of his neck.

"Yeah, yeah," Bob laughed. "I feel like it."

Eyeing him carefully, Yelena pat the stool beside her.

"Let it out." She said.

And when he sat, the events of last night flew out of his mouth like word vomit. Bob went into minute detail on how you flinched when he touched you, how scared you were, but mostly, how worried he was about you.

Here he was that past year, rejoicing in the weight you took off of his shoulders, without considering that now the burden had fallen onto you- and you were being crushed under its weight. Bob knew you would never blame him: he had had enough therapy sessions and late night conversations with you to know that, but he still couldn't help but feel that he had failed you.

"I just, I don't want her to worry." Bob said, playing with the frayed ends of his robe. "I just... I want to take care of her, y'know? I don't want this... void... in me hurting her. You should've seen her, Yelena. Because of me-"

Yelena reached out her hand for Bob's.

"She is not scared of you, Bob-" Yelena said.

Bob squeezed his eyes shut.

"I- I don't want her to be scared at all."

And it's like he's a child all over again. All he wants is to protect the woman he loves, but just manages to make it worse.

The lights flicker above them dishes and silverware rattle in their cabinets.

"Bob..." Yelena warns.

"I should be able to protect her."

The frustration, the upset, the way that your eyes looked at him in fear last night. Bob couldn't do it again; he wouldn't.

But Yelena knew him beyond words. She could see that this wasn't the anger of a man who couldn't, but a man who hadn't- and he wanted to fix that.

"You can," she said. "You will. I'll talk with Bucky and we will figure something out. We've pushed it off for too long anyway. We will fix it, Bob."

The lights returned to normal as the glassware settled on its shelves. Finally being able to bring himself to look at Yelena, he nodded.

"Just... promise me you won't tell her?" Bob asked. "I mean, she's worried so much about me and I just wanna worry about her now. Promise, Yelena?"

She nodded.

"I promise." Yelena said, squeezing his hand. "And I promise he won't hurt her. We will not give him the chance."

She shook his hand in hers and shot him a playful smile.

"Now eat." She said. "Maybe the void is just hangry."

And so maybe from then on your coffees with Ava or John got even more frequent, the two methodologically taking you out whenever Bob worked with Yelena and Bucky as to evade your knowledge. And maybe Bob slept on the couch during his bad days, fearful that he might hurt you in the night, but return to bed before the sun rose so you'd never know.

And maybe he felt guilty, lying to you like he was. But for once in his life, Bob didn't want to be the victim. He wanted to be the hero who- with the help of his loved ones- could save the day for you.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・inbox・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

[bloodsherry]

things we said after we kissed

🔞-slightly

“No one can know.” Dazai’s mouth trailed down the line of his neck and his hands—codicious, clumsy, hungry—mapped his body. Chuuya threw his head back and bit his lip until the metallic taste of blood flooded his palate.

And Dazai, who was a fucking menace, parted his legs with his knee and pressed against Chuuya’s crotch, drawing a groan from him.

“Why would I want anyone to know?” Dazai teased before nibbling and sucking on the tender freckled skin of Chuuya’s neck, just below the choker.

“Slug, I wouldn’t dare, what if someone thought I liked your drool? How awful.”

“Shut up and use your mouth for something useful.”

He couldn’t see Dazai for the lack of light, the bulb illuminating the dusty file hardly helping, but Chuuya knew the bandaged bastard well enough to know he was smiling.

“Whatever my dog wants.”

Chuuya clung to Dazai, draping an arm over his bony shoulders to pull him closer. They had learned, thanks to a bottle of imported liquor they had stolen from Ace, that kissing and groping over their clothes was more effective than chasing and beating eo through the hallways.

It was a pity, Chuuya thought, as Dazai reached under his shirt and splashed wet, needy kisses down his neck, collarbone…, that they hadn’t discovered this much sooner.

Chuuya rubbed against Dazai’s knee, moaning louder when he felt the brunet's erecti0n.

“If you're a good boy, I'll suck you dry.”

Dazai held his breath. It was satisfying to leave Dazai speechless in the middle of a mission or playing in the arcade, but it couldn’t compare to turning the brunet into incoherent mush simply with his hands.

Or his mouth.

“I’ll be the best,” Dazai promised, quickly unbuttoning his shirt as he traced a path of kisses and bites across the redhead’s chest. “You have my word.”

“Your word is worth shit.”

No one could know.

It was a secret, their dirty secret. Dazai brought their mouths together in a soft kiss, too soft. Chuuya bit Dazai’s lip hard to set his own rhythm, one that would mute the pleasant heat in his chest, the moisture in his eyes, and the pressure in his throat.

No one could know, or he would be taken away.

“C-Chibi,” he gasped, his lips swollen and wet. Chuuya sucked greedily at Dazai’s upper lip. Don’t think. Don’t think. “Slow down, if you keep this up…”

Before he could finish what he wanted to say, the door opened and something fell to the floor—a bundle of files. Chuuya’s heart raced, fear paralyzed him, and a million scenarios, all catastrophic, ran through his mind at full speed.

Dazai slowly pulled himself to his feet, ran a hand through his fluffy, messy hair and took a long glare at the intruder.

“I-I’m sorry… I didn’t see anything! I mean… What’s there to see?”

By now, everyone knew Double Black, and of course, the rumors about the Black Wraith of the Port Mafia had spread so far that everyone conveniently forgot that Nakahara Chuuya was a singularity in a trap made of flesh and bones. They didn’t talk about it, how could they? But Chuuya secretly hoped that Dazai had done it on purpose, that he had created such a bloodthirsty reputation for himself so that when people looked at them, they wouldn’t see the

real monster, but the fake one, the one wrapped in shadows and bandages. God, he was ruined if that filled his chest.

Dazai gave the intruder a beatific smile as he began to beg.

No one could know.

Everyone dies.

No one could know or—

Everyone he loves dies in the end.

“Get out,” Chuuya ordered, and he didn’t have to repeat himself. “What the hell did you say to him?”

Dazai tilted his face, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

It was a secret. They decided this the first time they kissed on the rooftop of Port Mafia’s tallest tower, hidden and practically glued together because the cold was unbearable and the false sense of warmth—liquid courage—that the alcohol gave them was not enough.

Chuuya cupped Dazai’s face tightly, and Dazai sat on his lap, his thighs trapping Chuuya’s hips as if trying to get under his skin.

It was a secret they would take to their graves.

Chuuya pushed him harder against the wall.

“Shitty Dazai, this idiot know now that we are—”

“…Fucking?” he purred. Chuuya jumped and Dazai let out a laugh that echoed through the corridor. “Breathe, Chibi, or you’ll shrink and disappear~”

“I’m fucking serious!”

Something crossed Dazai’s face—something ugly and terribly human—but it was so fleeting that Chuuya couldn’t catch it before it disappeared under the brunet’s usual mask of coldness and indifference. Chuuya pressed his lips together, drawing a thin line to keep the forbidden words from escaping.

He wanted to wipe that hollow expression from his partner’s face, wanted to paint his stupid bandaged face with hundreds, if not thousands, of stupid emotions. He released Dazai from his grip and stepped back to compose himself. They weren’t on that line, they would never be on that line.

“Don’t worry, no one knows.” Chuuya hesitated and Dazai smiled, but it was a flat, hollow, empty smile. “Never. I promise”

That was good.

It was what he wanted, but a part of him didn’t feel good about it.

No, no one could know.

No one could know, bc then it would be real and Chuuya feared that he wouldn’t be able to control his stupid feelings.

Especially not Dazai. What would the bastard do if Chuuya gave him his heart? Would he reject it? Or worse, maybe he’d accept it, tear it to pieces until it was unrecognizable, and then mock his audacity.

Or maybe, just maybe…

That was the worst part, maybe Dazai…

—end.

[sylvieserene]

I fixed (Red Robin) Evil Robin's hairline from Teen Tyrants because my guy desperately needed it

Edited Version(s):

[robinsgrl]

toxic baby daddy rafe does something to me. no soft rafe (only with his girls and only sometimes). he’s abrasive and harsh. even more when someone messes with you. yooo where my panties at

mdni 18+

It’s been three months. Three months without Rafe as your boyfriend. Three months of his only title in your life being your baby daddy. There were days where you would refuse to even call him that.

In high school, you loved the sound of his voice. You loved how the palm of his hand felt at the small of your back. You loved that being around him brought you a sense of peace.

Now, all you two do is argue. About everything and anything. Even if you do start half of them. Not now, though.

“What I do in my spare time is none of your business!” Luckily, Samara’s in the living room, her noise cancelling headphones on as she watches some YouTube show, giggling when something funny comes up. You’d usually try and pay attention to her screen time but you can’t when Rafe is in your home and bitching at you.

“So you’re whoring it up when Samara’s with me?” His words are harsh, spitting them at you.

Your eyes are wide and bewildered as you look up at him, chest rising and falling from the intense match you’re having. “Listen to yourself! Whoring it up? Are you from the fifties? Women can have sex without being called a whore nowadays!”

“So you are fucking someone? Who is he.” It’s not a question. It’s a goddamn demand and you hate the way it makes your knees feel weak.

You scoff loudly, rolling your eyes. “I’m not fucking anyone.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, ___, Topper fucking saw you.”

“Topper’s your dick rider.” You spit back out. It comes without warning. His big hand falls on your neck, tightening around you. Your back pushes up against the wall, eyes wide and up on his as he stares down at you angrily.

His face nears yours, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. A shudder runs through your body and you want to shut your legs to help ease the sensation between them but he forces his knee to you. “I’ll kill any man who gets near you, do you fucking hear me?” His words are low and menacing. From anyone else, it’d be scary. It’d drive you away and straight to goddamn police station. But from him? You can’t deny how good it feels.

Rafe’s always been protective of you. Since you two met, he’s hovered around you like a scary dog, growling at anyone who came your way. It grew when you got knocked up in your senior year of high school. And it grew tenfold when your baby girl was born. But it got to be suffocating. You broke it off with him and it took him two weeks to realize you were being serious.

You would never admit that you made a mistake. Not ever. Admitting that you miss him only lets him win. It gives him a point. And yes, you should be mature enough to realize this isn’t a game but he’s so damn cocky about it. The last thing you need from Rafe is a bigger ego.

“Who is he?”

“Eric. Eric Jones.” You admit easily, breath shaky and full of a need for him.

“Did he fuck you?”

You can’t answer. He repeats himself.

“Did he fuck you?”

You nod, hands falling to his arm as his hand tightens on your neck. His eyes won’t leave your face, taking you in completely. You can see it all. The anger. The jealousy. The twinge of hurt. He pulls his hand from your neck and pulls away from you. “Call your mother. Tell her to pick Samara up.”

“What?”

“Just fucking do it.” And you do. Like always, you do as told and Samara’s off with her grandma for the night.

“He can’t fuck you like I can.” You’re a drooling mess as he pounds into you from behind, the sound of skin on skin meeting fills the room. His hand is in your hair, forcing your head back. “Tell me. Tell me how good I make you feel.”

The moans and whimpers coming from you won’t stop. You try to form words as he keeps shattering your world but it won’t come out. “Fucking slut. Answer me.” His hands trail down to your neck, pushing you up slightly to sit as he keeps fucking into you. Your back arches up against him, toes curling as you feel the building ache in the bottom of your belly.

He groans loudly as he feels your walls clench down on him as you curse out loud, grinding down on him to reach that peak you want so badly.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight. He couldn’t even fuck you right, could he? My poor girl, getting fucked by amateurs.” His fingers trail down to your freed tits, pinching at your pebbled nipples. “I don’t care what break you think we’re on, when you need a good fucking, come to me. No one can ever make you this cock drunk.”

You’re nodding frantically, “yes, yes, fuck, Rafe! Rafe! Oh, fuck!” You come undone when his fingers find their way to your clit, rubbing at your sensitive and pulsing bundle of nerves.

At this very moment, you’re grateful for the house that Rafe bought you instead of cooping up in the one bedroom apartment you wanted when you moved out of his place. You had hated the power he had for giving you such a nice place but you’re grateful now as you moan and yell his name, body convulsing as his fingers keep working against you.

“Raaaafe, fuck!” He’s pushing deep and deeper as he pushes your front side back onto the bed. The overstimulation is making you writhe beneath him, pretty whimpers leaving your swollen and reddened lips. You can tell he’s reaching his own end when his thrusts become harder and longer, momentum slowing.

One pump. Two pumps. Three. Four. And he’s groaning in your ear, his front pressed up against your back as he comes inside of you from behind, your cunt fluttering around him at the full feeling of his load.

—

You awaken hours later to the bed dipping beside you. You had fallen asleep in Rafe’s arms after he had cleaned you up and whispered soothing and sweet nothings into your ear.

“Rafe?” You sit up tiredly, rubbing at your eyes to wipe the sleep away. His back is turned to you, the most relaxed you’d seen him in a while.

You scooch closer to him, pinched eyes trying to take a look at him. A small gasp leaves you as you see his bloodied and scarred hands. “Go back to sleep, baby.” His polo is covered in dribbles of blood, some drops of it drying up on his face.

You want to ask questions. You want to clean him up. But you can’t. You’re not a very good liar and the last time the police came around asking for your help, you almost broke, but Rafe was always thinking of you, his lawyer cleaning up the mess you made with the police. He had kissed and soothed you down from your teary apologies that night for being weak.

You nod, yawning softly, “okay… just… put the shirt in the wash.” It’s his turn to nod, a soft smile on his face as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

[shy-writer-999]

When they're drunk: Monster Trio, Ace + Law (sfw, fluff)

Summary: How do they act when they're drunk? What's their favorite drink? Do they get lovey-dovey? SFW fluff. CW: Curse words/profanity. "Princess" used in Sanji and Ace's parts. Mentions of kissing/making out, suggestive themes but nothing outright explicit (hence, sfw). A singular, mild nod to vomiting in Sanji's section.

Luffy: rowdy and hungry

He’s pretty predictable; he gets rowdy, eats a lot, and has horrible hangovers (one of the main reasons he abstains from drinking almost entirely).

Rarely drinks. One of the reasons in his mind for not over-indulging is that if he gets too drunk he won’t be able to remember all the meat he ate.

Literally no impulse control. So when he does drink, he racks up a HUGE tab (mostly bar food) and one of the crew has to pick up his bill because he forgets to close it out. You make sure to tip extra because it’s his tab.

Eats even more than usual because (obviously) eating good food while you’re drunk makes it taste even better. Chokes on his food more, too. It's kind of a pain in the ass.

Luffy is a MENACE about the food. He’ll gomu gomu his arm to the other side of the bar to swoop up some unsuspecting random’s food and he’ll shove it in his gullet in the blink of an eye. No evidence or crumbs. A monster.

He gets dehydrated because he doesn’t drink water when he’s drunk, and his salt intake is crazy, so he literally has to be reminded to do so. At some point you just start pushing a glass of water into his hands and rolling your eyes because you know he’s going to be the biggest complainer the next morning.

Luffy and Usopp egg each other on, it’s bad because sometimes they have drinking contests (or eating contests). They get scrappy sometimes and you have to tell them off because they cause a scene.

He won’t shut up about being king of the pirates. No one minds but, goddamn, how many times can one person say that in a night?

He’s endearingly sweet when he’s had too much to drink. He can’t stop staring at you when his face isn’t buried in a plate of food.

His eyes are glued to your face.

“Luffy, what? Why are you staring at me?”

“You just look so pretty.”

He even wants to hold your hand when you walk back to the ship at the end of the night. The whole crew thinks you make a cute couple, and they love how happy you make each other.

When you crawl into bed at the end of the night, he clings onto you like a sloth and then starts snoring in your ear. He wraps himself around you and conks out almost immediately.

Sure enough, the next morning he’s complaining so much it would be insufferable if you didn’t love him to pieces. He whines and you take care of him.

Luffy recovers from his monster hangover at a superhuman speed, which makes the whining not so bad—it’ll be less than an hour of complaining and whining and pouting, but when you’ve made him drink enough water and brought him enough food, he is as good as new in mere minutes. It’s uncanny.

Favorite drink?: Anything he can get his hands on, but he likes beer best (more volume). Will never do shots.

Zoro: over-indulges like clockwork

When he's drunk he generally does things he shouldn’t. Drinks too much and flirts too much. Eats way too much and runs his mouth too much, too.

He flirts with anyone he wants to, which is usually VERY out of character, but he doesn’t care at all when he’s drunk. He’ll flirt with you, with Sanji’s partner, with Sanji (?), the bartender, anyone and everyone he feels like.

It’s when he’s tipsy that the flirting starts. He’s deviously subtle about it at first. Zoro jokes and tease, but after coaxing so much laughter out of you one too many times, you start to wonder if he’s flirting with you (he is).

He gets more blunt as the night goes on. The drunker he is the bolder he is. He manages to elicit more crimson, flushed faces in the bar than anyone on the crew, and this can be attributed to the fact that he’s strikingly handsome and he almost never says anything suggestive. But the liquor brings out his cheeky smiles. And it’s hard to look away from those muscles or flashing eyes.

Drinks wayyyy too much but has a super high tolerance, so he doesn’t usually act very drunk. He can drink the whole crew (and usually whole bar) under the table.

Always down for a drinking game and loves to bet on it because he knows he’ll win. He pouts when no one wants to participate because everyone can only lose to him so many times before they start to refuse for good.

Generally just down for gambling in general, but when he’s drunk he goes balls to the wall with it. And he actually doesn’t lose very much. Almost makes enough to pay off his tab.

While he doesn’t act very drunk, if you know him well enough you can tell when he’s too far gone. His eyes linger, he smiles harder, his glass empties faster, and he turns his body towards yours more with each passing second. His knee or thigh rests against yours and you’re so intoxicated with his presence that it’s hard to pay attention to his words.

Zoro orders more than he knows he should, and more than he knows he can pay for. Somehow it always works out—one of the crew members bails him out (usually Nami, and when she does, she adds 300% interest, but Zoro is too drunk to care).

Surprisingly polite to waitstaff, maybe a little curt at times.

It’s no secret that he just loves a good glass of sake, beer, wine, anything and everything with alcohol. One of his favorite things is to just sit back, relax, and drink. It would concern you if you didn’t know how strict his discipline and self-control are.

He gets extra handsy when he’s drunk (and possessive). He never crosses lines with you, but since you started seeing each other in an intimate capacity, he can’t take his hands off of you, especially when he’s drunk. Doesn’t care if he’s in public, doesn’t care if people are watching. The rest of the crew is shocked when they first witness him getting a rough handful of your ass.

Zoro pulls out pet names, which you’d assume is out of character. Somehow the liquor makes him sweet. “C’mere gorgeous.”

But it also makes him spicier. “God, you’re so fucking hot.”

Loves sloppy make out sessions after he's had a few drinks. Also is prone to pulling you away somewhere and... well, you know. The man's a dog.

Zoro’s voice gets lower and huskier when he’s too far gone. It makes you feel some sort of way. And your bashfulness does not escape him.

But when he’s wayyyy drunk, he just falls asleep. Like he’ll pass out at the bar. He makes it back to the ship by himself usually, but you’ve had to shake the sleepy swordsman awake a couple of times.

“Zoro, get up. We’re going back to the ship.”

You have no idea how he can sleep in such a loud bar, and the bartender has been glaring at him for a good 20 minutes at this point.

“Wha-?” He raises his head and blinks sleep out of his eyes while he instinctively reaches for his (empty) pint. “Oh hey, pretty.” He mumbles and your heart does a flip for the 100th time that night.

Zoro gets MONSTER, BRUTAL hangovers. Next level. He doesn’t complain, per say, but he’ll walk around squinting, shielding his eyes from light, wincing, muttering curse words, and hissing in air through his teeth the whole time. Forces himself to train through the hangovers and gets grumpy about it.

Favorite drink: sake. Really nice sake.

Sanji: as doting as ever

Ohhh Sanji. He’s adorable when he’s drunk.

His whole face gets red and his hair gets a bit ruffled. He blushes more than usual and you can practically see his eyes turn into hearts when he looks at you.

Sanji drunk flirts wayyy more audaciously than Zoro, and when he’s drunk he actually spits mad game.

He’s incapable of doing so when he’s sober, but when he’s drunk he literally attracts a crowd of women. But his eyes are only for you.

If the bar has music and people are dancing, Sanji begs you to dance with him. He loves to twirl you around, feel your hand in his, and let loose. And he’s surprisingly good at it.

Orders bar food even though he’s continually unimpressed by it.

He somehow manages to weasel his way into the kitchen every time he sets foot in a bar. He wants to see what’s going on in there—when’s the last time they cleaned the stove? Are the knives sharp? What’s the mise en place setup? What’s their speciality? Why are they using cabernet sauvignon to cook, instead of a pinot noir that would obviously be the better choice? God forbid they use frozen french fries.

Inevitably, he ends up cooking something and either getting along with or fighting with the cooks.

Sometimes he even ends up behind the bar. He isn’t just a spectacular chef, he’s also good at making drinks. Obviously his are better than the bartender’s.

Smokes so many cigs when he’s drunk (because nothing trumps a drunk cigarette) >_>

When he isn’t fucking around in the kitchen or slinging cocktails, Sanji waits on you hand and foot. He gets you literally anything you desire when you’re at the bar, and when you’re back home he asks you (and everyone else) what food you’d like.

“Princess, would you like another cocktail?” and “Have you been drinking enough water, sweetheart?”

If a creepy guy at the bar so much as looks at you, let alone puts an unwanted hand on your arm or small of your back, Sanji flips his shit. “Hey asshole, watch it. Do that again and I’ll kick your ass.”

This goes without saying, but Sanji loves to cook when he’s drunk and somehow his food is even better than usual—and that isn’t because you’re drunk, too. It’s just that good.

“What would you like me to make you, my love?”

If you don’t know what particular dish you’re in the mood for, he makes you a feast comprised of your favorite foods.

Even if you request something elaborate, he has no problems with it. Cooking is his love language, and he puts extra love into your food.

“God, you’re so beautiful. I can’t take my eyes off of you.” He praises you beyond belief, even when he’s at the stovetop. “You’re perfect, my angel.”

Sanji smothers you in kisses and wants to entwine his fingers with yours. He’s a huge hand holder and cuddler.

If you get way too drunk, he carries you to bed, helps you into some comfy clothes and makes sure you’re sleeping on your side. He’ll pet your hair and watch over you carefully. He’d never let you get to the point of throwing up, but just in case you do, he brings you the necessary supplies.

He sets out everything he thinks you could possibly want in case you wake up before him, and when he is awake, he brings you whatever you ask for. He’s attentive, never overbearing, thoughtful, and darling.

“You somehow get more beautiful every day,” he tells you first thing in the morning when you feel like shit from your hangover and (objectively) look a damn mess. “So perfect, like always.”

Favorite drink(s): bougie and carefully curated glass of pinot gris. Even better if it comes with complementary accoutrements. Also enjoys a negroni.

Ace: charming and protective

When Ace is drunk, he’s smooth, flirty, charming, polite, and a bit forward. But he gets just as rowdy as Luffy. God forbid they’re at the same bar.

He loves it when a bar has pool. He’s crazy good at it and begs everyone to play.

When the situation calls for it, he either breaks up bar fights or runs his mouth so much that he starts them. He’s sassy in general but also talks big game (that he can back up). Especially if someone starts slandering or talking out of their ass about someone he knows.

Somehow manages to gain control over the music every bar he walks into. And he has good playlists too. He hates it if the vibe is off so he takes it upon himself to remedy or prevent that.

Also a big fan of drinking games.

Weirdly excited if there is any opportunity to grill meat. Thinks it’s fun to fuck around with his powers and show off (but it doesn’t get too cringey or anything).

Won’t smoke any drunk cigs (like Sanji) but will accompany people outside and give them a light if they need one (he’s just so thoughtful!!!)

He’s wildly protective over you.

Makes you flustered nonstop and pays for everything. Making you flustered is like a sport to him.

And while he’s obsessed with you, he doesn’t cling to you at the bar or demand your attention every second. He wants you to have fun with your friends, but he also wants you to be safe, so he keeps a watchful eye.

Sings random bar pirate songs with his friends and crew and gets super goofy.

Raucous laughter. Spit-take level

When his cheeks are ruddy and his eyes are glazed over he looks painfully good. The flush makes his freckles pop and when he scrunches his nose up to laugh they’re emphasized even more. He looks ridiculously good. Like, squeeze your thighs together good.

Ace TEARS UP bar food when he’s drunk. He’s a beast for it. Can put away plates of fries, wings, pizza, pretzels, you name it. The man is a machine.

Loves to put a hand on your thigh when you’re sitting next to him. He does this sober but when he’s drunk it’s feels so much more intense.

Pulls out the sweetest pet names.

“How’s it going, sugar?”

“You drinking enough water, pumpkin?”

Among others: buttercup, darling, angel, princess, doll, etc.

His polite tendencies are multiplied by 1000 any time he gets a drop of alcohol in him.

Gets into sports (or strength) debates at bars.

Has a penchant for accidentally leaving stuff at bars, e.g. wallet. Gets embarrassed about it afterwards.

Ace’s body gets HOT when he’s drunk—his ability (or attention) to control his temperature slips a bit and he can sometimes forget to regulate himself (regarding his devil fruit). And while he’s physically hot, he doesn’t get sweaty or anything. And it’s nice to hold his hand when it’s warm, too. Super comforting.

He’s all hands (and lips) when he’s drunk, and when you let him/when neither of you are too wasted, but if you’re really drunk and try to initiate anything with him, he IMMEDIATELY puts a stop to it. He’s a gentleman (not implying that anyone mentioned here would do the opposite of this, just stressing it for Ace because I think he’d put a lot of intention and thought into this, along with Sanji).

He makes sure you don’t drink too much (and tries to do the same) because he hates seeing you miserable with a hangover. But if you do over-indulge, he’s there to bring you anything you need—ibuprophen, water, Pedialyte, more blankets, different clothes, food, literally anything you could think of.

When you’re out of bed the morning after, he literally chews people out for speaking too loudly around you when he knows you have a headache. He's attentive and gets grumpy (not towards you, of course) whenever you're feeling bad.

Favorite drink: whiskey or rum and coke. Beer guy, too, so might indulge in the occasional IPA and pretend like it tastes good.

Law: awkward, silly, and endearing

Frequently refuses to drink because he hates having his senses dulled in the slightest. But on rare occasions when he does drink, the whole crew has a blast.

His standoffish and cold disposition melts away when he has a few drinks in him.

The first time you witness his coldness melting away, you’re sitting around a table with the crew at a pub. He’s a couple drinks in, mean mugging like usual, deadpan and unamused. But someone says something ridiculously funny and he breaks into roaring laughter. You weren’t expecting that but everyone else is grinning because they love to see their captain happy.

When Law gets past a certain point he lets loose. It’s fun to see him mess around with the crew. He’ll laugh so hard he doubles over.

He's so sweet and tender inside. And that makes more of a prominent impression when he lets his guard down just a tad.

When he’s drunk he thinks Bepo is even cuter and goes a little overboard about it to the point where Bepo side eyes him >_> he thinks it’s weird to have his captain hang all over him sometimes. But Bepo is just so fluffy and cute!

When Law is intoxicated and you’re around, his face is covered in big, goofy, sweet smiles. Flashing eyes and lingering touches. He gets rosy cheeks and his hair gets messed up. Makes him look even better.

But he also has the tendency to make blisteringly intense eye contact. So strong and scathing that it makes you squirm in awkwardness if you aren’t used to it. He can’t help it though, he’s locked-in on how beautiful you are.

Surprisingly a fan of drinking games (no gambling though), but what he likes best is if a bar has old arcade games (air hockey and pool will suffice, if not). He could play them for hours and gets super excited about them. He knows all the facts and history behind each arcade game and will rant about it to anyone in earshot.

His ears perk up if he hears some nerdy shit. Did someone mention a comic he read when he was five? A commemorative coin that he has been on the hunt for? He’ll get to the bottom of it.

If he hears a bad take on his interests^^ he’ll sit down for a heated debate and he always wins.

Surprisingly cute when he’s wasted because he slurs the “-ya”

Watches the crew's water intake like a hawk. Reminds everyone to drink water and makes sure everyone has a glass of it at all times.

Will make sure the crew has enough bar food to eat, family-style.

Picks up the crew's huge tab without being fussy about it. Might pretend to be grumpy about it. But he does it lovingly because he cherishes his crew so much and it's a nice way to showcase that without having to say it out loud.

If you’re one on one, Law can be persuaded to talk about deep and personal things, or rather, he’s more comfortable speaking about them when he has some liquid courage in his veins.

The first time he got too drunk and you took care of him was before you started seeing each other. You practically had to carry him back to the Polar Tang. He almost left his hat at the bar, too.

Law was being uncharacteristically sweet to you all night. When you got back to his cabin, you helped him get into bed and brought him water. He (drunkenly) thanked you profusely and called you beautiful (you didn’t expect that).

The next morning he blushed bright red and was painfully awkward when he said thank you. He had a massive hangover and tried to hide it but you could tell every time he winced.

After that, Law figured out he could just use his devil fruit powers to remove the last traces of alcohol from his (or someone else's) systems, so it's safe to say that the Polar Tang doesn't experience hangovers much.

Favorite drink: Espresso martini.

tysm for reading ヽ(>∀<☆)ノ

i'm back from my mini-hiatus! but i can't say i'll be posting regularly (or at all? idk) until mid december. (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ it's final papers and app season so i'm going to be getting it from all sides 😭 but holy shit i can't wait to go absolutely crazy when i'm free from those obligations!

see my masterlist if you'd like more~

[abbotjack]

Um i have a request that can go either dr jack or dr robby, its up to you and the people🙌

Him figuring out you're pregnant before you even notice? Like he's so in tune with your body that when he's in you or when he feels you up he notices the subtlest change 👀 and when you wonder why your period is late its the final 1% for him 🤭 now he's 100% sure before you even suspect it

Absolutely, here’s the Jack Abbot version—grounded, intimate, and very Jack-coded.

content/warning : pregnancy symptoms, emotional overwhelm, soft marriage vibes, denial, reader in her "i’m fine" era, jack in his "no you're not" era, smut (married, emotionally grounded), pregnancy, food/scent aversion, mild mention of nausea

words : 3,144

You’ve been married to Jack Abbot for thirteen months and a week—but the two of you have been together for four years.

And somehow, you’re still learning him.

Still adjusting to the way he folds his t-shirts into perfect thirds. Still moving his boots away from the front door, even though he always leaves them there. Still catching the way he’ll wait until the lights are off, the blankets pulled up, and then remember one more thing he has to tell you.

You know his rhythms. His moods. The way he kisses you a little differently when he’s worried but won’t say it out loud.

What you sometimes forget is that Jack’s job never really ends—he never really clocks out.

He’s an ER doctor. Which means he’s always watching. Always reading. Always two steps ahead of a problem you haven’t realized is there.

MONDAY – The Morning Slips

The light’s already different when you open your eyes.

Softer. Higher.

You blink at the ceiling, then at the clock.

7:08.

Your breath catches. “Jack?”

You sit up in a rush—sweats and a worn old shirt clinging from sleep—and nearly trip getting out of bed. He’s not next to you. Your alarm isn’t ringing. Your phone is somehow still on Do Not Disturb.

“Jack?”

“Kitchen,” he calls back, voice calm.

You shuffle into the hallway, hair barely brushed, already calculating how fast you can get dressed and be out the door. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Jack looks up from the coffee pot. He’s already dressed—scrubs on, ID clipped, stethoscope tucked in his jacket pocket.

“You didn’t even flinch when your alarm went off. I turned it off after the third round.”

You stare at him. “You let me oversleep?”

“You never sleep through your alarm,” he says, stepping toward you with a travel mug in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. “So I figured something was up.”

You groan. “I’ve got Q1 projections due today.”

“I emailed Rhonda. Told her you were running late.”

You blink. “You emailed my boss?”

“She sent back a thumbs up emoji.’”

Your laugh comes out surprised. “She would do that.”

“I made your coffee. It’s in the mug with the chip you like.” He hands it to you. “No cream. You’ve been skipping it lately.”

You frown. “Have I?”

Jack just nods. “You said it tasted too sweet last week.”

You take a sip. Still feels off—but you smile at him anyway.

“Thanks.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Go shower. I laid out your dark gray sweater—the one you like for presentation days. Pants are on the chair.”

You freeze. “You picked out my clothes?”

“Only because I figured you’d be half-asleep and half-angry. I’m avoiding both.”

“You’re a menace,” you say, but it’s soft.

“You married me anyway.”

He brushes your hair back, fingers lingering a second too long at your temple.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Me? I’m great.”

“You’re looking at me weird.”

He shrugs. “I think I’m just impressed.”

“With what?”

“How well I know you.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re smug before 8 a.m.”

“I’ve earned it,” he says, nudging you toward the bedroom. “Go get ready. Your spreadsheet empire awaits.”

Thirty minutes later, as you’re rushing out the door with your laptop bag and still-wet hair, you find a granola bar tucked into your coat pocket.

The one you always forget you like until you’re starving at 10 a.m.

You don’t remember saying anything about needing one.

But Jack knows.

Of course he knows.

TUESDAY – Heels and Sore Feet

When you come through the door, Jack’s already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s been home a little while—but not long enough to fully settle.

You kick off your work shoes in the entryway, wincing slightly as you press your toes into the hardwood. “Remind me again why I thought real leather heels were a good investment.”

Jack leans back from the sink and tilts his head toward you. “Because they were on clearance and you were feeling powerful.”

“Right.” You flex your feet. “Power comes at a cost.”

“Come here.”

You shuffle toward him, dropping your tote bag by the counter. He doesn’t kiss you yet—just takes your hand and guides you to sit at one of the stools. Then he crouches, gently lifting your foot into his lap.

“Jack,” you laugh, “you do not need to—”

He starts massaging your arch with his thumb, firm and slow. “You’ve been on these all day. Let me.”

You lean back with a sigh. “This is how you trap me. You pretend to do the dishes, then you pamper me into silence.”

He smiles but doesn’t look up. “Worked yesterday.”

You wiggle your toes and close your eyes. “Feels so good it’s kind of criminal.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

He glances up just once—and clocks the light puffiness in your ankles.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just moves to your other foot.

After dinner—simple roasted veggies and couscous, eaten off the same two mismatched plates you’ve had since your first apartment—he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your waist while you’re rinsing your glass.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says into your shoulder.

“Just thinking about that ridiculous Excel model I have to finish.”

He kisses your hair. “Take tomorrow slow if you can.”

You nod, but your hand rests gently over his where it sits across your middle.

You don’t notice it.

Jack does.

He says nothing.

WEDNESDAY – The Bloat Debate

You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, poking at your stomach with the kind of exaggerated annoyance only someone married can safely get away with.

Jack walks by on his way to the bedroom, dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt, pausing when he sees your face in the reflection.

“You good?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You sigh dramatically. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”

Jack walks up behind you, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “A small one, maybe. Like a decorative beach ball.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Jack.”

He holds up both hands. “Hey. You brought it up.”

“I said I feel bloated. I didn’t ask for live commentary.”

He smiles and wraps his arms loosely around your waist, hands resting over the area you were just inspecting. “You’re the one poking yourself like a Pillsbury commercial.”

You snort. “I’m serious. None of my pants fit right this week. I sat down today and my waistband tried to fight me.”

“You’ve been eating the same stuff. Drinking water?”

“Barely. Work’s been insane.”

He kisses your temple. “Could be stress. Could be timing. Or maybe your body’s still sorting through Monday night’s gourmet masterpiece.”

You squint at him. “What masterpiece?”

“The one where you ate dill pickles, white cheddar popcorn, and two spoonfuls of peanut butter. In that order.”

You pause. “…It hit the spot.”

Jack grins. “Sure it did. My stomach was scared just watching.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I was afraid to interfere.”

You smirk. “You should be.”

He grins. “Noted.”

You shake your head, laughing, then rest your hands over his. “You sure it doesn’t look like anything?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Because it does.

Not in a dramatic way. But he knows your shape. Your weight. The way your body settles against his at night. And lately, something’s… shifted.

Still, he kisses your shoulder and says simply, “You’re still the best thing I’ve ever looked at.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back into him. “Suck-up.”

He hugs you tighter. “Only for you.”

THURSDAY – The Blanket Negotiation

You’re on the couch by the time Jack gets home—already in pajamas, legs tucked under you, remote in hand, a bag of sour candy opened beside a half-finished cup of tea.

He walks in, shrugs out of his coat, and takes in the scene like a man walking into a painting he’s seen every day for four years and still isn’t over.

“You started without me,” he says.

“You’re twenty minutes late. Statute of limitations has passed.”

Jack walks over, leans down to kiss you, and pauses.

He looks at the bag of sour candy. Then the tea. Then back at you.

“That combo feels… bold.”

You shrug. “It’s balance. My body wanted chaos and comfort.”

He slides onto the couch beside you. “Didn’t you say your grilled cheese was ‘too much’ at lunch?

You sigh. “It was aggressive. The cheese had opinions.”

Jack laughs softly. “And now you're chasing it with citrus acid and sleepytime tea.”

You offer him a sour gummy. “Don’t question the system. Just participate.”

He takes one. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jack tries to nudge the blanket to him. You hold your edge tighter. “I got cold first.”

“I just walked in from outside.”

“You’ve got more body heat.”

He squints. “You’re hoarding it.”

“You’re late and you didn’t text. I get blanket privileges and first pick on snacks.”

He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “I can’t argue with that logic.”

You smirk and finally shift, letting him under the blanket.

Once settled, he rests his hand on your leg—his thumb absently drawing circles near your knee while your attention returns to the screen.

You’re focused on the show.

Jack’s focused on you.

The blanket drapes across your midsection, and he notices the slight pressure you’ve been keeping there all week—how your hand keeps resting just under your ribs like your body’s trying to say something your brain hasn’t caught yet.

He doesn’t bring it up.

Instead, he leans a little closer.

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” you mumble. “Just tired. I’ve been tired all week.”

He nods. “You’ve been going hard.”

“I haven’t touched laundry all week. I’m down to mismatched socks and silent prayers.”

Jack smiles softly. “Want me to run a load?”

“You did the last one.”

“I’m on a streak.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “I married well.”

“You did.”

FRIDAY – The Way You Feel Tonight

It starts when you straddle his hips.

Jack’s back is against the headboard, pillows kicked aside, and you’re already skin-on-skin—his t-shirt discarded on the floor, yours halfway up your ribs. You’re in nothing but underwear, palms on his chest, nails dragging lightly across the sparse hair there.

He watches you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory.

“You sure you’re not too sore from the gym yesterday?” you tease, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Positive,” he says. “Although if I die right now, I want it on record this was worth it.”

You grin. “Noted.”

His hands slide up your thighs slowly, thumbs pressing into the backs like he’s reading your muscles through the skin. Then his touch goes gentle. Palming. Bracing.

But when they move up to your waist, they stop.

His fingers settle across your lower belly, just under your navel. Familiar territory. But it doesn’t feel quite the same.

The curve is a little firmer. Rounder. Not bloated—different.

You keep moving over him, unaware. His eyes never leave your face.

“You okay?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.

Jack refocuses. “Yeah. Just... distracted.”

“You can stare later,” you say, lifting your hips to tug your underwear down. “Hands now. Mouth soon.”

“God, I love you,” he mutters.

“Then prove it.”

He flips you onto your back, mouth already at your collarbone, breath warm, kisses slow. He trails one hand between your legs and groans when he finds you wet and ready, slicker than usual.

You pull him down with a hand behind his neck. “Come on.”

But he’s still slow.

Like he’s measuring.

Like he’s trying to feel every millimeter of you, confirm what he already suspects.

You’re tighter. Not tense. Just changed.

You gasp as he eases inside. “Jesus—”

It’s good. So good. His hips rock into you slow, steady, deep. One of your legs hooks over his back, heel pressed to his side, chasing friction.

Every time he hits just right, your hand fists in the sheets. Your moans are breathless, open-mouthed, involuntary.

Jack watches your face like it holds answers. His pace stays smooth, even as you start to beg.

“Jack,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “Harder.”

He gives you what you want. A little more pressure. A little less space between his body and yours.

You feel full. Stretched. But not uncomfortable.

You feel held.

And when you come—hard, back arching, fingers digging into his shoulder—he follows seconds after, groaning your name into your skin like he’s never said anything truer.

He brushes your hair back, fingertips trailing your temple.

“You’ve been looking at me weird all night,” you murmur.

Jack smiles. “No, I haven’t.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You were studying me.”

“I was watching you.”

“Same thing.”

He doesn’t respond.

He just presses his hand to your stomach again—light, thoughtful, like he’s grounding himself more than anything.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

Jack just smiles.

“I’m already in deep,” he says quietly.

You kiss him once, quick. “Weirdo.”

SATURDAY – The Vendor You Walked Away From

It’s just after noon when you stop by the market. Something normal. Familiar. Something you and Jack do when there’s nowhere else you need to be.

You loop through the vendors casually, fingers brushing the edge of a produce crate, checking for ripeness. Jack keeps pace beside you, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. He’s just watching the way you move.

You’ve always been precise. Sharp, even in small motions.

But today, there’s hesitation.

You reach for a bunch of mint, fingers brushing the stems—then pause.

Jack notices before you say anything.

You pull your hand back, subtle, and move on to the next table without a word.

At the bakery stall, you order for both of you. Jack takes a bite of the rosemary bread. You don’t touch yours.

He watches you stare at it for a few seconds too long.

“I’ll eat it later,” you say finally, tucking the paper bag into the tote. “Not in the mood right now.”

He doesn’t press. Just nods, and walks with you.

Fifteen minutes later, you pass a vendor handing out samples of honey and cheese—something you’d normally stop for. Your eyes flick over the setup, then move away quickly. Not forced. But intentional.

You keep walking.

Jack stays silent until you’re halfway to the car.

“Did that smell bother you?”

You glance at him. “What?”

“The cheese. You looked at it like it turned your stomach.”

You shake your head. “No. I just didn’t want it.”

He nods once. Doesn’t push.

You unlock the car. He loads the bag in the backseat. You slide into the passenger side and adjust the seatbelt low.

He notices that too.

On the way home, the radio’s low. You’re watching traffic, thumb tapping absently against the console.

Jack glances at your profile once. Then again.

“You’ve been different this week,” he says.

You don’t look at him. “So have you.”

There’s no bite in it. Just quiet truth.

He exhales through his nose. “That’s fair.”

You turn your head finally. “Is there something you’re not saying?”

Jack watches the road. His hands stay steady on the wheel.

“No,” he says after a pause. “You’ll say it first.”

SUNDAY – Three Weeks Late

It’s just after 11. The laundry’s done. The dishwasher’s running. You’ve wiped down the counters twice.

You’re standing at the fridge, pinning up a receipt, when your eyes catch the calendar.

Your stomach dips.

You count the days with your finger—slowly, carefully, like you don’t quite trust yourself.

One. Two. Three—

Three weeks late.

Not five days. Not “I think I skipped one.” Three.

You turn your head toward the living room. Jack’s on the couch, half-sunken into the cushions, phone in hand, scrolling through the news without really reading it. His coffee sits untouched on the table. One leg stretched out, the other—his prosthetic—resting beside him like it always is when he’s home and grounded, the kind of settled comfort only the two of you know by feel.

You don’t mean to say it yet.

But it’s out before you can take it back.

“Jack?”

He looks up instantly. “Yeah?”

You stay by the fridge, fingertips grazing the door like it’s anchoring you.

“I’m... three weeks late.”

There’s a long pause.

Jack doesn’t move right away. Just watches you—quiet, focused, already reading every inch of your face.

Then, calmly, he leans forward.

His movements are familiar: practiced, unfussy. He shifts to the edge of the couch, pulls the prosthetic toward him, and straps it on like he’s done a thousand times—smooth, sure, muscle memory in every motion.

You don’t speak. Just watch him move through it with the same quiet purpose he’s carried through every hard season of your life together.

When he stands, it’s quiet—just the familiar click of the prosthetic locking in and the muted slide of his socked foot across the hardwood.

He crosses to you without hurry.

When he stops in front of you, his voice is low. Certain.

“Do you want to take a test?”

You nod.

“I don’t have one.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”

You blink.

“Top drawer,” he says simply. “I bought one Monday.”

You stare at him. “You—what?”

Jack shrugs. “I figured you’d see it when you were ready.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not even a little surprised?”

He steps closer, voice low, steady. “You’ve been different. Not in a bad way—just… off your rhythm. You’ve been switching between hoodies in the middle of the day like none of them fit right. You keep standing at the fridge and forgetting what you opened it for. And your leftover curry—the one you swore was better the second day? You didn’t even take a bite.”

You stare at him. “You kept track of all of that?”

“I love you. I notice you.”

You go quiet.

Then reach for his hand.

“Come with me?”

“Of course.”

You sit on the bathroom counter while the test processes. Jack stands beside you, leaning against the sink. Neither of you talk. There’s nothing left to say.

You both look down at the result at the same time.

Positive.

You exhale like it’s the first full breath you’ve taken all week.

Jack rests his hand gently on the counter behind you—not pushing, just there.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“We’re really doing this.”

Jack nods. “We already are.”

You smile—small, but it stays.

And Jack leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

[mariasont]

A Puddle in Running Shoes A.H.

summary: your boyfriend finds out you have a praise kink and is having way too much fun with that information

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: some suggestive content, hotch being a menace, reader having a praise kink, end suggests something may happen but nothing explicit in this one folks im getting my libido under control swear, also count how many times r refers to hotch's face as stupid im crying

wc: 1.9k

You hated running. No, correction, loathed it. Detested it. Despised it with every fiber of your being. If there was a stronger word, one that captured the burning, irrational rage you felt whenever someone suggested going for a jog, Spencer might have known it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care enough to ask. Simply put, running was not your thing.

But when Aaron, your boyfriend and somehow the most persistent man alive, asked you to join you on a run, you couldn't exactly say no. He didn't beg, Aaron Hotchner did not beg, but his version of asking, that soft it'd mean a lot to me paired with an encouraging smile, was close enough to begging in your book. Besides, you figured there'd be some sort of reward when you got back home. Aaron was good at those.

So here you were, contributing absolutely nothing to your marathon-obsessed, fitness-loving FBI boyfriend's training. Sweat coated every inch of your body, your legs felt like lead, and your lungs burned with every ragged breath you managed to suck in. The sun blazed overhead, making you feel more like a roasting chicken than a willing participant in this so-called fun activity.

Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he'd stepped out of a fitness ad, shirt clinging to him in ways that felt outright scandalous. Even the sweat on his face somehow made him look even more attractive.

He was at least ten paces ahead of you and every few steps, he'd glance over his shoulder, probably checking to make sure you hadn't spontaneously combusted or snuck off to find an air-conditioned cafe. Honestly, both were real possibilities.

Aaron's pace slowed until he was running beside you, throwing you a smile so unfairly handsome it made your legs feel weaker than they already did.

"How are you feeling?" The question felt retorical, anyone, profiler or not, was sure to be able to read you like an open book right now. "Still alive, or do I need to start figuring out the best way to carry you home without breaking any traffic laws?"

"I think I'm alive," you managed between gasps, wiping sweat from your brow. "But if carrying me is on the table, I'm not above playing dead to make that happen."

"Not necessary, I'd carry you anyway, if only to reward you for keeping up this long. You're doing great."

You foot caught a crack in the pavement, nearly hurling yourself into it, but Aaron's hand was there quicker keeping you upright as you tried to ignore the terrifying way your body had reacted to his compliment.

"Okay you can't just say stuff like that while I'm trying to run," you blurted out, avoiding his gaze. "You're trying to kill me, I swear."

You planted your hands on your hips, still trying to catch your breath, secretly relieved to have a break, even if it almost involved a face-first meeting with the sidewalk.

"Stuff like what?" He tugged at your ponytail and you swatted his hand.

"Nothing," you said way too quickly, shaking your head like you could physically toss what you said aside. "Forget I said anything. Let's just... keep running."

You quickly realized your mistake as soon as you started jogging again. You would never willingly suggest to keep running. Unfortunately, Aaron was actively aware of this, moving to come up beside you. You didn't need to look at him to know he had the stupidest smirk on his face.

He didn't say anything at first, to your immediate relief, just kept jogging beside you. The silence stretched on, his calm breathing only seeming to make your wheezing sound worse.

"You're breathing too shallow," he said after a moment, his tone completely casual like he wasn't even winded. "Try to take deeper breaths, match them to your strides. It'll make it easier."

You glanced towards him out of the corner of your eye before attempting his suggestion. You had no intention of letting him know that it worked. His ego was far too substantial for that.

"See? You're a natural," he said, shooting you a sidelong glance. "Atta girl."

Your brain flatlined and you almost tripped over your feet again, every rational thought replaced by static. What was wrong with you? You vaguely remembered reading somewhere that people with unresolved daddy issues were prone to developing praise kinks. Was that what this was? Whatever the reason, hearing Aaron talk like that shouldn't make you feel all gooey inside, but here you were, a puddle in running shoes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yup, fine!"

You stared at the ground so intensely, it was a miracle you didn't bore a hole into the pavement. Your voice had betrayed you, far too shaky and way too rushed, and you knew Aaron was probably filing away every bit of your reaction.

"Hey," he said softly, his hand brushing against the back of your neck as he spoke. "Stop staring at the ground. You'll run better if you keep your head up, it'll open your chest so you can breathe easier."

His hand lingered for a second too long than what your body could handle, leaving you completely flustered and fighting every urge to do exactly the opposite of what he said.

"There you go," he murmured, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. "That's good, honey. Just like that."

His voice, his god forsaken voice, was like lightning to your system, and not in a good way. Or maybe it was a good way, which was the problem. It was bad enough to hearing it out here, on the jogging trail, but your brain decided to replay it in an entirely different inappropriate context: one that involved you, him, and a bed.

Your face burned, and you couldn't tell if it was from the exertion, or the very real possibility that your body was too receptive to those words. And now, not only were you fighting for every breath, but you were trying to figure out if the dampness between your legs was entirely from sweat. Surely it was sweat. Right? Gods, you hoped it was sweat.

You stopped so suddenly that Aaron jogged a few steps ahead before he realized you were not longer beside him.

"Okay, I'm calling it. I'm done. Can we please go home now?"

He jogged back to you, an easy smile on his face, and placed his hands on your shoulders as he reached you.

"Alright, we can be done," he teased, thumbs brushing lightly over your collarbones. "You survived, and you did great. I'm proud of you."

He leaned down then, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips that made the ache in your body a little easier to ignore.

When he pulled away, you barely managed to keep standing.

Aaron let out a low laugh, his hands squeezing your shoulders. "Alright. What's going on? What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said over your shoulder, practically power walking towards the car.

Aaron's laugh deepened and you ignored the funny feeling curling in your chest.

"Sweetheart," he said, gently tugging your elbow to slow you down. "Come on, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about, I'm fine!" You avoided his eyes as you tugged your elbow free. "I'm just tired, and, uh, need a shower."

A cold shower, your brain screamed, but you shoved the thought down.

"I know, I know you're tired," he said, lips curving into a smile, "but that's because you actually pushed yourself. I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

You were pretty convinced you were you were about to go up in flames. Your obituary would read death by too many unnecessary compliments. When your heart inevitably gave out, Aaron would have to explain to Rossi and the others how his dumb smile and sweet words had resulted in second degree manslaughter.

But then you saw it, the smirk. The one that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.

"Oh my gosh, you know!" You groaned and threw your hands in the air. "You know, and you're enjoying this!"

Spinning away from him, you stormed to the car, and slammed the door like it might shield you from his stupidly smug face.

You barely had time to exhale before the passenger door swung open, revealing Aaron, casually leaning against the car.

"You know," he said lightly, his tone far too casual for your liking, "slamming car doors isn't a great habit. You could hurt yourself."

"And you know," you snapped back, pointing at him, "torturing your girlfriend isn't a great habit either!"

He leaned in slowly, his fingers brushing against your shoulder as he grabbed your seatbelt. As he clicked it into place, his face lingered close to yours.

"I wasn't trying to torture you, baby. Just wanted to give you the chance to admit it, that you liked it."

Before you could muster a reply, Aaron's hand slid up to cradle your face, his thumb moving along your cheek. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was so deep, leaving you no choice but to sink into it, even as the faint remnants of your annoyance tried to surface.

By the time he pulled back, you felt like you were under his spell. Then, without another word, he shut your door and headed to the driver's side.

"That's not fair," you muttered, crossing your arms and pouting as you stared out the window.

Aaron's hand found the back of your neck as he backed out of the parking spot, rubbing gently into smooth circles.

"I don't mean to be unfair," he said with a small smile. "I just needed to hear it, because sometimes people don't even realize what they need until they say it out loud. And I wanted to make sure I didn't misread anything, though I'm rarely wrong, as you know."

"Trust me, you remind me every chance you get." Your tone was dry, but you were well aware that the twitch in your lip was giving you away.

"Alright, smartass," he said, chuckling as his fingers pressed a little firmer into your neck. "Now tell me, how does it make you feel when I say those things to you?"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I don't know, okay? I just... like it! Do I have to explain it?"

"You don't have to explain it if you don't want to," he said, "but I'd like to know what it is you like so much."

Aaron's hand moved from your neck to your hand, his fingers sliding between each of yours while his eyes stayed glued to the road, a thing that only came from months of familiar motions.

You let out a long breath. "I don't know. I just like hearing it. It makes me feel good. Special, I guess."

"You are special, sweetheart." His eyes flicked to you before returning to the road. "You're my best girl."

Your stomach flipped violently. You shifted again, trying to disguise the way your thighs pressed together tightly as your face burned hotter than ever. The debate earlier in your head was officially over, absolutely not just sweat, you thought miserably.

Aaron let out a soft chuckle, fingers brushing over your knuckles. "Something I said?"

You swatted his shoulder, your glare losing all its bite thanks to the flush all over your body. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I can't help it," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to get you on edge. "But don't worry, I'll take care of my best girl once we're home."

You slumped in your seat, muttering something unintelligible that made Aaron chuckle again. And even though you wouldn't admit it, you found yourself smiling, already dreading and anticipating whatever he had planned when you got home.

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[corkinavoid]

DPxDC John Constantine's How To: Ghost Kids (pt.2)

[<- part 1]

"Oh, yeah," John jerks his head up like he just remembered the fact people are supposed to have names at all. He gestures to the kids, pointing to each of them as he introduces, "Daniel, Daniel, and Danielle."

This time, all three kids flip him off simultaneously. Bruce clears his throat, trying to figure out if Constantine is messing with him and, if so, in which parts. Since, so far, everything the man has said sounds like a poor attempt at pulling his leg.

"I don't think they like those," he cautiously says, and the kids whip their heads at him, nodding furiously. Bruce can't help but be just a little enamored with the way they behave.

"Of, sod off, at this point I don't care what they like," John straightens up with a dismissive, albeit weak, wave of his hands, and rubs his face, "They are menaces. Sometimes by accident, but mostly on purpose. Their grandfather thought it would be easier to handle them if they were not teenagers, and while I agreed with his reasoning at the time, I-" he glances at the kids, who all have displeased grimaces of various levels on their faces, "I have been made to reconsider. I swear that ancient bitch is laughing his ass off wherever he is now."

The kids suddenly grin. They are not very friendly, nor polite smiles - if anything, they look a bit nightmarish. An old grandfather's clock in his study makes a very loud ticking noise.

"See?" John whips his head to look at said clock, the expression on his face bordering on insane. His eye twitches.

If Bruce doesn't do anything now, he might become one of the very few people who managed to witness John Constantine, the Laughing Magician, have a meltdown. So he sighs and decides to solve the problems one at a time.

Which means that no matter how alarmed or suspicious he is, his first move would not be to interrogate either the man or the kids.

"You can sleep in one of the guest rooms, I trust you can find it on your own," he tells John, almost softly, as he catches the girl from slipping away from his lap, "Is there anything I need to know about children before you fall unconscious?"

John slumps with relief, so obviously that Bruce almost smiles. Hardships of raising - or, watching, for that matter - kids, he understands.

"Yes," he breathes out with an air of exhilaration and turns to the kids again, pointing to the middle child, "Danny is the original. He is from this dimension and timeline, that is. Dan," he turns his finger to the older boy, "is in the wrong timeline, he's Danny's future evil self redeemed into older bratty brother. Dani," he switches to the girl, "is Danny's clone, made by his arch-nemesis of a godfather. If she starts melting at any point, wake me up immediately. If any of them start floating, sprouting tentacles, speaking to walls in static, or glowing, don't."

Bruce looks down to the kids. So, definitely metas, that would explain the government trying to get them... Or, no, it wouldn't because he is fairly certain no government is going to blatantly ignore the Meta Protection Acts.

"Don't let them raise the dead, and if you give them food, make sure it doesn't have a face. If you find more than three of them, it means one of them has duplicated, don't worry, they will absorb it back later. Absolutely don't let them touch any guns," Constantine is backing down to the door as he speaks, his gaze flickering from the kids to Bruce and back every second. Like he is leaving a ticking bomb in Bruce's lap, and not three children. "Danny is, comparatively, the most responsible one, the other two are up for any dubious trouble they can get to at any moment. Oh, and their memories are wonky because of de-aging, they remember some things but not others, so if they say something particularly disturbing, it's most likely some random piece of knowledge they managed to keep."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. He did get the part about the kids being, well, abnormal in the matters of their origins, but the disjointed set of rules and advices doesn't help as much as Constantine probably thinks it does.

"Allergies, preferences, ages they were before?" He tries to get at least some more info down before John disappears through the door. Actually, maybe he should send someone to handcuff the man to the bed lest he disappears completely.

"None, but don't let them eat cutlery. Danny likes space, Dani has a thing for exploring, and Dan likes violence." The older kid stirs in Bruce's lap and says something in the direction of Constantine. No sound comes out, but the man seems to get what he's trying to say anyway, "Okay, yes, that was rude of me, sorry. Dan likes... exercise," he ends up with, and that placate the boy enough to slump down and cross his arms. John sighs, "They were seventeen, fourteen, and twenty respectively. Now," he snaps his fingers, and suddenly Bruce can hear the girl - Dani - humming a tune under her breath. So, he lifted the silence spell, it seems.

"Good fucking luck," John wishes to Bruce, earnestly, and all but vanishes away.

Bruce sighs and looks down to the kids.

"Are you hungry?" He tries, and all eyes are on him at once, attentive and unblinking.

"Fruitloops," Danny says, and while Bruce is positive that's the name for a cereal, he gets a feeling that's not what the kid meant.

[lvl1l1]

Telling LaDS men their card declined

pairings: Sylus, Zayne, Rafayel, Caleb, Xavier x F!Reader(separate)

content: fluff, crack

a/n: wrote this in honor of my card declining at fuckass target today i will never live that down

Sylus

You left this morning, telling Sylus you had to do some shopping.

He sent you off with his black card as usual, you kissed him goodbye at the door, plotting already.

You spent some time idling through town, not actually planning on buying anything.

Once you thought enough time had passed, you checked to make sure Sylus was still home and made your way back.

Mentally preparing yourself for your little act, you stepped through the door, wearing a slight pout.

Sylus, who had previously been sitting on the couch, reading, got up as soon as he saw you.

Seeing you empty-handed, he raised an eyebrow,

“Didn’t find anything you liked, sweetie?”

You sighed and looked him dead in the eye,

“Your card declined and I didn’t bring mine, so i couldn’t buy anything.”

A beat of silence passed, before he burst out laughing, straight in your face.

“I’m serious! I wouldn’t have come back empty-handed if it hadn’t.”

His shoulders were shaking from laughing so hard, seeing the serious look on your face, he finally calmed down a little.

“Are you implying I’m broke, kitten?”

He looked at you, amused, not believing a word you were saying.

“Well, matter of fact is, the card didn’t work.”

You copied his stance, crossing your arms over your chest, trying not to slip up.

His smirk just became more menacing,

“I assure you, there is nothing on this earth you could buy that costs more money than there is on that card. Is this your way of asking me to tag along?”

Your shoulders slumped, giving up,

“Couldn’t you have played along just a little?”

He chuckled at the disappointment on your face,

“Sweetie, I don’t mind you having your fun but let’s keep these scenarios in the realm of possibilities. Make it more believable next time.”

You rolled your eyes, walking past him,

“As an apology for your boring reaction, you can actually come along shopping with me later.”

He followed after you, a hum leaving him, amusement still clear on his face.

Zayne

Zayne had finally come home after a long day at the hospital.

After dinner, you were waiting for the perfect moment to bring it up, you two were doing your nightly routine and once you two had settled into bed, you decided it was time.

“I actually wanted to buy some stuff with your card today but it declined.”

The immediate concern on his face almost made you feel bad for messing with him like this,

“Really? That doesn’t make sense, there should be more than enough money on that card. Why didn’t you call me when it happened?”

You cooed on the inside,

“I didn’t want to bother you at work. It was a little embarrassing, in front of all those people, I mean, but it’s not a big deal.”

He shook his head, reaching out to pat your head,

“I’m sorry, dear.”

Before you could say anything else, he went to get up,

“Let me call the bank, that shouldn’t have happened.”

You quickly grabbed his arm, a smile finally breaking out on your face,

“Because it didn’t. I was just playing.”

He stilled for a moment before sighing,

“Alright. I’m glad, then.”

He settled back in by your side, you tilted your head to the side. Sensing your confusion, he replied,

“I would’ve felt really bad if that actually happened, I’d never want you to feel embarrassed in front of other people.”

You threw yourself into his arms, feeling guilty seeing how much he cared,

“You’re too sweet, now I feel bad.”

He went back to caressing your head, a smile tugging on his lips,

“This is pretty tame in comparison to some of the things you’ve pulled before.“

You pursed your lips, squinting your eyes at him,

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Rafayel

Rafayel loved spending time with you, he didn’t care what you two would do, as long it was together.

He’d be alright watching paint dry with you, he considered anything fun as long as you were there.

So, naturally, he was more than happy to come along on your errand and shopping runs.

You told him you wanted to go buy some clothes, telling him he could wait in the car while you just grabbed some things quickly.

He suggested coming inside with you but you insisted he wait and that you wouldn’t be long.

He reluctantly agreed, giving you his card and telling you to take as much time as you needed.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, getting out the car.

Your boyfriend was so sweet, you thought to yourself, while proceeding with your scheme.

Rafayel was mindlessly scrolling on his phone, waiting in the parked car, when he saw you walk back without holding anything.

He was about to ask as you opened the door, when you thrust your arm forward and held his card out to him,

“Your card declined.”

He physically recoiled at that, looking at you, flabbergasted,

“What do you mean it declined?”

You settled into the passenger seat, biting back a smile,

“I mean, it didn’t work. Whole line of people behind me and I had to put everything back.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands, mentally applauding yourself for your great performance.

His dumbfounded expression was about to make you giggle,

“That’s crazy, do you know how much money is on that card? Nevermind, I have three more. I’ll come with you.”

He unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching to open his car door, as you scrambled,

“No, no, it’s okay!”

He shook his head,

“No, it isn’t. Their card reader must be broken. I’ll deal with this.”

Before he could get out of the car, you threw your arms around his neck, leaning into him,

“That’s very sweet of you but your card didn’t actually decline.”

His mouth fell open as he looked at you in disbelief,

“You’re so annoying.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and he mirrored your action.

“I’m gonna eat all your snacks for that.”

A gasp left you at that,

“That’s what you get for making me think I embarrassed my girlfriend.”

“Aww, I could never feel embarrassed because of you! I’d still love you, even if you were broke, y’know.”

He shot you a nasty look,

“Do you want those clothes now or not?!”

Caleb

Caleb gave you his card alongside the key to his place, his car, his aircraft, he truly wanted everything that was his, to be yours as well.

He had to leave early this morning, business with the fleet as usual.

You had told him the night prior that you were planning on doing some shopping, he was sad that he couldn’t come along.

There was nothing Caleb yearned for more, than a domestic life with you, to him that also meant joining you on whatever outings you had planned.

(Un)luckily for him, he wouldn’t be missing much, since you had been scheming ever since you had seen him off with a kiss early this morning.

You did go out but not with the intention of buying anything. Well, not yet at least. Didn’t want him to see the charges on his credit card just yet.

You were wandering around until you were certain Caleb was on his break.

Opening his contact on your phone, you cleared your throat, putting on a bleak tone, raising the phone to your ear.

The phone rang twice before you could hear his voice coming through the receiver,

“You okay, pips?”

You didn’t try to fight off the smile that came onto your face, considering he couldn’t see you anyway, you just made sure your voice was steady and sad,

“Caleb, your card just declined.”

There was silence on the other line, before he spoke again,

“The one I gave you? There shouldn’t be a limit on that card.”

You hesitated for a moment, thinking of what to say,

“Maybe the stuff was too expensive…”

You heard a chuckle, then Caleb responded,

“Hm, I doubt that. Still, I’ll transfer some money onto your own card. Give me a sec.”

And before you knew it, your phone pinged with a notification,

+1,000€

An involuntary gasp left you as you read the number,

“Caleb, that’s way too much-“

“Consider it my apology, for letting that happen, I mean.”

You felt guilt settle in, trying to come up with a way to tell Caleb, that you didn’t actually need the money,

“Caleb, I feel kinda stupid now, uhm, your card didn’t actually-“

“Decline? Yeah, I know.”

You froze, before scowling, not like he could see that.

“Then why-“

This time, a heartfelt laugh escaped him,

“What, it’s not like you don’t have that kind of money on the other card.”

“But that’s your account! I’ll send the money back, Caleb. Just, how did you know?”

He hummed, clearly thinking this was hilarious,

“I’m telling you to keep it, don’t make me say it again, honey. It was pretty obvious, by the way. I always make sure to keep that card charged, y’know, to prevent that from ever actually happening.”

Your heart swelled at that, he was always so thoughtful.

“Ah, seems like my break is being cut short. I’ll see you tonight, get everything you want, pipsqueak.”

You kicked a pebble in front of you, feeling shy now,

“All right. Love you.”

“I love you too”

Xavier

It was your and Xavier’s off day and you needed some new gear for work, the perfect opportunity to mess with him.

He was holding onto your purse as you were going through the racks, picking out everything you needed.

He patiently strolled behind you, carrying anything you handed to him, no questions asked.

Once you decided you had everything, you turned to him,

“I’ll go pay for my stuff. You go take a look around the men’s section, you need new shoes, Xav.”

Xavier nodded, taking out his wallet and giving it to you,

“You sure you don’t want me to wait in line with you?”

You pecked him on the lips, grabbing everything he had been holding,

“It’s fine. I’ll come find you once I paid, okay?”

He nodded, watching as you strolled past him, before he turned and did as you had said, walking out of sight to the men’s section.

Instead of heading to the register as you had told him, you lounged around some other shelves. After you thought enough time had passed, you went into the men’s section, looking for him.

Finding him, you put on a sulking face, walking up to him with his wallet in your hand,

“Xavier, your card declined when I went to pay…”

His eyes widened, resembling a confused bunny,

“It declined? How could that have happened… I’ll contact the bank, maybe someone got the credit card information but even then-“

Once he pulled out his phone, you quickly swiped it from him,

“That won’t be necessary.”

His brows furrowed slightly, unsure of what you meant. You couldn’t stay serious when he looked at you like that, finally breaking character.

“It won’t be necessary because your card didn’t actually decline, whoopsie.”

The cartoonish “huh” that escaped him made you laugh,

“I was just joking. Hilarious, amirite.”

You looked at him bashfully, fluttering your eyelashes.

He exhaled a quiet laugh,

“Right. I should’ve known.”

He took the things you were holding again, leaving his wallet in your hand.

“As your punishment, you can pick out a new pair of shoes for me, then.”

“Oh, gladly!”

He stepped aside, watching you get to work.

Xavier wasn’t too worried when you had come up to him, to begin with.

With how long he’s been saving, he probably still had funds from the gold rush

[intromortal]

⟢ like it when i call you daddy? ⸝⸝⸝ yang jungwon

oops! your boyfriend finds out you have a raging daddy kink. but he's more than happy to indulge you

this work contains ⋆ smut ⋆ minors do not interact ⋆ daddy kink duh ⋆ shy reader ⋆ menace jungwon ⋆ fingering ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ creampie ⋆ slight edging ⋆ praise ⋆ brief cockwarming

length ⋆ drabble ⸻ 3.5k words

✷ NIA — barely proofread pls it's 2 am bear with me. i was supposed to finish this yesterday but then someone tried to break into my apartment. hope your weekend was better than mine!

Uh oh. You know that look.

The look Jungwon gives you only when you're in real deep shit, the one that tells you he's not letting you off the hook or negotiating with you no matter what.

It's almost mean in the way only bright and soft eyes can be, like they're not meant to shape into anything that isn't cutesy. It's like he's scrutinizing your eyes as if they were little windows to your soul, no curtains blocking the light shining in. It's a look you've come to assume means 'danger ahead! Tread carefully.'

Mostly because if there's anything Jungwon hates, it has to be you hiding stuff from him. Whether it's silly things like the paper cut you got at work the day before, or how your tires need to be changed—you can handle that yourself just alright, but Jungwon wants to do it all for you—or the bigger, scarier stuff like doubt poking your chest when you spiral thinking about your future, unsure of what your place in the world is supposed to be, or if you have one at all. He hates it all. He wants you to rely on him, open up both your mind and heart to let him in. It's not a matter of needing him, Jungwon knows you're more than capable of doing it all yourself, you've done just that your entire life.

But that's all the more reason to rely on him if you ask him.

He wants to be your rock, your superhero in spandex like the ones you always make fun of when it's a Friday night and older Marvel movies are all that's playing on TV—he thinks being made fun of is okay as long as you're the one laughing. He wants to be your safe haven. A place where you walk in and feel the heaviness dissolve off your shoulders. He wants to be your home.

You shouldn't have to worry about anything because you've worried yourself sick over other people all your life, he needs to be your break.

Jungwon is your judgment free zone, he knows all your deepest secrets, no matter how embarrassing. He checks for spots you can't quite reach when you think something is off with your body—and he tells you that no, it's not a terminal illness, you'll be fine—no matter how disgusting. He has seen you dazed, hair messy and eyeliner somehow down to your cheeks after a night out. Even washed your face for you when you couldn't and patiently did your skincare because he knew you would complain about your skin feeling dry in the morning otherwise. He has made love to you in every way, in every position, no matter how unflattering. And he still loves you, still thinks you're the most gorgeous being walking on the sun dried tufts of grass that make up Earth. Though if you ask him, the sun is all the way down here and not up in the sky anymore, the one there is just a less impressive copy.

So when you keep things from him, it stings extra.

You lay underneath him, eyes as big as a fawn, staring right up into his scrutinizing gaze. And he's giving you that look, so you might as well start praying up to anyone who will listen.

"Oh? You like that?" Jungwon's hand slides under your shirt, slowly caressing the skin it was just tickling mercilessly moments ago. "Now, that's new. How come you didn't let me in your little secret until now, mhh?"

You don't really have a top 5 worst ways in which your boyfriend could find out you have an embarrassing, raging daddy kink, but if you had one, you imagine 'whimpering after he jokingly says 'be still and good for daddy' while play fighting' would be up there at the top.

"I… uhm. I don't….?" It sounds more like a question than anything else, and the wicked grin overtaking Jungwon's face only makes you want to shrink back into the mattress further.

He looks to the side, shaking his head slightly as his tongue pokes out between his teeth. The corners of his mouth are upturned, but it's not warm or playful like his smile usually is—it doesn't make the sides of his eyes crinkle like you love.

If keeping things from him is a no-go, outright lying might be ten times worse.

So, you bargain. "It's just… you know. Took me by surprise. You don't seem the type of—"

Your sentence is interrupted by a squeal of surprise as he grabs your thigh and drags you down the bed, crawling over you possessively. He reaches for your arm, bringing it to his lips so he can trail his way down with soft kisses, so unlike the energy emanating from him. He kisses your palm sweetly, it makes your head spin like you've been thrown off your balance. "I'm not the type to?"

He's encouraging you to finish your thought, but you have half the idea that by doing that, you'll only dig your grave further, so you choose silence.

"That's what I thought." Jungwon bends down, gaze still boring into your eyes and mouth hovering so close to yours you can feel the words before you can hear them. "I'm the type to do everything for you. I thought you knew by now."

Of course, you do. He makes it pretty clear every waking hour of the day. But the little title that has heat rushing right to your cheeks just thinking about it, is something you never found the courage to be open about, even to Jungwon. As silly as it sounds, the thought of giving someone else so much power, complete control over you feels impossible, even when it's what your deepest and most hidden self craves most.

"I know. It just felt silly and—oh."

"Keep talking. Don't let me stop you." Jungwon noses the skin of your neck, taking in your scent like he might forget it if he doesn't, like it's the last chance he has to do so. Jungwon's love is often like this, given to you in subtle but passionate gestures, ones he bestows onto you as if he might bleed out if he doesn't.

Your insides stir, heavy and hot in your lower stomach and the air almost feels too thick to breathe in, but you push through. Even when Jungwon's hand slides lower and lower until it reaches your shorts—if you can even call them that. "I thought, what if you don't like it. What if it makes me seem weird."

"I like what you like." You visibly shiver when he speaks into your ear, the warmth of his breath ticklish. He gently nibs the shell of your ear.

"But what if—"

"No what ifs, pretty girl. What you want, I give you. What you dream of, I give you." He looks down at you, his elbow bent to support his head. "Your deepest fantasies, I fulfill. Is that clear?"

You nod, looking at him with such sincerity and vulnerability in your eyes he almost coos at the sight.

"Good girl." Jungwon kisses your temple, and you don't know if it's the action itself or the praise, or maybe a little bit of both, but your muscles are more relaxed and your chest feels all fuzzy. The hand playing with the waistband of your shorts finally slides to cup your heat through your panties, his dainty but long fingers molding perfectly to your mound. He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, gently smiling into the little nibbles he teases your skin with. They're hardly painful, his teeth not leaving marks behind. Not that they need to, your form quivering underneath his body is already enough. "Let daddy take care of his baby, yeah?"

You cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by the effects his words have on you. It only spurs Jungwon further though, because soon his hand is pulling your completely soaked panties to the side, slowly teasing your folds with his digits. "You're all shy, but she's so happy to see me." He smiles against your cheek, then dips down to litter your neck in open mouthed kisses, happily sighing when you adjust yourself to give him easier access.

"You're so lame," you say from behind your hand still covering your face.

"Oh baby, don't be jealous. You're both my princesses." Jungwon finally dips his fingers lower, teasing your dripping hole slowly with just the tips. He collects the wetness seeping out of you and spreads it all over your pussy, not even trying to dull the obscene sounds his action make. "You're so fucking wet, it's like she's talking back to me," he slurs his words, quiet as to not interrupt the ones coming from below. "And you wanted to deprive me of this?"

He keeps playing with you, relishing in the little sounds both you and your pussy make. His fingers move slowly, deliberately avoiding your clit.

"Jungwon, please," you whine, but the way his lips shape into a grin you can quite literally feel against your neck tells you he wants something from you first. And you have an idea of what it is.

"Wrong name, try again."

Of course.

You're not ready to give in yet though, so you decide to push his buttons for a little longer. "Please?"

The last thing you hear before Jungwon yanks his hand out of your shorts, much to your despair, is a venomous tch that has you seriously reconsider your previous actions. You know him well, so you know if you want to come you're gonna have to abide by his rules. Still, that doesn't stop embarrassment from growing in your stomach more, and more.

His movements are a lot less careful, making quick work of his fitted shirt and sweats, his boxers coming right off with them. Maybe it's the sight of his leaking cock, standing tall and angry against his lower abdomen, or maybe it's just wishful thinking, but despite your mind knowing better, your heart hopes for a few seconds that maybe, just maybe, you have irritated him past the point of punishment.

Jungwon grabs your shorts and panties, sliding them off your legs with a single movement and discards them somewhere on the hardwood floor of your room. It's fast and unceremonious, but the second his warm hand touches your thigh again you understand you got it all wrong. "That's okay. If you're too shy to call me daddy, I'll just have to fuck the shyness out of you."

You mewl when his hands slide up to the back of your knees, pushing them against your chest. The position is a little awkward, but you believe that's exactly what Jungwon is going for. "Here, hold your own legs up like this. Yeah, exactly like that. See? You can be good when you wanna be."

The stretch in your thighs burns, but it's close to nothing when the realization that Jungwon is making you hold onto your legs so you can't hide your face anymore sets in. Sneaky.

Jungwon, on the other hand, admires you with no reservation. Your cunt is completely exposed, like you've handed it to him on a silver platter, and now you have nowhere to hide. He has half a mind to sink down on his knees in front of the bed and eat you out until you're raw and cannot physically come anymore, but he said he would fuck you and he keeps his promises. Besides, he wants to see your face when you finally give in and call him daddy for the first time.

His knees dip into the mattress, the bed creaking with the weight put on it, but your own heartbeat thumps so loud in your ears you miss it. Jungwon takes his sweet time in reaching you, nothing like the urgency in his movements when he undressed you both. He knows you're waiting with bated breath for his next step, it's just another way to punish you for your disobedience. His hands roam your naked body, and he pushes your legs into your chest further, displeased with your loosening grip on them. He gives you a wordless, pointed look, and your hands immediately hold onto the back of your thighs harder.

"Pretty," Jungwon compliments your cunt, glistening and dripping right onto the bed sheets. His gaze is carefully scrutinizing every single part of you, but you know better than to try to shy away. "So, so beautiful. I don't know why you wanna hide from daddy."

"I'm not hiding," you whine in protest. Because, really, you're trying your best not to.

He grabs his length, leaking precum at the thick tip. You want to get a better look at it, so you try to take a peek, your back falling on the mattress again after a mere moment of struggle. That earns an airy, honest giggle from Jungwon, and it has your insides fluttering. It's so easy for him to get a reaction out of you, whatever he does makes you all tingly, whether it's because of fondness or lust. And by the quick look you got at his cock he's not much better off, you can't recall a time you have seen him this red and wet, ready to be inside you from just a little kissing and touching. Which is saying a lot, because Jungwon gets flushed quite easily.

The thought makes you feel a little less embarrassed.

Jungwon taps his cock on your clit a few times, each one sending a jolt of pleasure right through your spine. That tiny amount of stimulation is all he gives to your poor neglected bundle of nerves, and he moves his thick tip downwards, rubbing it repeatedly between your folds. All you can do is throw your head back, teeth poking your bottom lip in an attempt to silence the sounds threatening to spill out of your mouth.

He sighs in delight as your juices coat him, mixing with his precum. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his mouth twisted in a way that makes a dimple pop up on his cheek as he keeps rubbing his cock on your cunt, loving the sight of your nails digging into your thighs to leave tiny half moon indentations. Look at you doing the marking yourself.

"I already take care of you, make sure you're well rested, handle whatever I can to take the load off your shoulders," Jungwon says, never stopping his movements against your heat. "I fuck you so good all the time, take my time with your pretty pussy when I have the chance. Take such good care of you both." He falters for one second, when he accidentally lowers his tip just a smidge too much and ends up rubbing it over your clenching hole. He keeps his cock there, pushing in so slightly you almost miss it, just to take it out and repeat the motions. "I wanna be a part of all your fantasies, would do anything to make you come as hard as I can." He sinks into your heat more this time, just enough to let the stretch of his tip pushing in register for you. "So why won't you be a good girl for daddy and address me by my title? I know you want to."

Jungwon's hips slowly push his cock into you, his mouth open in a silent moan as inch by inch you welcome him into your snug cunt. He's been obsessed with the feeling of that first thrust inside you ever since the first time he slid into you, it's the one thing he always takes his time with, even when he's mad or frustrated and ready to pound into you until you can barely feel your legs anymore.

That's usually what the dangerous look he gave you earlier entails, but this time it's different. His pace doesn't suddenly increase once he fills you to the hilt, reaching so deep inside you, any more would feel like too much. He keeps it slow, but steady, enjoying the way you clench against him, enjoying the view you're giving him with your body bent to accommodate him. He fucks you deep, the position you're in allowing him to reach so deep inside you stars dance across your vision. His pelvis rubs against your clit so deliciously a tiny bit of spit dribbles down your chin from the corner of your mouth. You can feel every inch, every vein, every ridge, and it's mouthwatering.

It's so good, you can feel yourself building up to the peak you want to reach so badly in no time, forgetting why you're in the position you are in the first place.

"Jungwon—" you whine, and he stops his thrusts almost immediately, his deliciously thick length pulling all the way back, his tip the only thing left in you. The loss is unbearable, and you wiggle your hips as if to coax more of his cock back into you again, all to no avail.

"No, no, no baby, who am I?"

You feel like crying, and a single tear does slip out of your eye, gravity making it fall somewhere on the bed. Jungwon doesn't care though, not when you refuse to give him what he wants to hear.

He moves his hips teasingly, as if to bait you to give in, he fucks you gently with just the tip, over and over again, careful to not give you too much. "C'mon baby, I know you can do it."

You clench around his tip, silently begging for more. More that will never come if you don't give in, and you know it. It's on the tip of your tongue, and you want to give in so badly.

So you do. "Please, daddy."

Your voice is low, barely above a whisper, but Jungwon hears you loud and clear, and it's enough for him.

His hips plunge against yours, and you gasp when you feel his thick cum fill you up so unexpectedly. He barely moves, coaxing spur after spur of seed as he empties himself inside of you. Your walls flutter against his sensitive cock, and your hips twitch when he suddenly moves his thumb over your puffy clit, rubbing rough circles on it while he keeps fucking his own cum inside you.

"Good girl, milking me dry like this, yeah baby, keep doing that." His voice is rough and thick, sending pleasure right to your belly. You feel so full, so warm, as his movements never falter, even when his cock is raw from overstimulation.

"Daddy, 'am close."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby. Coming again, need you to come too." Even more cum fills you up at the name, and when Jungwon buries himself all the way in, thumb still circling your clit, and presses down with his other hand right on the bulge on your tummy, searing white blindness hits you for a moment as you come undone around him. His moans sound beautiful as you rhythmically clench around his thickness in your ecstasy, his thumb still working you through your orgasm.

It keeps going for longer than it ever has, your toes bent as if it's the only thing keeping you grounded while waves of pleasure keep crashing through you.

Jungwon slows down, but never pulls out of you completely, keeping his cum plugged inside of you. You're not holding onto your legs anymore, and his body gives in on top of you with one last teasing thrust, crushing you a little with his weight.

"Hey," you protest, still in the process of catching your breath.

"Mhh." He nuzzles his forehead against yours, uncaring for the sweat sticking you together. "That was good."

You giggle, a light feeling washing over you, spreading from your chest to your limbs in soothing waves. "Yeah, I think you liked me calling you daddy a little too much."

You feel lightheaded, in a good way. And in Jungwon's arms, you know you're as safe as you could ever be. It fills your heart with longing, even if he's right there with you.

Jungwon wraps his arms around you, spinning you both around on the messy bed sheets, quickly switching up your positions so you're on top of him, your head resting right on his chest.

His heartbeat, slowly going back to being steady, gently lulls you to sleep, even when the sun outside shines in through your window and casts the shadows of the windowsill plants over the tangled mess your and Jungwon's legs make up. He kisses your forehead once, then again, slowly aligning his softening cock to slide back into you. "Maybe. You should've done that sooner."

[yanderedrabbles]

I desperately need Yandere! Military Contractor fun facts/headcanons or anything else really. Like how tall is he? How old is he? When did he actually saw us/started stalking us? What made him stalk us even? Just anything about him

I think a big part of what makes him so menacing is how mysterious he is. But here are some things you've pieced together from watching him.

Yandere! Military Contractor who kisses your forehead every night before he falls asleep. Who holds you against his chest no matter how warm the weather is. How can he be so tender in the dark, but so awful in the light of day? You've yet to figure it out.

Yandere! Military Contractor who spends every Sunday taking care of his guns. Disassembling them, greasing, cleaning, the whole nine yards. A cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he takes apart an M16 like it's nothing.

You aren't sure why he let's you watch him. If anything, you assume he would want you far away from any weapons. Eventually you get brave enough to try your luck. Grab a rifle when his back is turned and pull the trigger.

Nothing. Just an empty click in the suffocating silence.

Yandere! Military Contractor who just scoffs. Doesn't even bother to turn and look at you.

"Safety's on," he says simply. Like you didn't just point a gun at the back of his head and pull the trigger.

You expect him to punish you. He doesn't. If anything, he looks pleased. Glad to see you still have some fight left in you.

Yandere! Military Contractor with tattoos all across his arm. Names. Dates. Places. A list of comrades or victims? You're too scared to ask.

Yandere! Military Contractor who cooks surprisingly well. Doesn't really eat with you though. Just dumps the plate on the table in front of you and stands with his arms crossed, watching. For a while at the beginning, you tried to stop eating. Hoped that by wasting away he'd maybe lose interest in you. It was a terrible idea.

He got irritable. Angry. Grabbed your thigh so hard it bruised and snarled that if you wanted to eat all your meals through a fucking straw, he could make that happen. You never finished a plate so fast in your life.

Yandere! Military Contractor who keeps his hair short. Not really buzzed, or military cut, but still pretty short. You think maybe it's a habit, but one day when you try and pull him off you by the hair, you realise it's entirely practically. You can't grab it and yank like you would with longer hair. It's just one more way to take some leverage away from you. One more way to stack the cards in his favour.

Yandere! Military Contractor who doesn't soften, no matter what you try. Begging doesn't work. Swearing and fighting and trying to claw his eyes out seems to just amuse him. Crying...well crying just fucking turns him on.

You try being affectionate towards him at some point. Kissing his cheek, hugging him, cradling his face in your palms. Either you're a terrible actor or he's an overly suspicious bastard, because all it does is make him double check the locks every night.

Eventually you give up that approach. You think he doesn't care, but not being nice to him must really hit a nerve. He fucks you extra hard until you realise what he wants.

"I love you," you say through gritted teeth, your palm against his cheek. "I love you."

He slows his pace then. Doesn't keep ramming into you like the goal is more to hurt you than to satisfy himself.

He doesn't say it back. He just drops his head to your ear and snarls.

"Mine. My girl to kiss, my girl to fuck. Mine."

Yandere! Military Contractor who finds you crying in the shower. Head between your knees, sobbing like you're dying. You flinch when he squats down next to you.

He doesn't comfort you. Just looks at you with those flat, empty eyes.

"Get tough."

You want to laugh. Get tough. Like getting held down and fucked is just some kind of training.

Yandere! Military Contractor who takes you out for walks a few times a week. His property is remote, thick with trees and circled with electric fencing. You didn't find out about the last bit until the day you tried to make a run for it and sprinted straight into the wires.

He found you heaving on your hands and knees. Shaking with the aftershock.

"Voltage was any higher you'd be dead."

He grabbed your collar and dragged you behind him, your shoes leaving furrows in the dirt.

"Thought you'd try somethin' stupid, so I put it lower today. Gonna hurt a whole lot more in the future."

You don't try running away on your walks after that.

You think he gives you a bit of freedom because he likes seeing you fail to escape. A cat with its prey. After the first week, he stops keeping you cuffed. You try to escape the first opportunity you get, hanging out of a second story window when he walks up right underneath you. Leans against the wall and lights up a cigarette, eyes on you the whole time.

When you pull yourself back into the bathroom you climbed out of, he just grins in that mocking, lazy way of his. As if to say, what did you think would happen?

Yandere! Military Contractor who keeps his mouth shut tight when you ask him about himself. And it's even worse when you ask him about you.

"How long were you watching me?"

"Why did you choose me?"

"Are my family looking for me?"

"Am I the first girl you've done this to?"

That one he answers. Sort of. He scoffs and squishes your cheeks between his fingers.

"Only ever gonna be you." The way he growls it, it feels more threat than promise.

Yandere! Military Contractor who says he loves you, but never in a language you can understand. He must've picked up a dozen different tidbits from three dozen different countries. Arabic, Swahilli, German, Afrikaans. Always the same. Always I love you. But you never figure it out.

Yandere! Military Contractor who tells himself he deserves you. He's done such awful things. Committed crimes the ICC would happily try him for. But in his mind, it's all justified. All just justification.

He's done awful things. Doesn't he deserve something sweet to cleanse his palette?

Yandere! Military Contractor who entertains the idea of teaching you to fight. You've managed to give him quite a collection of cuts and scars. How much more of a spitfire would you be if you knew how to really throw a punch?

It's counter productive. It's self sabotage. It's making things harder for himself in the long run. But oh, it's so much more fun to wrestle you to the ground. His prize tastes all the sweeter when he has to work for it.

Yandere! Military Contractor who's an irredeemable bastard. He's going to rot in hell for what he's done, going to dance with the devil himself.

But even knowing that, he wouldn't change a single damn thing. He has what he wants - a pretty girl who fucks and fights and cries just how he likes it. And he ain't letting you go.

No matter what.

[sixeyesonathiel]

roses bloom the prettiest in ruin

pairing – prime minister's son!gojo x princess!reader

summary : as the princess of a fallen monarchy, you were raised to uphold tradition, even in a world where your family’s power is little more than ceremony. as the son of the prime minister, satoru gojo was raised to rule.

your families have always been at odds—yours clinging to the past, his shaping the future. but satoru has never cared for politics, not when it comes to you. from the moment he met you, he’s been impossible to ignore—too bold, too persistent, too certain that your story was never meant to end in polite distance.

but in a world where power dictates fate, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

satoru has never been one to follow the rules.

tags –> oneshot, 8k wc, modern & royalty au, political intrigue, high society drama, forbidden love, slow burn but inevitable, gojo satoru is a menace but he’s your menace, power imbalance but he makes it so sexy, privilege and duty, crown and dagger, elopement but make it dramatic, longing stares in grand ballrooms, love like a loaded gun, he would burn the world for you, angsty but he's too freaky for the angst to actually angst

colletion m.list.

you were six years old when you first met him.

it was at a grand gala—one of those glittering, suffocating events where chandeliers dripped with light and the air smelled of imported champagne and expensive perfume. women in floor-length gowns whispered behind painted fans, their laughter soft and practiced, while men in tailored suits exchanged nods that meant more than words. your mother’s grip on your tiny hand was firm, guiding you through the maze of political smiles and calculating gazes. you were dressed in a satin gown the color of moonlight, your hair curled into delicate ringlets, a perfect little doll for the cameras. “posture.” your mother reminded, her voice a quiet warning against your ear, and you obediently lifted your chin. everything was rehearsed, every movement precise—but then you saw him.

a boy with hair like freshly fallen snow, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d fought off every attempt to tame it. he stood apart from the other children, his tiny navy suit crisp but slightly disheveled, a stark contrast to his bored expression. a lollipop dangled lazily from his lips, his fingers tucked into his pockets like he had no interest in the stiff elegance of the evening. his eyes—impossibly blue, like the sky at its brightest—found yours, pinning you in place. you had been taught to be polite, to be charming, to be untouchable, but something about the way he looked at you made your heart skip. he tilted his head, considering you, and then grinned—wide and unapologetic, like he had just found something interesting in a room full of dull, gray figures.

and then, with all the reckless confidence of someone who had never been told no, he pulled the lollipop from his mouth and declared, “i like you! wanna get married?”

a hush fell over the room like a dropped veil, murmurs rising in its wake. your mother’s nails pressed into your palm, a silent warning, while prime minister gojo’s sharp gaze flicked toward his son with the weight of unspoken reprimand. but satoru only rocked back on his heels, unbothered by the sudden attention, his grin unwavering. your mind, young as it was, processed the absurdity of the moment—marriage? at six years old? but even then, you had been raised to know your worth, and so you gave him the sweetest, most well-practiced smile in your arsenal.

“silly,” you giggled, folding your hands in front of you like the perfect little princess you were trained to be. “princesses don’t marry commoners.”

for the first time, the boy’s expression shifted—not to disappointment, but to something else, something sharper, something amused. the grin stretching across his face didn’t falter; if anything, it widened, as if he had just been given a challenge. “then i guess i’ll just have to become a king.”

the murmurs that followed were no longer just of amusement. they carried something deeper, something weightier—speculation, curiosity, quiet calculations of what a union between the royal family and the prime minister’s bloodline could mean. your mother’s fingers tightened ever so slightly, enough to tell you that you had done something wrong, even if you didn’t quite understand what. but satoru, in all his childish arrogance, seemed entirely unbothered, as if the world would bend to his whims simply because he willed it to.

“a king?” you echoed, tilting your head in consideration. your tutors had taught you that kings were powerful, that they ruled with wisdom and strength, that they carried the weight of nations on their shoulders. but satoru didn’t look like a wise ruler—he looked like a mischievous prince, untamed and unyielding, someone who had never been denied a single thing in his life.

“mmhmm,” he hummed, hands on his hips, as if he could already picture himself wearing a crown. “and when i do, i’ll make you my queen.”

you only giggled, because at six years old, marriage was nothing more than a fairy tale, a distant dream wrapped in lace and golden crowns. besides, you knew—knew with the quiet certainty that only children possess—that your father would never allow it. still, something about the way he looked at you, with that unwavering confidence, sent a strange little flutter through your chest.

a palace attendant appeared at your side, quick and efficient, murmuring something about your father expecting you at his table. your mother’s sigh was nearly imperceptible as she turned you away from the scene, her fingers firm on your wrist. but even as you were led through the sea of glittering gowns and polished shoes, you could feel it—his gaze, lingering, unwavering, like a promise not yet spoken.

when you glanced back, he was still standing there, lollipop tucked back between his lips, watching you with an expression that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“i’ll come find you again, princess!” he called out, his voice brimming with the kind of certainty that didn’t allow for doubts.

and somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

true to his words, satoru gojo became a fixture in your world—loud, impossible, and utterly relentless.

satoru was always too much. too loud, too clever, too untouchable. he had that insufferable grin, the one that made you feel like he already knew how this story would end—like he had already seen you in white, standing beside him. from the moment he decided you were his, he followed you around like a stray cat who thought he owned the palace, when in truth, he only ever snuck his way in. the difference was that satoru wasn’t sneaking—he had the power to walk through the palace doors without consequence. his father, the prime minister, held the entire country in his palm, and satoru, his only son, carried himself like a prince, even without a crown.

“we should get married,” he told you every chance he got, as if it was inevitable. “i’d make a great king.”

“you’re no king, satoru.” you would scoff, adjusting the perfect bow at the back of your dress. “you’re a tyrant in the making.”

but he only ever laughed, because you never actually said no.

your fathers hated each other. the prime minister saw the royal family as nothing more than a ceremonial relic, a bloodline propped up by tradition with no real authority, while your father saw the gojo administration as a dictatorship in disguise, unchecked power wrapped in empty promises. the conflict between them was a cold war played behind closed doors, in councils and boardrooms where policy was made without your input. yet somehow, despite the quiet battle waged between them, you and satoru were always in the same rooms, always within reach of each other. whether it was diplomatic banquets, charity galas, or private functions where power was traded in hushed conversations, he was there. and oh, did he reach.

when you were eight, he stole your tiara during a diplomatic dinner and perched it atop his own head, flashing a smirk that made your cheeks burn. “look at me, i’m a king now.”

“give it back, satoru!” you huffed, arms crossed, lips pressed into a stubborn line.

“hmm… nah,” he hummed, tilting his head as if considering. then, with an impish glint in his eyes, he leaned forward and whispered, “but you can have it back if you give me a kiss.”

scandalized, you yanked the tiara off his head with a furious huff, your face burning as he cackled like a devil in silk.

when you were ten, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the ballroom, dragging you through the empty halls until you burst onto the palace balcony. below, the city stretched endlessly, glittering against the night.

“you’re bored, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice softer than usual, those sky-bright eyes searching yours. “let’s run away.”

“don’t be ridiculous.” you scoffed, but you didn’t pull away.

instead, you let him hold your hand, let him be the one reckless thing in your carefully measured world.

when you were twelve, he found you curled beneath the oldest willow in the royal gardens, fists clenched in the fabric of your dress, trying to keep the sobs inside. another argument. another reminder that you would never be enough—not as a daughter, not as a princess, not as anything you were supposed to be. the sky was overcast, gray and heavy, the scent of rain thick in the air. you hadn’t heard his footsteps, hadn’t noticed him until he crouched in front of you, head tilting, gaze sharp and knowing.

satoru hated seeing you cry.

so, without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a lollipop, and unwrapped it with the ease of someone who did this often. “open,” he said, pressing the candy against your lips before you could argue, his tone light, teasing, but unyielding. the sugary scent hit you first—something cherry, something artificial, something that had no place in a world of gold-plated cutlery and imported delicacies. you hesitated, your pride warring with the quiet comfort he offered. but then, slowly, you parted your lips, and he pushed it onto your tongue, watching you like he was waiting for the weight in your chest to ease.

“sweet things always make you feel better.” his voice was softer this time, something careful beneath the teasing.

he was right. the taste melted against your tongue, sharp and cloying, and for the first time that day, the ache in your ribs loosened just a little. satoru grinned like he had just won something, bright and self-satisfied, always too pleased with himself. “see? tastes better when it’s from me, huh?”

you only nodded, small and quiet. he only laughed, the sound easy and unbothered, like the world hadn’t just collapsed around you.

in that moment, beneath a darkening sky, in a life that had never truly been yours, satoru became your first and only act of defiance. he became your escape. your rebellion. your one and only soft, sweet thing.

despite the tension in politics, despite the warnings and whispered disapproval, you and satoru always find each other.

your lessons are held in the same grand estate, halls lined with portraits of ancestors who once held the world in their hands. golden chandeliers hang heavy above you, casting a soft glow over the polished marble floors, the silence between lectures filled only by the ticking of antique clocks and the distant hum of the city beyond the palace gates. you see him in the brief moments between lessons, in the gaps between grand affairs, when the adults aren’t watching. but, of course, satoru never cares if they are. he walks into your space like he belongs there, like he has never once been told no in his life. and when he does, you pretend it doesn’t make the air in the room feel heavier.

“you’re such a fake,” he drawls one afternoon, lounging lazily in your study while you sit perfectly poised by the window. sunlight filters in behind you, casting you in a glow that makes you look untouchable, distant. “all that bowing and smiling—you don’t actually believe in any of that, do you?”

your fingers tighten over the silk of your skirts, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. “it’s called duty, satoru. something you wouldn’t understand.”

he snorts, tipping his chair back on two legs, balancing with the ease of someone who never fears falling. “right. duty. you mean playing pretend.”

“i’m not playing pretend,” you snap, rising so suddenly that your chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the still air.

but satoru only leans forward, elbow propped on the desk, chin in his palm, watching you with that infuriating, knowing look. “sure you are,” he says, like it’s fact. “you hate this. you hate them. but you smile and curtsy like a good little princess anyway.”

heat crawls up your spine, your breath catching in your throat. “what would you have me do? throw tantrums like you? break things until people listen?”

his smirk deepens. “at least i don’t lie about who i am.”

the words hit something raw, something you refuse to name. satoru has always been able to see too much, pick you apart with those impossibly blue eyes until you feel like nothing more than an open book in his hands. you hate that he can see through you so easily.

so you don’t answer. instead, you turn on your heel and storm out, the echo of your footsteps chasing you down the hall. when you reach your chambers, you throw the balcony doors shut behind you, and that night—for the first time in years—you leave them locked.

for a week, satoru does not show up.

no pebbles tapping against your window at midnight. no insufferable interruptions during your lessons. no infuriating, knowing glances across the dinner table when you’re forced to sit across from him.

at first, you tell yourself it’s a relief.

but the days stretch on, and the silence in your chambers grows unbearable. your eyes flick toward the balcony doors more times than you’re willing to admit, your ears straining for the sound of footsteps, of something—anything—that signals his presence. when you pass by the study, you hesitate just outside the door, waiting for a scoff, a teasing remark, anything to prove that he’s still there. but the room is empty, and all you have is the hollow weight of missing him.

when you finally unlock the balcony doors, the wind feels too cold against your skin, the vastness of the sky stretching too wide, too empty.

and then, at the next grand event, just when you begin to think that maybe he’s left you behind, that he had realized how asinine your friendship with him is, you feel it.

a gaze too familiar, too sharp, too knowing.

when you glance up, satoru is already watching you from across the ballroom, standing just beyond the golden glow of the chandeliers, half-shrouded in the dim candlelight. he is dressed in the sharp blues and silvers of his family’s colors, the embroidery on his suit catching the light, but his gaze is the brightest thing in the room. too familiar, too focused, too knowing—like he’s been waiting for you to notice him. the conversations around you dull, the clinking of crystal glasses and rustling of silk fading into something distant, inconsequential. because in a room full of dignitaries, of nobles and politicians vying for power, satoru looks at you like you’re the only one who matters. and it makes something tighten in your chest, something you refuse to name.

“your royal highness.” he greets smoothly, voice laced with amusement as he steps forward. the space between you is swallowed instantly, overtaken by his presence—too much, too overwhelming, like the weight of a storm pressing against your skin. he bows, just deep enough to be proper, but there is no real deference in the motion, no real submission in the way he tilts his head and looks at you through pale lashes. this is not a greeting; it’s a challenge.

“gojo.” your voice is even, perfectly poised, as distant as diplomacy demands. but he sees through it like he always does, like he always has, and you know this because his smirk deepens.

then, before you can stop him, he takes your hand—too bold, too improper, too much.

he lifts it to his lips, the movement deliberate, calculated, yet as effortless as breathing. your breath catches as his mouth brushes just above the lace of your glove, against the sliver of skin left exposed. his lips are warm, his breath soft against your wrist, but the effect is anything but gentle. it sears.

your pulse betrays you, a single, sharp beat against his touch.

his smirk spreads, slow and knowing. “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and the worst part—the part you loathe, the part that makes your throat tighten—is that you have no idea how to lie. not to him.

satoru gojo has always been insufferable.

he is a storm in human form—loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. but sometime between childhood games and midnight rendezvous, something shifts. the edges of him sharpen, shedding the remnants of boyhood, his limbs stretching into something longer, leaner, more dangerous. the mischief in his gaze is still there, but it is different now, laced with something you do not have the words for. something that makes your pulse stutter when he looks at you too long.

and yet, despite it all, he still finds you. always.

at thirteen, he corners you in the royal library, where the scent of parchment and ink lingers in the air. dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light, a quiet world away from the weight of courtly expectations. you are searching for an old genealogy record when fingers, long and deft, pluck the book from your hands with infuriating ease.

“you’re too stiff.” he murmurs, flipping the pages with little interest. “too dutiful. don’t you ever get tired of being perfect?”

“give it back, satoru.”

“make me.”

your patience snaps like a fraying thread. you lunge, reaching for the book, but he is already moving, slipping just out of reach, laughter curling in the silence. it becomes a chase, your breath quickening as he weaves between the towering shelves, always just a step ahead, always teasing. when you finally snatch it back, your heart is pounding, the heat of exertion warming your skin.

he is too close. the dim glow of lanterns catches in his eyes, his smirk lazy, triumphant.

“see?” he hums, voice smooth, teasing. “you’re more fun when you’re mad.”

at fourteen, he finds you on the palace rooftop.

it is past midnight, the city below pulsing with life, oblivious to the girl perched high above it—trapped in a golden cage lined with silk and duty. the wind tugs at your hair, whispering secrets you will never be free to follow. the stars scatter across the sky in cold indifference, the weight of history pressing against your ribs like an iron hand. up here, away from the watchful eyes of the court, you can almost pretend you are just a girl and not a symbol, not a piece on a chessboard carved long before you were born.

“you’re not supposed to be up here.” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the endless stretch of lights below, refusing to acknowledge the presence settling beside you.

“neither are you.” he counters, voice smooth as ever, careless as ever. he sits too close, shoulder pressing against yours, as if he belongs here, as if he always will.

his presence is warm in the cool night air, a stark contrast to the marble halls and empty courtesies you have known all your life. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind rustles through the banners below, and the sounds of distant carriages echo faintly in the night.

“do you ever think about running away?” he muses, head tilting back, exposing the sharp angles of a jawline that is beginning to lose its boyish softness. his hair ruffles in the wind, a mess of white against the darkness.

“you’ve been talking about that since we were kids.” you sigh, fingers twisting in the fabric of your skirts.

“and you’ve been ignoring me since we were kids.” he points out, words laced with that familiar, infuriating amusement.

“maybe there’s a reason for that.”

he hums, entirely unbothered, as if he already knows the truth you won’t say aloud. “doesn’t change the fact that you never really leave, though.”

the words settle between you, quiet and heavy, pressing against the space where your heart beats a little too fast. you don’t respond because he’s right.

at fifteen, he crashes a diplomatic banquet, just to get a rise out of you.

he isn’t supposed to be here. technically, his father declined the invitation, sending his advisors in his place. but satoru gojo has never been one to follow the rules, especially when they tell him he can’t do something. so, of course, he waltzes into the ballroom as if he owns it, clad in midnight blue with a smirk that could start wars. the chandeliers cast a golden glow over the polished marble, music swelling in a practiced waltz, but the moment he steps in, the air shifts—people noticing, whispers beginning. his presence is an act of defiance, a quiet declaration that even the prime minister’s absence cannot erase the weight of his name.

you barely have time to react before he spots you, his grin widening like a cat who just found his favorite mouse. “your highness,” he drawls, stepping into your space as if he belongs there, as if you aren’t standing amongst foreign dignitaries who would love nothing more than to report this to your father. panic flares hot in your chest, but you refuse to let it show, only gripping his wrist and yanking him into the nearest shadowed alcove. he lets you, amusement dancing in his too-bright eyes, the scent of something expensive lingering on his skin. “what are you doing here?” you hiss, low and sharp, as distant voices hum just beyond the curtains.

“you missed me.” he answers, unbothered.

“i did not.”

��you totally did.”

you glare. he grins.

“besides,” he continues, leaning in, voice dropping to something low and private. “how could i miss the chance to see you all dressed up? you look…” his gaze flickers over you, slow, deliberate, appreciation flickering in those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes. “…stunning.”

your stomach flips, traitorous. you roll your eyes instead, fixing him with a pointed look, ignoring the heat that creeps up your neck. “if your father finds out—”

“who cares?” he shrugs, the picture of reckless ease, of untouchable confidence. “we’re just two childhood friends catching up, aren’t we?”

friends.

right.

but then, before you can snap back, he lifts your hand—bold, improper, scandalous—and bows his head, brushing his lips against the skin just above the lace of your glove. his breath ghosts warm against your wrist, lingering, deliberate, as if committing the shape of you to memory. a slow, teasing kiss, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he enjoys the way your pulse stutters beneath his mouth. you freeze, caught between outrage and something far more dangerous, something you refuse to name. his smirk deepens when he finally pulls away, watching you with eyes too sharp, too knowing.

“see?” he murmurs, amusement curling in his tone. “you don’t seem so bothered now.”

at sixteen, things shift again.

it happens during a fencing lesson, though neither of you are properly dressed for it. no heavy jackets, no masks—just wooden practice swords and the simmering tension that neither of you have the words for yet. the vast training hall is bathed in late afternoon light, golden streaks stretching across polished wooden floors, dust motes dancing in the air. you weren’t even supposed to spar today, but satoru had grabbed a sword off the rack, tossed you another, and grinned like he already knew how this would end. where you are disciplined, he is wild; where you are precise, he is unpredictable. he circles you now, blade tapping lazily against his shoulder, eyes bright with something electric.

“come on, princess,” he drawls, voice laced with challenge. “show me what all those lessons are worth.”

you do. you lunge, and he parries; you strike, and he meets you—wooden swords colliding in a flurry of sharp movements and breathless taunts. your footwork is flawless, your technique impeccable, but satoru is fast, too fast, slipping through your defenses like water through cupped hands. then, in a blink, he disarms you—sends your practice sword clattering across the floor. before you can react, he moves, pushing you back until your spine meets the wooden wall, his weight pressing just enough to keep you there. the air shifts, suddenly charged, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of polished wood and something distinctly him curling in your lungs.

“yield.” he murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable.

you should push him away. should remind him of propriety, of duty, of the countless rules you are bound to. but you don’t—because his gaze is locked onto yours, and you can’t seem to look away. your heart hammers, pulse drumming loud in your ears, and for the first time, you realize how much taller he has gotten, how sharp the lines of his face have become. there’s something dark in his smirk now, something dangerous beneath the teasing edge. something you don’t have a name for yet.

“you know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, the dim glow of the lanterns casting sharp shadows across the planes of his face, “one day, they’re going to try to take you from me.”

your breath catches, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeve. there is no mockery in his tone this time, no teasing edge to soften the words. just quiet, unwavering certainty, as if he has already seen the war they will wage over you, as if the battle lines have already been drawn. something cold slithers down your spine, something you don’t have a name for, because this—this is not the boy who used to steal your tiaras and drag you onto palace rooftops. this is someone else entirely, someone sharp-edged and merciless, someone who speaks as though he has already decided the outcome. someone you should fear.

“who?”

“your father. my father. the entire world.”

his voice is low, even, but the weight of it presses against you, heavier than the steel of his blade had been moments before. because satoru gojo has never been the kind of person who loses—not fights, not games, not people. and you know, with a sudden, sinking certainty, that he does not intend to start with you. his gaze flickers down, where your pulse jumps at your wrist, where the lace of your glove fails to hide the way your blood sings beneath your skin. he lifts your hand with ease, brings it to his lips, and presses another kiss to the exact same spot he always does—slow, deliberate, reverent. his lips linger just long enough for heat to unfurl in your stomach, for something traitorous to bloom in your chest.

“satoru—”

“they can try.” he interrupts, voice dropping lower, something wolfish curling at the edges of his grin. his breath ghosts over your skin, his hold unrelenting. “but i don’t share.”

then, as if nothing happened, he releases you. steps back. extends his hand, as if this is still the same fencing match, the same childhood game, as if he has not just shifted the very ground beneath your feet.

you don’t take it.

because suddenly, you are afraid. not of him, but of what you might become if you do.

something changed in satoru after that conversation and it must've had something to do with him suddenly messaging you to meet him in the middle of the night because you aren’t supposed to be here.

the castle is asleep, save for the flickering lanterns lining the outer walls, their glow barely touching the darkness beyond the royal gates. but there, just past the threshold of where he shouldn’t be, satoru waits—leaning against a stone pillar like he owns the place, bathed in moonlight and audacity. he sees you before you even step past the archway, his smirk unfurling slow and knowing, like he expected you all along.

“satoru,” you hiss, breathless with fury, your voice trembling as you glance over your shoulder, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “if anyone sees you—” your words falter, your mind racing with the consequences, the scandal, the way your father’s face would darken if he caught you like this. but satoru doesn’t seem to care. he never does.

“then let them watch,” he says, his voice pure sin, a slow, teasing drawl that sinks beneath your skin, twisting deep in your stomach. he’s taller now, broader, his beauty sharper, more lethal—something sculpted for war, not courtly dances. and yet, the danger in him doesn’t make you step back. instead, it pulls you in, like a moth to a flame, even as your instincts scream at you to run. his presence is overwhelming, his gaze piercing, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering, about to fall.

he doesn’t wait for permission. instead, he tugs you forward with infuriating ease, his hands rough yet deliberate, your body colliding with his before you can even think to resist. your fingers curl instinctively into the delicate fabric of your nightgown, clutching at it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. his touch is heat against silk, against skin, the space between you vanishing before you can catch your breath. you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his heartbeat matches the frantic rhythm of your own.

and then he kisses you.

it is nothing like the carefully instructed, polite kisses you’ve been warned to expect. there is no hesitation, no gentleness—only hunger, only greed, his lips pressing, parting, demanding like he has spent years waiting for this. and he has. your first kiss is not sweet or tender; it’s a wildfire, consuming everything in its path, leaving you breathless and dizzy. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can’t help but melt into him, your body betraying your mind as you lean into the heat of his touch.

you should push him away. you should remind him of duty, of war, of the blood-soaked line that has long divided your families. but you don’t. instead, you let him press you against the cold stone wall, the chill seeping through your gown as his mouth abandons yours, trailing lower—along your jaw, down the column of your throat. his breath is warm, his lips softer than they should be, the contrast making you shudder. when he reaches the spot wrist he had been lavishing attention since forever, he bites, slow and deliberate, his teeth sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

he feels it, hears it—your sharp inhale, your pulse rushing wildly beneath his lips, your fingers clenching in his jacket—and he laughs, low and pleased, his tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. “you are so cute, your highness,” he murmurs against your skin, the words a silken promise, a loaded threat. “i might just ruin you myself before they could.” his voice is a whisper, a caress, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your mind racing with the implications of his words. but even as your thoughts scream at you to stop, your body betrays you, leaning into him, craving more of the chaos he brings.

before you turn seventeen, your fathers were at war.

not with swords, not with soldiers, but with power plays disguised as diplomacy, with whispered threats exchanged in the halls of government buildings. your father, the last vestige of a monarchy that no longer ruled, still held influence, still had loyalists willing to fight for the old ways. and satoru’s father, the prime minister, was the embodiment of the new world—modern, efficient, ruthless.

it was a battle for control, for legacy, for the future of a nation that no longer belonged to kings. but behind the headlines, behind the political chess match, there is this scandalous little thing going on between their heirs.

satoru is breathless against your lips, his hands pressing you against the cold marble walls of a grand ballroom. the air around you was thick with the scent of champagne and the faint sweetness of his cologne, mingling with the sharp chill of the stone at your back. hidden behind a velvet curtain, just out of sight, just out of reach, the muffled sounds of the gala outside felt like a distant dream. his fingers traced the curve of your waist, leaving trails of fire even through the layers of your dress, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours.

the dim light filtering through the curtain cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the glint of mischief in his summer sky eyes. you were trapped, not by his hands, but by the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“we shouldn’t be doing this.” you whispered, your voice trembling as much as your hands, but your fingers curled into his collar, betraying you. the fabric was soft under your touch, but the heat of his skin beneath it was enough to make your head spin.

satoru's breath hitched, a low, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting. the words were meant to be a protest, a reminder of the rules, the consequences, but they came out weak, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. you knew you should pull away, should step back into the light where everything was safe and predictable, but the way he leaned into you, his forehead resting against yours, made it impossible to move.

“then tell me to stop,” satoru murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, his voice an invitation and a taunt all at once. his hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of you, and you could feel the faint tremor in his touch. “but you won’t, will you?” his words were soft, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of certainty, of years of knowing you better than you knew yourself.

and god, he was right. you couldn’t tell him to stop, not when his breath was warm against your skin, not when his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. the world outside the curtain didn’t exist anymore—it was just you and him, and the dangerous, exhilarating thing growing between you.

the older satoru got, the more he loved pushing you, breaking down every fragile, innocent piece of you until you were something else—something that belonged to him.

at seventeen, he kissed you in secret corridors, in the backseats of limousines, in his father’s estate where you were absolutely not supposed to be. each touch, each whispered word, was a challenge, a game he was determined to win. he thrived on the thrill of it, on the way your breath caught when he leaned in too close, on the way your eyes darted around nervously, always aware of the risk.

but no matter how many times you told yourself it was wrong, no matter how many times you tried to pull away, he always found a way to draw you back in. and deep down, you knew you didn’t want to resist.

“if they catch us, we’re finished,” you hissed, clutching at his wrist as he dragged you down a private hallway, past security cameras he had long since learned how to avoid.

your heels clicked softly against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty space, but his steps were silent, confident, as though he owned every inch of the estate. his grip on your hand was firm, unyielding, and you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your glove. the hallway was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon streaming through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the walls. you could hear the faint hum of the gala in the distance, a reminder of how far you’d strayed from the safety of the crowd, but satoru didn’t seem to care. he only smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glanced back at you.

“then don’t let them catch us.” he said, his voice low and teasing, as though the idea of getting caught was just another part of the game. he stopped suddenly, pulling you into a secluded alcove, his hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders. the space was small, intimate, and you could feel the heat of his body even through the layers of your dress.

he traced the edge of your gloves with his fingers before slipping them off entirely, his touch light but deliberate, and you shivered as his lips brushed against your bare wrists. “you still taste sweet,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and sending a jolt of electricity through you. “but i want more.” his voice was a whisper, a promise, and when you gasped, his smile turned sharp, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

at eighteen, the arguments start.

they are sharp-edged things, honed by frustration, by fear, by the unbearable weight of wanting something neither of you are supposed to have. they happen in hushed whispers behind closed doors, in stolen moments between political meetings, in the space between your duty and his defiance.

the fight happens in the royal gardens, beneath the cold glow of lantern light. the evening air is thick with the scent of jasmine, too sweet, too cloying, pressing in around you like a reminder that this—this moment, this thing between you and him—should not exist. satoru stands before you, white-haired and furious, the shadows casting sharp lines across his face.

“you’re playing pretend.” he snaps, voice low and angry, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“and you’re reckless,” you bite back, every word laced with frustration, with fear. “our families—”

“our families don’t get to decide what i want.” his voice cuts through the night like a blade.

“it’s not that simple, satoru.”

“it is.” he steps closer, unrelenting. “you just don’t want to admit it.”

and maybe he’s right. because no matter how many times you tell yourself this has to end, no matter how hard you try to keep your distance, you always end up in his arms.

one night, he climbs the palace walls just to see you, tapping against your balcony door like a fairytale gone wrong. moonlight pools over him, silvering the edges of his hair, making him look almost otherworldly. he isn’t supposed to be here, in your world, in your life—but he is, always, always finding his way back to you.

“you're insane.” you whisper, glancing toward the locked door of your chambers, every nerve alight with the possibility of being caught despite having done this dance with him a lot of times.

“so stop me.” he challenges, standing too close, breath warm against your skin, eyes dark with something you can’t name.

but you never do.

at nineteen, it becomes something worse—something all-consuming.

it happens in the dead of night, far from the glittering ballrooms and suffocating eyes of court, in a forgotten wing of the palace where the candlelight flickers against aged stone. you shouldn't be here, but then again, neither should he. yet, satoru stands before you, disheveled from the wind, hair messier than usual, his cravat undone like he had run through the city just to reach you. there is something feverish in his expression, something that crackles in the air between you, thick as a storm about to break.

"marry me.” he says, voice hoarse, desperate, the words landing between you like a live wire.

you laugh, light and brittle, because surely this is one of his reckless games, another push to see how far he can take you before you break. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he doesn’t smile. doesn’t tease.

his gaze darkens, something furious and unrelenting burning behind those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes.

"i’m serious," he says, fingers tightening around your wrist, thumb pressing against the flutter of your pulse. "we could disappear. right now. no titles, no families. just us."

your breath hitches, a treacherous, shaky thing. because the truth is—you want to say yes. want to follow him wherever he leads, want to run until your name is just an echo, until you are nothing but his and he is nothing but yours.

but you can’t.

and satoru gojo is not the type to be denied.

at twenty, it becomes undeniable—you and satoru were never meant to be together.

your fathers made sure of that. your engagement to a foreign prince was inked onto paper, sealed with signatures and handshakes, a carefully calculated move to secure the monarchy’s fragile standing. meanwhile, satoru was no longer just the prime minister’s son; he was the rising sun of the nation, the man poised to inherit an empire built on power, not love.

but neither of you had ever been good at listening.

the breaking point came on the night of your engagement announcement.

the ballroom was suffocating beneath the weight of gold and glass, chandeliers spilling warm light over a sea of carefully curated guests. you stood beside your fiancé—a stranger who held your hand like a possession, like a duty—accepting congratulations with a flawless smile, a mask you had worn since childhood.

and then you felt it.

a gaze that burned hotter than the lights above, pulling at the frayed edges of your resolve.

satoru stood at the far end of the room, silent, still. his presence was a fault line beneath the glittering facade of the ballroom, a quiet promise that everything was about to break. the golden glow of the chandeliers softened nothing—the sharp lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled at his sides as if holding himself back. his expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than you’d ever seen, his usual mirth stripped away, leaving only something raw, something furious beneath the surface. and for the first time in your life, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

that terrified you.

you turned away, the weight of his stare pressing against your spine as you moved, each step measured, careful. past the marble pillars, through the gilded archways, down the quiet corridors where the walls didn’t have ears. your breaths came too shallow, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat, your hands trembling at your sides. the mask was slipping—cracking at the edges—and you just needed a moment. a moment away from the expectations, the duty, the suffocating weight of a future you never wanted.

but the second you stepped onto the darkened terrace, a hand closed around your wrist and yanked you into the shadows.

“satoru—!”

your gasp barely left your lips before your back hit the cold stone wall, the breath knocked from your lungs. the scent of him wrapped around you—something clean, something sharp, something familiar—and it made you dizzy. moonlight cut through the darkness, slashing across his face, catching the bright, seething blue of his eyes. his grip was firm, almost trembling, fingers pressing into your skin as if convincing himself you were real.

“tell me you don’t love me.”

his voice was low, ragged, the edges fraying with something desperate, something reckless.

you swallowed, your throat dry, your heart a wild thing caged in your ribs. you wanted to say it—to end this before it destroyed you both. but satoru was too close, his breath warm against your cheek, his presence a force of gravity you had never been able to escape.

“tell me,” he repeated, his voice an ache, a command, a plea. “and i’ll let you go.”

you couldn’t.

because you did love him—fiercely, recklessly, in a way that made it impossible to breathe. it wasn’t something delicate or gentle, not something you could tuck away behind locked doors and polite smiles. it was violent, all-consuming, a love that sank its teeth into you and refused to let go. a love that could ruin you, that already had.

his grip tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate bones of your wrist, and you knew he felt the way your pulse stuttered beneath his touch. “run away with me,” he whispered, voice low, raw, a plea wrapped in command. “leave all of this behind.”

for a moment, the world shrank to nothing but him—the way his breath ghosted over your lips, the sharp edge of desperation in his voice, the promise in the way he held you like you were something he would never surrender. like he would burn the world down before letting you go.

it was insanity. you were royalty. he was power itself. the country would burn for it.

but that night, when the palace fell silent and the world believed you were safely asleep in your chambers, you slipped out of bed and pressed your palm against the ornate mirror.

it clicked.

the passage behind it was cold, narrow, the air thick with dust and secrets. it had been there for centuries—an escape route once used by queens in times of war. but to you, it had always been his passage.

satoru had discovered it as a boy, slipping in and out of the palace long before he was supposed to. he had shown it to you when you were twelve, smirking as he dragged you through the hidden tunnels, laughing about how he could steal you away anytime he wanted.

now, years later, you were the one stealing yourself away.

you moved quickly, heart pounding, hands trembling as you pushed open the passage’s final door—out into the night, into the city that had never truly belonged to you. the air was crisp, thick with the scent of rain on pavement, the distant hum of traffic reminding you how far you were from the life you were supposed to be living. you had never been alone here, not really—not without guards, not without duty shackled to your wrists like golden cuffs. but tonight, the city stretched before you, dark and endless, a freedom you had never known how to grasp. and in that vast, unfamiliar quiet, he was waiting.

not at the gates, not where the guards stood watch. no, satoru gojo was leaning against the hood of a brand-new, custom-designed car, sleek and untraceable, its glossy frame catching the glow of the streetlights. his suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loose around his collar, a portrait of effortless rebellion wrapped in money and recklessness. but it wasn’t the car or his defiant stance that made your breath hitch. it was where he was waiting. the old, abandoned chapel—the one the two of you had found as children, where you had once played pretend, weaving stories of running away, of rewriting fate, before you were old enough to understand how impossible that was. except now, as his sharp gaze found yours across the empty street, you realized he had never stopped believing in it.

“satoru.” you whispered, stepping closer, the word barely more than breath.

he didn’t speak. instead, he reached into his pocket, fingers curling around something small, something that had been weighing him down the entire night. for a moment, he only stared at it, thumb brushing over the edges, hesitant, as if still debating whether to do this—whether to let himself want this. then, with a quiet breath, he flipped open the velvet box, revealing what lay inside.

“marry me.”

your breath caught.

it wasn’t a question. he didn’t kneel, didn’t offer flowery words or grand declarations. he just stood there, holding it out, the blue diamond gleaming in the low light—impossible, priceless, his. he looked at it for another moment, then back at you, as if deciding, as if still waiting for some part of him to pull back.

but he never did.

you stared at him, stunned, breathless, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest like an iron hand. the world outside the chapel was still, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding in your ears. satoru stood before you, bathed in silver moonlight, sharp edges and reckless intent carved into his very being. his fingers were curled so tightly around the velvet box that his knuckles turned white, but his smirk—god, that damn smirk—never wavered. it was defiant, cocky, but underneath it, something deeper flickered in the ice of his eyes, something unspoken, something raw. he was waiting for you to understand, to accept that there was no going back after this.

"you said it yourself, didn’t you?” his voice was low, smooth, a blade sharpened with amusement and something darker. his lips curled, something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something wolfish—predatory in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. but his fingers, still gripping the box, betrayed him, tension coiling beneath the surface of his casual defiance. "princesses don’t marry commoners." he let the words settle between you, let them hang in the charged air like an accusation, like a challenge. then he took a step closer, slow and deliberate, gaze never leaving yours.

“so i guess it’s a good thing i’ve never been one.”

your heart slammed against your ribs, a wild, dizzying rhythm that sent heat rushing to your skin. the space between you shrank, the night folding in around the two of you, suffocating in its intensity. you had seen him serious before—calculating, determined, ruthless—but this was different. this was satoru stripped bare of pretense, of politics, of the role he had been born to play. this was him, standing in front of you, asking you to choose him, to burn down everything for him. the realization sent a sharp ache through your chest, twisting something deep inside you.

“you’re insane.” you whispered, but the words lacked conviction, your voice betraying the tremor beneath your carefully constructed walls.

his grin widened, wicked, knowing, a spark of satisfaction lighting up his too-bright eyes. “considering i’m about to whisk away the dearest princess of this country like a big bad wolf," he murmured, tilting his head, watching you through thick lashes, “i guess i am, but you'd let me anyway, won't you?”

he wasn’t wrong.

your fingers tightened around his, around the ring, around the impossible weight of what you were about to do. you didn’t even need to say yes—he already knew. the moment you let him slip that ring onto your finger, something shifted, something irreversible. satoru laughed, breathless, triumphant, his lips brushing against your knuckles, against the cold metal now resting against your skin like a brand. you felt it then—the silent vow, the inevitable destruction, the promise of a future you weren’t meant to have but would take anyway.

“see?” he murmured, lips ghosting just above the lace of your glove, his breath warm against your wrist. “fits perfectly.”

and then he drove—fast, reckless, free.

and you let him, because for the first time in your life, you wanted to be.

a/n : wrote this pretty fast when i was just yapping about it last night because this is what satoru brainrot & ovulation does to an idiot. if you see some errors please do tell & i apologize in advance, i stayed up all night writing this & now i finally get to sleep zzzz

also pls do tell if you are interested in the aftermath, i already have a rough plan on how it will go, just whole domesticity and fluffy stuff (as if he didn't corrupt you into eloping with him but let's not talk about that)

[stevesherdaddynowlover]

indifferent [s.h.] 18+

an: heyyyy me again so yeah could not stop thinking about a pathetic steve so here we are!! enjoy and feel free to send suggestions, concepts, or just chat!!

side note i listened to i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys on a loop while writing this so do with thag what you will!

masterlist here!!

summary: you and steve are coworkers and while you try (and fail) to act like he doesn’t exist, he’s a little obsessed with you and would do anything to have your attention

(fem!reader x steve harrington)

warnings: angst, fluff, cursing, public teasing (nothing too crazy), jealous reader, dirty talk, f masturbation, fingering, biting, kissing, spit, handjob MDNI!!!!!

wc: 15.5k

When it came to Steve Harrington, you were indifferent. 

You didn’t fall in with the group of girls who fawned over him like some king, worshiping the ground he walked on and giggling at his attempts at jokes. But you didn’t fall in with the other group either. The ones that hated him, that called him names and rolled their eyes when he walked in the room with a smile on his face. 

So you fell somewhere in the middle. To you Steve Harrington was your coworker, someone you often had to pick up the slack for or cover for when he was running late. You wouldn’t call him a friend but wouldn’t say he was your enemy either. 

The arrangement the two of you had worked well for you. You’d cover for him or save his ass when needed, and in turn he’d leave you alone. Well sometimes he would. You didn’t mind him but sometimes it seemed like he could go on forever and you just…it drove you a little crazy, okay? He was good about leaving you be, making small talk for a little before the both of you quieted down and went about your shift. 

Part of this arrangement was you teasing him until his cheeks burned and his felt fuzzy, but that was neither here nor there. 

But sometimes you think he just couldn’t help it. He’d start going on about something and then it would be 45 minutes later and he’d still be going. You let him do this about once or twice a week. You didn’t mind him or his company, so if it made him happy to ramble on every once in a while you could live with that. He was a yapper and you were quiet. You would hum along to something you’d heard on the way to work and entertain his chit chat for a few minutes but that was really it. 

Did that mean you couldn’t appreciate that he was actually really pretty? Of course not! He had dimples that made him seem boyish and sweet, even when he was being a menace. His hair was perfect, especially after he’d spent the day running his hands through it a million and one times. His lips were pouty and pink and so what if you stared at them when he was droning on about something? A perfect nose that you’d admired the slope of more times than you could count when he was sitting beside you going through returns. 

He was pretty. You wouldn’t deny that. But that was it. No more, no less. It didn’t mean you liked him or wanted him or would fall to your knees for him like half of Hawkins did. Sure, you passed the time at work by teasing him and making him squirm, but it was only because you were bored and he was there, all pretty and willing. 

You were indifferent. 

              ****************************************

Steve liked you. 

If you were in the same room as him he couldn’t help but to watch you. He didn’t know if you saw him and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d watch the way you’d tuck your hair behind your ear once every few minutes. He’d watch you scrunch your nose when you were reading and pout your rosy lips when sorting through dvd’s. God you were just so pretty. 

He wanted your attention all the time, he craved it. He knew he looked like a little lovesick puppy the way he followed you around and hoped you’d smile at him or indulge his ramblings every now and then. 

Pathetic. That’s what he was when it came to you. Sometimes you were a little mean to him but he liked it, loved anything you’d give him. He would even show up late on purpose sometimes just to hear you scold him! 

“M’not always gonna be here to cover for you, Harrington. Be a big boy and get to work on time.”

His cheeks would be pink and he’d give you a shy smile, promising this was the last time but you both knew better than to believe that. You didn’t put up with his bullshit, you called him out when he needed it and you didn’t try and act like somebody you weren’t around him. He loved it. 

Like today, you’d barely come in the door before he was on your heels, going on about some party from the weekend before and how it was sooo lame and that he didn’t have any fun. He’s so occupied with his rambling he doesn’t realize you’ve stopped until he slams into your back, hands coming up to grip your shoulders so you don’t both fall over. 

Your hands grip the counter just in time and he expects you to turn around and gripe at him, scolding him like a toddler who’d been on your heels but you don’t. You huff a laugh and playfully shove at his shoulder, shaking your head. 

“Jesus, Harrington. Maybe I need to get you a leash, hm?” 

And maybe Steve likes that a little too much because he can feel the tips of his ears burning and blush working its way up his neck and covering his cheeks in a pink that makes him squirm. 

He watched you quirk an eyebrow at him, a knowing smirk on those lips he’s dreamed about for months and he wonders why he’s not more embarrassed, why his heart is racing and his cock is swelling in his pants. Fuck.

“On second thought, I think maybe you’d like that a little too much.” 

              *************************************

One thing you love about working with Steve is teasing him. You’ve done good to not let him get too close to you, staying neutral when it comes to his antics but you can’t help the giddiness you feel watching him blush and squirm when you’re mean to him. You’ve come to learn he likes when you embarrass him. 

You’re embarrassed to admit it makes you feel a little powerful, a little special when you make him this way. He’s not the big, bad, ‘King Steve’ he was in high school when he’s in front of you, oh no. You think he’s quite pathetic the way he’s practically attached to your hip and you relish in the way he hangs onto every word you give him, especially considering you don’t give him much. 

Like today you’re perched on a stool at the cash register, barely working oscillating fan doing little to cool you down when the ac is shitty, pushing around warm air that makes your thighs stick together and leaves a sheen of sweat on your forehead. You hate the heat, but what you don’t hate is the way Steve’s eyes are glued to your thighs, watching closely every time you readjust or a bead of sweat slides down your leg. 

“Careful, Steve, I won't be happy if you drool on my leg.” That snaps him out of it, shoulders thrown back as he whips his head up to your face and oh yep! There’s those red cheeks you’ve come to like so much. 

He opens his mouth to say something, probably nothing that would make sense but you spare him from trying to explain his wandering eyes, reaching down into your bag to pull out your next bit of entertainment for the day. 

This’ll be good.

Out of the corner of your eye you see him watching you closely and you can’t help the smirk you wear when your fingers find what you were looking for, wrapping around it and pulling it out for Steve to see. You don’t miss the way his lips part or the way he grips the counter in front of you. 

“They’re my favorite,” you wave the cherry blow pop in front of you like you’ve found gold, smirking at the way his eyes follow it through the air, “I only have the one but I can share, I guess.” 

It would be rude of you to not offer him any. You might tease and be mean, but you certainly weren’t rude!

Ripping the wrapper off you waste no time, sticking the sweet treat in your cheek, throwing away the trash and swinging your legs around so you’re face to face with Steve, knees pressed against his as your feet dangle off the stool. 

Maybe you could blame the way you make a show out of it on the lack of customers today. You’ve been here for 4 hours and only a handful of people have come in. Yeah, that’ll do. That’s why you pull it from your mouth with a pop that makes him flinch, lolling your tongue around the candy in a way that makes his eyes glaze over. You can hear him gulp when you hollow your cheeks and close your eyes, pretending like the taste of artificial cherry is what’s making your ears buzz and your heart race. 

Dragging the blow pop from your mouth you gasp, letting your tongue swipe against your bottom lip that you’re sure is shiny with spit. “Oh, where are my manners! Here ya go, Harrington, have a lick.” 

Not giving him a second to react, you surge forward, pushing the sucker against his lips before he has the chance to open, smearing the stickiness and your spit around his mouth and smiling wide at the sight of him, a tint of red around his pouty lips that suits him well. 

“Messy boy, aren’t you?” You swipe your thumb over his lips, collecting some of the mess and you can see the way his tongue peaks out and you know he’s dying to let it touch your thumb. You pull back before he can, popping your thumb in your mouth and humming around it as if it’s the blow pop itself. 

“Told you I could share!” 

You could be indifferent to him and still want to make him melt to his knees for you, right? 

             **************************************

Steve thought about the cherry blow pop incident for weeks. He was surprised he didn’t cum in his pants like a teenager when the spit soaked treat touched his lips or when he watched you suck on your thumb after it swiped across his mouth. 

That was just one example of how you tortured him, how he loved it. He’d had to go home that night and barely made it through the front door before he was pulling his cock out and picturing you on your knees in front of him, teasing him for being a “messy boy.” 

You had no idea. 

This shit would happen, these events that Steve was positive were chemically altering his brain chemistry, and he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you? You’d do something like that, something so hot it was engraved in his mind forever and then five minutes later it would be as though it never happened. You’d smirk at him, go back to what you were doing and spend the rest of the day ignoring him or giving him one word responses while he begged at your feet for a scrap of attention. 

He really was like a puppy. 

So he was confused, beyond confused on if you were friends, if you wanted him…he just didn’t know what to make of it. He hadn’t seen you act this way with anyone else and it made him feel…special. God he was pathetic. 

The problem with all this was that he wasn’t entirely sure you didn’t hate his guts. I mean yeah, you’d tease and scold him when he was being an idiot and you were mean but never cruel or malicious. But you also never really went out of your way to start a conversation, never really cared to keep one up with him either. You rarely smiled at him, which killed him, because he saw the way you’d laugh at something Robin said or the amusement dancing in your eyes when the kids came in to raise hell. You never let him have it though, and fuck he wishes you would. All he got were teasing smirks and he wasn’t complaining about them, not one bit, but he wanted to see if he could make you all sweet and mushy like everyone else did. 

There’s been a few times he’s caught you staring but you never back down, never look embarrassed to have been watching him and he wonders if you were staring so hard to put a curse on his bloodline or something! He wouldn’t mind if you were, the feel of your eyes on him somewhat satiate the craving he has for you. 

He’s thinking about you again, just like always. In fact he’s so deep in thought, leaned forward letting his chin rest in his palm that for once he doesn’t notice you come up behind him. 

He wishes he would have noticed you because then maybe he could have prepared himself to talk you and then maybe he wouldn’t have fucked everything up the way he did. Maybe it would’ve gone differently and ended without you in tears and him feeling the world's biggest douche bag. 

“Dreamin’ about me, Harrington?” 

“Aren’t I always.” He meant for it to come out teasing—but it didn’t. Now you were staring at him and he was staring out the window, the tips of his ears burning and he wished he could swallow his own tongue. 

“Anyways, any chance you’ll cover my shift this Friday?” 

“Why? Where are you going?” Full on pouting now he finally met your gaze. You never missed a shift, in fact you were the only one that anyone could count on to pick up extra shifts. 

“Who are you, my daddy?” 

His fingers twitched on the counter in front of him and neither of you missed the way his throat bobbed. Jesus Christ you made him crazy. “If you must know, I have a date and Friday is the only day that works.” 

Wait—what? You had a date? With someone who was not him. Based on the way his heart dropped to his ass, he realized he might want far more than just your attention. His throat clogged as he looked at you, waiting as patiently as possible for his answer but fuck a date? You’d never gone on one as long as he’d known you—well that he knew of. 

“But…you don’t go on dates.” 

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Oh he was fucked now. He’d opened his big mouth and pissed you off—not in the way he’d liked either. “Well I just, I just meant I’ve never seen anyone ask yo—I didn’t think anyone…or you…I’ve never seen you go on one so I just figured you didn’t.” His foot could not get any further down his throat. He was fucking this up royally, but he was flustered! The pretty girl he liked was going out with someone, god knows who, and his feelings were a little hurt, even if he didn’t have the right! 

“Forget it.” Any amusement you’d held towards him vanished, something else passed over you that he recognized as hurt and then anger. Lots of anger. 

“Wait! M’sorry, I didn’t mean it like tha—”

“No you wait, Harrington. I don’t care what you think or what you think you know, it’s none of your business. I didn’t ask for you to question whether it was possible someone could like me enough to take me out, I asked if you’d cover my shift. Which—by the way—is not a big ask considering I cover your ass at least two times a week! But forget it, asshole, I’m sure my date was a fluke anyways, right?” 

Before he could apologize or even blink you’d stormed away, slamming the break room door behind you. Shit he was an idiot! A huge, massive, blubbering idiot who’d made you more mad than he’d ever seen. His words got all jumbled around you anyways let alone when he was jealous over someone else getting to take you out. 

He’d fucked up big time and was just sure you were cursing his bloodline now. 

                 *********************************

Big, angry tears rolled down your cheeks in the employee bathroom you’d locked yourself in for the last twenty minutes. You were pissed, livid even, but more than that you were hurt. Which was only making you more mad, because why the hell did Steve Harrington have the power to hurt your feelings! He wasn’t anyone to you but a coworker, maybe an acquaintance, and yet here you were crying in the bathroom at work because he…what? Didn’t think you were pretty enough or cool enough or—whatever he fuckin’ thought—to date? 

Okay, sure he didn’t say that exactly, but how else were you supposed to take his blubbering. And yeah, for the most part you were quiet and reserved and didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought, but that didn’t mean you didn’t have feelings for godsake. 

At the end of the day Steve was a guy, a cute guy that you’d admired for his beauty and wouldn’t deny that he was overall sweet and kind, and you were a girl, a girl who apparently was not meant for dates. 

And that hurts your feelings more than you’d care to admit. 

A knock on the door had you wiping at your cheeks furiously, though at this point nothing would be able to hide your red cheeks and swollen eyes. “Who is it?” You cringed at how your voice sounded cracked and whiny. 

“It’s Robin,” Oh thank god. Thank fucking god it wasn’t Steve. “Dingus is out here looking like he’s about to have a meltdown but won’t tell me what’s up, just said you were back here and that I should come check on you.” 

Taking a deep breath you pulled the door open just enough for Robin to slip in, quickly closing it back behind her and trying not to let your bottom lip tremble when she turned to look at you and gasped. You weren’t even a crier! What was going on! 

“Woa—shit I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. Are you okay? What happened? Did they get Steve too, he seriously looks two seconds away from curling up on the floor.” Hands immediately covering your face you sigh, willing no more tears to fall until you can get out of here and into your own bed. 

“It’s not, I just—I really don’t wanna talk about it right now, okay? Do you think you could start early and cover the rest of my shift? I promise I’ll make it up to you I just…Rob I just need to go home.” 

“Of course I can, are you crazy? There’s nothing to make up. Go! I’ll tell Harrington you’re not feeling well and he’s stuck with me for the rest of the night,” giving you a reassuring squeeze as you gathered your things you’d grabbed on the way in here you gave her what you hoped came off as a thankful smile, “and when—if—you wanna talk about this, I’m here. Just so you know. I can listen sometimes despite what they all say.” 

You nodded, squeezing her hand and giving yourself one last look in the mirror, grimacing at the utter mess you saw staring back at you. Hiking your bag on your shoulder you fled the safety of the bathroom and all but ran to the door. 

Steve was with a customer, the polite smile he had on his face completely wiped off when he caught a glimpse at your puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. You didn’t spare him one look, practically running for the door without uttering a word in his direction. 

God he felt like a piece of shit. He doesn’t think he’d ever seen you upset, let alone crying. He’d fucked up bad and didn’t know how to fix it when he’s sure you wouldn’t give him the time of day now. 

He’d have to find a way to make this better, the pit in his stomach growing when he thought of you being upset—hurt—because of him. 

He stood there staring at the door until Robin came up beside him, a concerned look on her face as she studied him. “Did she say what happened?” 

“No, she didn’t. Just said she needed to go home and didn’t want to talk about it. I’ve never seen her so upset though, I’m worried.”

He was thankful she didn’t call him out for his bullshit. It was obvious whatever happened had been between the two of you and he didn’t think he couldn’t take Robin ripping into him right now, even if he deserved it.

“Yeah, me too.” And fuck he was. 

             *************************************

3 days since Steve had made you cry. The more you thought about it, the worse you felt because if you were being honest with yourself, maybe there was a small, teeny tiny part of you that grew fond of Steve. Steve with his goofy smile and bashful grin when he’d tell you stupid jokes. 

It was one thing to be hurt because he’d been a jerk, but now you were dealing with feelings you didn’t want. You’d been hurt because you liked Steve and hearing him say…well you guess he didn’t say much, just stumbled his way through some sentences that all started pretty shitty, your feelings were all twisted up that he viewed you a certain way. 

But instead of thinking too hard about these newfound feelings you had, you chose to ignore it completely. Obviously! You didn’t have the time or energy to worry about what Steve Harrington thought of you, especially when you glance at the clock on your nightstand and shit you’re gonna be late for work! 

This is your first shift in 3 days and your stomach turns because you know you’ll be working with Steve. It also happened to be Friday, the day of your date that you had canceled in a fit of hurt and anger when you got home from your last shift. But based on how that jackass you couldn’t even remember the name of took it, you’d dodged a bullet. 

You’re pulling into Family Video before you know it, dread washing over you and it doesn’t help that the humid summer heat as your bare thighs sticking to your seat, it only adds to your frustration. You make no move to actually get out, but you know you can’t afford to miss a shift or risk this job so you get it over with, pulling yourself out and walking in before you say fuck it and head back home. 

Walking through the front doors you see him immediately, standing behind the counter with worry etched between his brows and a small frown on his face. He looks like a kicked puppy, staring you down as if you’ve wronged him. 

“You’re late.” 

You stiffen, spine straightening at his words and a string of curses are on the tip of your tongue, ready to lash out at him because how dare he. But before you get the chance he’s speaking again, effectively cutting off the tyrade you had going on your head. 

“And that’s fine, totally fine! You’re just never late so I was worried, but then again I know today’s Friday so I wasn’t sure if you’d be showing up at all…I didn’t get the chance to tell you the other day I’d already told Robin I’d cover her shift today but I talked to the boss and if you need to go you can, I can manage one night by myself, I swear!” 

You didn’t answer him, walking past and heading to the break room to hang up your things and try and mentally prepare for what was sure to be the longest shift of your life. The only thing you had going for you was that it was a Friday night, so hopefully you’d be busy and not have time to stress over being stuck with Steve. 

When you come back out he’s standing in the same spot you left him, staring around like a lost little kid waiting for someone to give him direction. Well you won't be doing it tonight. Wordlessly you take a seat on the stool, trying your best to ignore his stare burning into the side of your face. You’d snap at him if you didn’t think you’d have a meltdown. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go? I know you said tonight was the only night that would work for your date and I swear to you I can handle it. The place’ll still be standing tomorrow.” 

Maybe you should go. You could go home and lay in your bed and wallow some more, eat some ice cream and try and forget the past week had ever happened. But you couldn’t. You needed the money and you certainly weren’t gonna hide from Steve when he’s the one that fucked up. So with all the courage you can muster you turn to him, doing your best to give a blank face so he can’t see the hurt brewing behind your eyes. 

“No, Harrington. I don’t go on dates, remember?” 

            **************************************

Steve watches you turn away from him and fuck, okay he deserved that. He was a major asshole who had spent the last 3 days trying and failing to figure out how to get you to forgive him. 

Then you walk in looking so pretty that for a second he forgets that you’re mad at him, that he had fucked up. But then he sees your eyes and they look sad, detached and that kills him all over again. 

If he thought you might have disliked him before then he had no idea how good he had it! He’d give anything for you to smirk at him, to call him an idiot or to roll your eyes and pretend like you didn’t care when he rambled on, even though he could tell you did care, your eyes always gave you away. 

“Can I please just—”

“No.”

“Please, I’m begging for you to just—”

“No, Steve.” 

“But—”

“Nope.”

“Goddamnit please just let me at least try and explain myself a little bit. I know I don’t deserve it but I hurt you and I never, ever wanted to do that. Please. 5 minutes, honey. Please.” 

He thinks he’s shocked you, eyes widening the tiniest bit before you shrug at him, casting a quick look his way before you turn back around and face away from him. 

“I’m listening.” 

Doing your best to ignore the fact that he just called you honey, he’s never done that, you turn to him and shrug, trying to act indifferent but on the inside you’re dying to know what he has to say. You want to know what he really thinks even though it goes against everything you’ve ever thought or stood for. 

Jesus Christ you were the pathetic one, hoping for the reassurance of King Steve. Highschool you would absolutely kick your ass if she could see you now. 

“I’m not…good at sorting my thoughts, especially around you and the shit I said the other day came out so wrong, so not how I meant it and I just—fuck I’m sorry. I never want you to be sad or hurt because of me…or anything at all,” He didn’t even know how to properly say anything without it coming out that he just liked you so much it made him a fool! “I was not trying to suggest people didn’t want to take you out, that came out all wrong. I’m sure there’s a line of people just waiting for you to give them a chance,” I would know, I’m front and center. “But I was just surprised because I hadn’t ever heard you talk about going on dates so I guess I just assumed…I don’t know. I’m an idiot who was also maybe just a little jealous and fuck it’s not even my business what you do! The point is that I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry that I hurt your feelings, it was never my intention.” 

It had been a few minutes with neither of you saying anything, the store empty and only the buzz of the crappy ac could be heard around you as he waited for you to say something, anything. 

“Do you want me to get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness? I’ll do it, I swear. I hate you being upset with me, it fuckin’ sucks.” He couldn’t help it, his skin was crawling the longer you stayed quiet and he thinks he’d do anything to get you to not look so sad. 

He hears a small huff from you and if he was looking he’d have seen it was a small laugh of disbelief. “I may be mean but I’m not cruel, Harrington. I wouldn’t make you get on your knees on this floor.” 

Relief flooded through him and despite the humidity swirling around in the air he swore he felt cooler, lighter than he did before. “Does this mean I’m off your shit list then?” 

Your laugh was loud this time and he felt his chest swell with pride that he had been the one to cause it, even if he hadn’t meant to. 

“What makes you so sure I have a shit list?” 

“Oh come on, you definitely do.” Things felt somewhat normal again and it eased the ache in his chest that had lived there for 3 long days. Maybe this whole thing would make you guys even closer, actually make you friends. 

“Alright, maybe I do. And you’re definitely on it, but not because of what happened,” He found himself smiling at you and if he looked close enough he swore he saw a ghost of a smile on your lips before you wiped it away with the back of your hand, “but about the other day, I…you did hurt my feelings. I know, it’s shocking I have them but every once in a while I’m reminded I’m just like the rest of you, unfortunately. Look, I’ve worked with you a while and you’re sweet, Steve. You’re a good guy and when you were saying those things…I know you didn’t mean it the way it came out, but it made me feel..fuck I hate this shit. It made me feel like you thought I wasn’t good enough or pretty enough or some shit like that and it just…it fucked with me, okay? But I know you’d never be cruel like that so I forgive you. We’ll forget this happened so I don’t have to talk about my feelings anymore and we’ll be good. We are good. Fuck I’ll even admit we’re friends if we can not talk about this ever again.” 

“You think I don’t think you’re pretty or good enough?” That was all his brain could think of. How the fuck could you think that? Had he not been obvious? He all but drooled over you every time you were in his line of sight. 

“Really, Steve? That’s all you got! I just said we were friends. I'd thought you’d be over the moon.” Your eyes were looking everywhere but him and he knew you were trying to deflect. You’d just been vulnerable with him and he should move on but he couldn’t stomach you thinking you weren’t good enough or pretty enough, let alone thinking that he thought those things! 

“Honey, I’d be lucky even if you even gave me a second glance. Good enough? You’re too good for me and every other sorry prick in this town. I fuckin’ swear it. I was caught off guard and jealous. Jealous that someone else had gotten you to give them the time of day!” You looked stunned but he kept going, “And I can give you all the dirty details about how pretty you are. How I spend all day practically getting paid to stare at you, what a job! How I’ve memorized every little detail of your pretty face, how I stare a little too long when you’re bent over in front of me. Or how I think about your cute little mouth wrapped around that blow pop and wish it was my—”

“Steve Harrington!” You’d slapped your palm over his mouth to shut him up and if he wasn’t enjoying how squirmy you suddenly were he’d nip at your palm to make you jump. It was nice seeing you all red faced and hot because of him for a change, even though he loved it when it was the other way around. 

Maybe he’d said too much, let his filter slip a little too far but he wanted—no needed for you to know how perfect you were. Not just to him but to anyone with common sense. 

Pulling your palm away he opened his mouth but you shot him a glare as he did, as if you could sense he was going to do it. He watched as you tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear and cleared your throat bringing your weary eyes to meet his. 

“Smacking me around now?” He was a little shit, he knew it but he was sure you liked it anyway. 

“You love it.” And shit, you’d got him there. He’d let you do anything you wanted to him with a smile on his face and his heart happy. But just because he’d made you feel better didn’t mean the hurt just went away and he’d do whatever it took to fix it. 

“Caught me,” He threw you a wink that you ignored, rolling your eyes at him, “but seriously, there’s not one thing wrong with you and I’m sorry that I made you feel any different. I’m a dick. I’ll tell you till I’m blue in the face how pretty you are if that’s what it takes.” 

“Oh no, I’ve heard plenty, you perv. Now I know why you’re so quiet when I’m reorganizing the bottom shelves, you’re staring at my ass!” He shrugged at you sheepishly, not being near as embarrassed as he should be for admitting that. 

“But…thank you, Steve. This was just a misunderstanding that you’ve more than cleared up. We’re good, Harrington. I’m good.” And the relief he felt was seen on his face and felt throughout his body. He could’ve used the moment to be sweet, dragging out the conversation but you still looked a little uneasy about opening up to him so he thought it better to go back to territory you were comfortable with, him annoying you. 

“Oh I know we’re good! We’re friends now, remember? Don’t think I’ll ever let you forget it.” 

              *************************************

Things between you and Steve had been…good. 

There was a bit of tension between you, the kind that made your throat dry when you looked at him and your thighs clench when he whispered something in your ear if customers were around and he didn’t want them to hear. Maybe it was from the things he admitted or maybe it was because you were suddenly much more aware of Steve. 

You’d had your talk, if you could call it that, a few weeks ago and the time you’ve spent together since then had been mostly normal. Steve, getting on your nerves, rambling about nothing for as long as you’d let him, looking at you with those pitiful puppy dog eyes when you gave him some attention. You, teasing him relentlessly, even more now than before. Covering for him less, he’d been showing up on time almost every shift you had together. Bending over in front of him more just to hear him curse and see his cheeks flush. 

And maybe kind of developing a crush on him. 

It’s not your fault, it’s his! How were you supposed to resist him after he said he’d be lucky to go out with you, after he told you he’d been jealous someone else was, after he told you how pretty you were and how he thought about your mouth wrapped around his—

Fuck—no, you were not going down that road again. Every time you thought about what he said, how genuine and needy he seemed when he talked about you, your head got all fuzzy and your knees threatened to give out. It was all you could do not to pounce on him the second the words left his mouth. 

So yeah, you had a big fat crush on Steve Harrington. 

He’d also taken your comment about being friends to heart, bringing it up every chance he got and using it as an excuse for the two of you to spend even more time together. You’d walk in Family Video and he’d flash you that smile, opening his arms for a hug you pretended to hate but in reality looked forward to every day. 

“Hello, friend.” 

“As your friend I have to tell you how pretty you look today.” 

“C’mon friend, come to this party with me. It’ll be lame without you.” 

You’d threatened to revoke his “friend” privileges and he’d gasped, clutching his chest dramatically and pretending to stumble to the floor. It took everything in you not to giggle at his antics. You were quickly becoming obsessed with Steve, and even more obsessed with how quick you could get him to turn into a puddle at your feet. 

That was how you find yourself here at the Hawkins public pool with your bag strap digging uncomfortably into your shoulder and sweat dripping down your back, wearing what you’d bet was a grimace as you walked around the scattered chairs looking for Steve. 

One thing that remained constant and strong was the mid summer heat that took your breath away and put you in a less than pleasant mood most of the time. Poor Steve got the brunt of your frustration but he never complained. And that’s why you finally agreed to come to the pool with him, because he was sweet and patient and adorable, even when he was annoying the shit out of you. 

What you didn’t account for was the added heat you’d endure from seeing Steve shirtless before you, arms crossed over his chest and pale pink swim trunks sitting on his hips. 

When did Steve Harrington get chest hair and why was your mouth watering over it? It made him look sexy, older in a way that erased all boyish features you’d come to love. He looked…fuck he looked hot. His hair was slicked back and you knew he’d already gotten in, too impatient to wait for the 10 minutes longer it had taken you to get here. He had a trail of hair on his lower belly that ran down under the band of his swim trunks and you think you might have actually let out a whimper at the sight. 

You took a step toward him and cursed yourself when your legs wobbled a little bit. If he saw it he didn’t say anything, righting yourself quickly and making your way over so you could toss your bag into his waiting arms, trying not to look at the patch of chest hair just inches from your face and failing miserably. 

“My own personal pool boy, a girl could get used to this.” 

It didn’t take long to figure out that the easiest and quickest way to get yourself together was to turn it on him, to make his hands twitch and his stomach clench and to tease him until he was panting like a puppy. 

“At your service, ma’am.” 

Grabbing your arm he tugged you to the chairs he’d saved for the two of you, a cooler sitting between them with the lunch he’d made for the both of you. It makes your heart skip a beat and your tummy flutters. Your sweet Stevie. 

He sat your bag down between the chairs, laying back so his arms were stretched back and crossed behind his head, a twinge in your stomach tightening as you watched him stretch out before you. A fucking Greek god. You needed to even the playing field and you needed to do it now. 

Grabbing the sunscreen from your bag you put on the sweetest smile you could conjure while your body screamed at you to straddle his thighs and kiss him dumb. “Stevie, can you help me out with this?” He nodded without thought, that’s just how kind he was, sitting up to grab the bottle from your hands. 

Before he could make a move to get up you knocked his legs apart, pushing yourself down and back so that you were wedged between his thighs, your back almost completely pressed against his front. 

He cursed behind you, trying to scoot back but your hands dug into his thighs to keep him there, a silent plea. You’re sure if you could see his face he’d look almost pained at the feeling of your skin pressed to his. 

You heard him flip the cap open and squeeze some sunscreen in his hand, neither of you saying anything for a moment before he leaned forward, his lips almost touching the shell of your ear when he spoke, “s’gonna be cold.” You nodded wordlessly and straightened up a little, pushing back further into him. 

“Fuck.” You didn’t mean for it to slip out and hoped you could blame it on the cold lotion hitting your back, but you knew that was a lie. Steve’s big, calloused hands on your shoulders and back had you holding back whines and moans threatening to climb up your throat. Jesus Christ this felt good, too good. 

Any composure you had left flew out the window at his next move and you were quickly falling behind in the one sided game you’d started with him. 

You felt his hands move down lower to where the string of your bikini tied in the back, your thighs clenching hard when he slid them toward the front, following the line of your top and just barely slipping under the cup of your breast to tease the skin there before he was pulling back and going to your shoulders again. 

Holy fuck. 

He tensed behind you when your fingers dug harder into his thighs, but you didn’t even mean to. It was just a knee jerk reaction to his fingers gliding over the underside of your boob for Christ's sake. It wasn’t until you leaned back just a little, totally innocent you were just readjusting, that you felt it. 

Steve was hard. His swimsuit did a shit job of concealing it. And he was pressed up against you so tightly you could feel him throb against your lower back when you gasped. This was your opportunity to one up him, to move ahead a few spaces. 

Head turning to the side just slightly so he was in your peripheral, you needed to make sure he was looking and listening. You spoke as if you weren’t dripping wet yourself, thighs sore from how hard you’d been squeezing them together. 

“Poor baby, touching my shoulders and grazing a pair of tits has you all needy, huh?” 

He whined low in his throat, leaning forward to press his forehead against your back. You could feel little puffs of air against your skin as he tried to compose himself, not that you’d let him. 

“Stop. Don’t be mean.” The words were whispered against your skin and you smiled. 

“Don’t act like you don’t like it when I’m mean. Gets you hard, doesn't it, when I tease you?” You were being mean, so mean, but if the way he subtly tried to buck up against you was indication of how he felt, he loved it. 

You kept going, basking in the feeling of his hands grilling your hips tight and his breathing against your back was getting faster the more you talked. 

“You really are like a puppy. It’s just so fucking cute how whiny you get when you’re like this.” 

Both of you stilled when a whimper slipped out a little too loud and all of a sudden you remembered where you were, a fucking public pool. Steve must have realized too because he pulled back, scooting far enough away that you weren’t touching anymore and you hated how you already missed the feel of his skin on yours. 

Clearing your throat you shuffled over to the other chair, glancing at Steve to see his mouth shut and eyes looking anywhere but you. Maybe you’d gone too far. You opened your mouth to apologize but before you could he was up and tugging you to the edge of the pool, jumping in and practically dragging you in with him. 

The cool water actually did a good job of cooling you down, physically and mentally. When you broke the surface, gasping for air, Steve was already there looking at you. You couldn’t read the look on his face, couldn’t tell if he was upset with you so you bit the bullet. 

“M’sorry if I went too far, Steve. It’s just…you were…the sunscreen—you were making me feel crazy so I wanted to even it up. I shouldn’t have done that though, especially not here. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

For the first time since you came up from the water he broke his stare, opting to look around you before he came closer, pulling you in so no one would hear your conversation. 

“Don’t be sorry, I’m not. I only pulled away because I was seconds from cumming in my shorts like a teenage boy and I was embarrassed.” 

Lips pulling into a smile you covered your mouth and he pouted at you, huffing like a child when he saw you trying not to laugh at him. “No need to be embarrassed, Stevie. You can’t help that you’re a needy little thing.” 

His hand swatted at yours that had come up to pinch his cheeks and you cooed at him to tease him further. “So mean.” He tried to look annoyed but failed and it made your stomach dip at how pretty he looked, drops of water falling off his lashes, lashes you and every girl in Hawkins would kill for. 

“You really are pretty, Harrington.” The tips of his ears burned bright red and he moved toward you instinctively, like he wanted to kiss you. God did you want to kiss him. But you didn’t want to do it in a public place where you wouldn’t be able to make a mess of him after so you pulled back and splashed some water in his face with a giggle. 

“C’mon big boy, let’s swim! I didn't come all this way just to stare at your cute face.” 

Although you wouldn’t mind it. 

          *******************************************

The next few weeks are quiet, work goes by painfully slow when you’re not with Steve and you hate it. Your shifts with Steve are filled with teasing touches and flushed cheeks and very little work. 

You’ve also been spending a good chunk of the time you’re not at work with Steve as well. He somehow almost always convinces you to come over to watch a movie or go with him for a late night ice cream run. You find yourself in his car or playing with his hair while you lay in your bed more often than not. 

And you love it. 

Trying to act like you weren’t obsessed with him was exhausting so you mostly gave it up. You’d smile at him more, laugh at his jokes more freely, and have become much more touchy with him. 

Neither of you could seem to keep your hands off each other if you were in the same room. He always had to have a hand on your hip or one holding your thigh and you couldn’t keep your fingers from rubbing at his neck or slipping through his hair if he was close. 

There hadn’t been a conversation about what was happening, but neither of you seemed to mind. You think that you’d become best friends who were just crazy about each other and that was enough for both of you. 

Until it wasn’t. 

If you were being fair, you knew that technically you and Steve hadn’t officially become exclusive or anything. The two of you probably weren’t even dating, even though you spent all your time together. Cuddling and teasing constantly. 

But you weren’t fair. Everyone who spent any amount of time in a public setting knew that you and Steve were, for lack of a better word, an item. If someone saw you at the grocery store or at the post office, or anywhere, it was a safe bet that Steve was two paces behind you if he wasn’t already at your hip. 

This was common knowledge. Or at least you thought it was. So it’s a surprise, a bad one at that, when you come back from your break with a smile on your face that is quickly wiped away when you see some blonde you went to school with hanging over the counter with her tits pushed at Steve, a devious smile on her face as she bats her eyelashes at him. 

All the blood rushes from your body and you’re not sure you can even keep down the sandwich you’d had for lunch. A sandwich that Steve had made for you, might you add. There’s a horrible twist in your belly and you’ve never felt such rage as you have looking at the way she toys with the collar of his shirt between her fingers and at the way he gives her a small smile and doesn’t pull away. 

You were jealous. So jealous it took the breath right out of you and made your brain go blank. One minute you’re standing there with your skin hot and heart pounding and the next you’re sliding back into your seat beside Steve with a glare so sharp it could cut glass. 

“Need help with anything or are you just gonna keep groping the staff?” If your glare was sharp your words were sharper, serious and stern and directed at the girl who was still touching Steve, your Steve. 

Both the girl and Steve’s eyes widen at your tone. She finally takes a step back and you feel like you can breathe again. You see the way Steve’s staring at you but you don’t look at him, you can’t or you might do something crazy like hit this girl, or even worse, cry. 

Once the initial embarrassment from your words wears off she straightens her back and narrows her eyes in your direction. “I think we had it handled, sweetie. Your coworker here,” You flinch at the way she emphasizes coworker and feel yourself shrink a little, “was just giving me some movie recommendations. But thanks for the offer.” 

“I’ll leave you to it then.” The words taste bitter on your tongue and you want to slap the smirk off her face so bad your palm twitches. Steve is quiet beside you and you can’t even begin to process how that adds to your fury, to the pain that’s bubbling up beneath your skin and threatening to spill out. 

You’ve taken one, maybe two steps away from the counter, ready to go back to the bathroom of shame and cry again over Steve fucking Harrington when a hand on your wrist stops you. 

The same hand, the one that belongs to the boy you’ve become enamored with, tugs you gently back to his side, hand leaving you for just a second so he can wrap his arm around your waist and tug you into his side. Your hips are touching and you feel a wave of relief wash over you, the pain and anger dissolving while his hand grips you tightly against him. 

A sick satisfaction runs through you as you watch the way her jaw clenches and her eyes dim as his arm curls around you. Coworker my ass. Steve clears his throat beside you, catching yours and her attention, “I’m afraid I’m all out of recommendations for you, but maybe my coworker here has some for you.” Before she can even think about speaking you cut her off with a faux pout, “I don’t think I do, sorry!” 

Deciding Steve isn’t worth the battle you’re more than willing to start, what an idiot, she turns around and pretends to look through the new releases for all of five seconds before she’s scurrying out of the store and leaving you both alone again. 

Steve gives one last squeeze to your hip before he moves to sit back down, the reality of your little outburst smacking you in the face. Well, this is awkward. You sit down on your stool, tapping your hands on the counter while you try and gather the courage to look at him. 

You hope he’s not upset with you and if he is well…fuck him! Just because you haven’t said it out loud doesn’t mean he’s not yours. You know for a fact if he caught you flirting with a guy he’d be pissed! All whiny and pouty and pawing at you for attention. So you were justified in being upset, totally and fully justified. 

Now you’ve worked yourself up to tell him off and give him a piece of your mind, and you turn to him to do just that when it all slips away in an instant. Because Steve isn’t upset, no, he’s staring at you with wide, bright eyes and a smirk so big and knowing you curse yourself in your head. 

Oh this is even worse! Now you’ve given him a big head, bigger than he already had! 

“So that was…interesting.” You can hear the amusement in his tone and you roll your eyes. You much prefer him all pathetic and whiny over this…cocky Steve. But really you don’t mind this either. 

“Shut it, Harrington.” You think if you weren’t so obsessed with him you’d have the decency to be even a little embarrassed at how you acted but you aren’t! You practically marked your territory in front of her and you can’t find it in you to care or regret it. 

“You were jealous. Over me! I’ll never shut up about this! I’m taking a spot in the paper for this, alerting the press as we speak!” His bottom lip between his teeth and he looked giddy like it was Christmas morning and he’d gotten the brand new shiny bicycle he’d spent all year wishing for. 

You could have denied it, but what was the point in that? Everyone already knew anyway how you felt, you weren’t exactly subtle about it. Might as well embrace it at this point. 

“And so what if I was? Figure you’re mine anyways, right?” Your cheeks tint the lightest shade of pink as you watch him take in your words, his eyes a little wide and a small shy smile on his lips. 

“I am?” 

God okay, maybe you hadn’t been as obvious as you thought the last months. 

“Well…I thought so. You take up all my time anyways, Harrington, might as well. Plus I like you—well a lot. I’m yours too, ya know. If you want I guess, I don’t know, I thought this was just unspoken between us and now you’re making me nervous!” 

His lips parted in what could either be shock or awe, you weren’t sure. He didn’t look appalled at the idea so that was a good sign, right? 

“I’m sorry I just…sometimes I’m not even sure you like me all that much so I’m just a little shocked but yes! Fuck—yes I’ll be whatever you want.” 

Maybe he was a little dumb or maybe you weren’t as good at showing your feelings as you thought but either way you’d make sure he felt wanted, needed by you. 

“Steve, if I didn’t like you I promise I would not be spending all my time with you. I’m mean sometimes because you like it and I like seeing you all messy and cute. M’kinda obsessed with you, you idiot.”

His grin widened, dimples popping out and your heart sped up at the sight. He was pretty, so pretty and despite how you acted sometimes you felt so lucky that he even wanted to spend any time with you, let alone all of it. Steve Harrington had wiggled his way deep into your heart and your brain and you think your life would be dull without him. 

“I’d ask you to pinch me but I know you’ll make it hurt,” Your hand reached out automatically towards his thigh and he swatted you away with an eye roll, “I’m obsessed with you too, have been for months. Since the first day you started actually. Want you to be my girl, wanna be yours too.” 

Leaning forward you pressed a quick peck to the corner of his mouth and you felt his head turn, trying to catch your lips. He wouldn’t get off the hook that easily, it took no effort to remember how it felt to see that girl's hands all over him. Even if it wasn’t his fault you don’t think he’d mind paying for it anyways. Add on the cocky grin he had earlier when he realized you were jealous and all of a sudden you had big plans for Steve Harrington, plans that made your thighs clench and had you pulsing around nothing. 

You cooed at him, pulling back just in time to see his brows furrowed and a cute little pout working its way on his lips. He had no idea what was coming to him and you couldn’t want to see how sorry he would be. 

“Patience is key, baby.” 

          *****************************************

It was a week later when it all clicked for Steve. 

A week of teasing touches and sneaky glances his way, even when people were looking. You’d leave a kiss on his cheek or the corner of his mouth or on the side of his neck right right under his ear. He was going crazy, body leaning forward subconsciously anytime you were near him. 

You’ve barely let him touch you and at first he was worried but you’d whisper in his ear about “payback” for making you jealous and while he was nervous, now he was just excited. And impatient, wanting and begging for you to just do it already. He couldn’t take much more teasing, his cock had been aching for what felt like forever and no matter how many times he found himself in bed, stroking himself to the thought of you, it wouldn’t ever be enough. 

He thinks you’ve finally decided to put him out of his misery, calling him earlier to ask if you could come over, that you had a special surprise that was just for him. He’d agreed without hesitation, telling you to come over whenever you wanted and that he’d be waiting for you. His parents weren’t around this weekend so he didn’t have to worry about them and he was thanking god for that. 

It had been 4 hours and 37 minutes since you called, not that he’d been counting, when he heard a knock at his door that had him all but jumping over the couch and sprinting for the front door. He practically ripped it open, grinning wide as he took you in with dreamy eyes and his stomach twisted in knots. 

You were wearing a sundress that reached about mid thigh and he had to hold himself upright with the door at the sight of your bare legs, tan and smooth and fuck he just needed to bite at the skin between your thighs. The dress had little strawberries printed all over and he’d bet money that you tasted just as sweet as the fruit. His mouth watered at the sight of your full lips all glossy with whatever you’d put on them and it took everything in him not to lean forward and suck your bottom lip into his mouth. 

He didn’t realize he had been standing there just staring until you cleared your throat, a knowing smirk on your lips as he shook his head to clear him from the daze you’d put him in. “S’pretty, you’re so pretty.” His voice was quiet and he wasn’t sure if he meant for you to hear or if he was just talking to himself. 

“Thank you, handsome. Can I come in or do I need to stand on the porch with you eye-fucking me all night?” He doesn’t think he’d ever get used to your crassness, even though he wasn’t complaining about it. He loved that you spoke your mind, no matter how dirty, and hoped what one day he’d be comfortable doing that too. 

“Right, right, yes come in,” Pulling the door open he stepped to the side so you could come in, knees wobbling when he caught a whiff of your perfume as you passed, “Are you hungry? I can…order something. I don’t have much to cool but maybe I could run to the store real quick?” 

He heard your muffled giggle as you walked through the house in front of him, hips swaying as you walked and he felt his cock twitch in his pants just looking at you. 

“Just hungry for you, Stevie.” 

You were teasing, he knew that, but he wasn’t sure you weren’t serious by the way you eyed him over your shoulder like he was your prey. And fuck did he want to be. He’d crawl around on the floor if you asked. 

By the time he followed your trail and made it through the living room you were at the foot of the stairs, lip between your teeth and hands together behind your back all innocent. You both knew better than to believe that. 

“Can I see your room?” Fuck this was happening. He nodded at you, grabbing your small hand with his and relishing in the way it felt to hold you. He led you up the stairs and was careful not to go too fast, to seem too eager. He knows you’d tease him for being so excited but based on the look in your eyes he thought that maybe you were pretty excited too. 

Pushing his door open he watched as you took in his room, eyes light as you scanned over the posters he’d hung haphazardly, some artwork the kids had drawn for him hanging above his desk. His bed was unmade and he cursed himself, as if you’d care. 

“Looks exactly how I pictured it.” 

“You pictured my room?” 

“Maybe.” 

He stood still, leaning up against the door he’d closed and locked behind him as you made your way around, lifting up papers and magazines, humming quietly to yourself. You must have been a witch or something the way he’d become so entranced with you, following your every move like he wasn’t meant to do anything else.

So when you turn around to face him quickly, he’s startled, eyes shooting up to meet yours like he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner. 

“Alright then, on the bed.” 

The flurry of questions he has does little to deter him as he scrambles past you and pushes on the bed a little too quickly. He falls forward face first and hears you snicker behind him. He’s not sure where you want him so he hopes he’s right. He scoots back, flush against the wall, the headboard on his left and foot of the bed on his right. 

“You want this, Harrington? I’m not misreading anything, right?” 

He’s shaking his head furiously, eyes wide and mouth closed as he watches for your next move. 

“Oh now you have nothing to say? Months of knowing you and you’re hardly ever quiet. Use your words, big boy.” 

“Y-yes, I want this. Whatever you want.” 

The smile you reward him with makes his chest ache and the blood rush through him so fast he can hear it pounding in his ears. He thinks he wants you looking like that all the time, proud and pleased with him. 

“Good! It’s time for payback then.” 

        **********************************************

You really really hoped your nerves didn’t show on your face as you stood in front of Steve. You don’t think he’d notice even if they did, eyes glazed over as he waited for whatever you had planned. 

Now at this point you were over the whole jealousy thing from last week, really you were! But you played into it a little extra just so you could be mean to him right now. Although with the plans you had, you’d be being mean to him and yourself. 

Wordlessly you reached down, fingers toying with the hem of your dress and you watched as Steve’s eyes tracked the movement, throat bobbing slightly as you lifted it a few inches before letting it drop back down. 

This only lasted for a few minutes before you’d had enough, gripping your dress and almost ripping it over your head and letting it drop to your feet. What you hadn’t mentioned was that you had nothing underneath it, absolutely nothing. 

Steve drank you in, slack jawed with his eyes almost bugging out of his head when he moved from your face to your tits, staring at your already hard nipples that you would blame on the coolness in his room. His eyes moved down further and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound that made your clit throb under his stare. 

Was that some drool leaking down to his chin? 

“Take a picture, it'll last longer.”

“Can I?” You don’t think he even realized the words left his mouth and you fought the urge to laugh at how out of it he seemed already. 

“Not tonight, baby.” 

His hands fisted the sheets below him as the pet name slipped past your lips and you smiled sweetly at him. Pointing to the headboard you directed him with a quiet voice, “I’m gonna sit there,” moving your hand to point toward the foot of his bed he followed your finger eagerly, “and you’re gonna sit there, facing me.” 

He obeyed instantly, shuffling toward where’d you directed him while you climbed onto the bed and and situated yourself against his headboard with your legs stretched out in front of you. 

“Can I have your shirt?” It wasn’t anything special, a plain white t-shirt that hugged him beautifully, but you wanted it all the same. To have his smell surrounding you, covering you in him. He peeled it off so he was left in a pair of jeans that stuck to him in all the right places. Unsure of what to do he tossed it to you and you wasted no time in slipping it over your bare frame, pleased that it bunched at your hips just how you’d hoped.

You could see the disappointment in his face at the extra layer you’d added and you itched to lean forward and pinch his flushed cheeks in adoration. He was just so adorable it made you crazy. With everyone else he was strong and stern, the babysitter and protector and king of Hawkins.

But with you…with you he was soft and sweet, pliable in your hands like putty and you ate up every second of it. 

           ****************************************

Steve thinks he might have gone to heaven, you sitting across from him in nothing but his shirt with your thighs on display. 

His chest feels hot despite the cool air hitting his skin and he thinks if he doesn’t get his hands on you in the next three seconds something horrible might happen. You're giving him that teasing smile that makes his tummy clench and sends excitement zipping down his spine. 

He still can’t believe you like him, that you’re obsessed with him. It’s like a dream come true and he thinks he’s pinched himself at least 17 times in the last week. 

He’s pulled from his thoughts when you call his name softly, head snapping up to meet yours and he feels dizzy all over again from how pretty you look. 

“You’re gonna watch me, okay? No touching me or yourself until I say.” Wait—what? He gives you a nod and tries not to let his disappointment show in his face, and he knows he fails based on the way you smile and shake your head at him. 

But any disappointment he had is gone in a flash when you lean back and spread your legs to give him a glimpse at just how much you like him. He might black out, he’s not sure. You’re glistening for him, a little bit of slick on your thighs and suddenly he’s starved. He audibly groans at the sight of you on display for him. 

“She’s pretty—fuck so pretty.” He’s talking more to himself than you but he sees the way you twitch at him referring to your pussy as “her” and it makes him smile shyly, still not moving his eyes from where you’re dripping on his bed. 

He watches closely as your hand trails down, rubbing over your thighs for just a second before you’re taking two fingers and spreading yourself open for him, both of you too impatient to drag this out too long. Before he can stop himself he’s moving forward, going to his knees and crawling across his bed that feels far too big all of a sudden. He doesn’t realize he’s moved until your legs are closed and one foot is pressed against his bare chest, stopping him from getting any closer. 

One hand is holding him up and the other is holding onto your ankle as he pleads with his eyes for you to let him closer, just a taste, he just needs one little taste. 

“We’ve just started and you’re already breaking the rules?” The faux disappointment in your tone makes him pout, leaning down to press a small kiss against your calf and he hears you chuckle at his attempt at distracting you. 

“M’sorry, baby, you’re just so pretty, she’s so pretty. Let me have a taste, please? I’ll be good after that, I swear. Just one taste, honey.” 

He watches in anticipation, hope is swelling in his chest as you study him and he can see the contemplation in your eyes as you take him in. He’s so close he can smell you and it lights his whole body up, cock so hard pressed up against his jeans he could cry. 

“Hmm, no,” He hears the whine he makes but can’t be bothered to care, “what fun is payback if I give in before I’ve even touched myself! You can be patient, I know you can.” You have much more faith in him than he has in himself, body slumping in defeat before he’s moving back to where you directed him the first time. 

“Can I at least take these jeans off? It hurts, baby.” 

“Fine, but the boxers stay on, sneaky.” It takes him no time before he’s peeling his jeans off, sighing in relief when some of the pressure is released and he feels like he can breathe again. 

Well he can breathe until you’re spreading your legs again, fingers slipping back down to tease at your clit as your eyes stay locked on him. His chest is tightening as he watches you. Watching the way your legs spread wider when you notice him fisting the sheets beside him. Watching the way your head falls back against his headboard when you move down to circle your messy hole, a moan so lewd coming from your mouth he feels a bead of precum drip down his cock. 

Jesus Christ, he couldn’t decide if this was heaven or hell but he’s sure that either way he’d gladly spend an eternity here. 

He’s torn between watching your face or watching your fingers in your cunt, eyes flickering between the two every few seconds so he didn’t miss something important. He remembers how you compare him to a puppy and he’s sure he’s never looked more like one than he does right now. He’s practically panting across from you and you’re the treat that would be making his tail wag—if he had one. 

“Feels so good, Stevie. This is how wet I get just from thinking about you, ya know? Always have me messy and ready for you.” 

“Please let me touch you. Fuck—please, sweetheart. Need it so bad, need you so bad. I’ll be good, I swear. Never make you jealous again. God I swear I’ll do anything.” 

He knew you were getting close, thighs threatening to close on your hand and hips lifting from the bed eagerly. He could see it on your face too—you wanted to deny him, to torture him some more but he could see you giving in. 

“You beg so pretty, Harrington. Fuck, get over here. Now.” 

He didn't need to be told twice, launching himself across the bed and fitting himself between your thighs that had opened a little to accommodate his wide frame. He waited expectantly, and you smiled down at him fondly. 

“You know, you really look like a—”

“A puppy, I know. So can I have my treat then?” 

Nodding at him you swiped your fingers through your folds and held your hand out to him, fingers shiny with you and he opened his mouth quickly. His head moved forward and he took your fingers in his mouth, lapping his tongue around them greedily, determined not to waste a single drop. He hummed around them, eyes closed so he didn't see the way you were staring at him like he’d hung the moon. 

“S’good then?” You sounded breathless above him and he could only nod, not wanting to drop your fingers from his mouth just yet. God, you tasted good. He’d compare you to a nice summer treat but the truth is you’d be perfect for any season, any day. Fuck he’d stay buried between your thighs 24/7 if you’d let him. 

He finally pulled off just enough so that he could speak, “better than a blow pop.” The laugh that pulled from you made his heart warm. It was loud and genuine, shoulders shaking slightly as you grinned at him, teeth on display and everything. 

It was quiet for a few minutes, you pressing your fingers down on his tongue and even though he’d cleaned them up, the taste of you lingered and he would gladly sit here with your fingers in his mouth for hours. 

But you had other plans. 

“Need your fingers, Stevie. They’re bigger than mine and I’m already close from watching you lap at my fingers like a little greedy puppy.” His eyes fell from yours, cheeks red and ears burning as you teased him. 

“Can I use my mouth?” 

“Mhm, not today. I already gave in way too quick, you were just too cute to say no to.” He wants to pout, to protest and beg but he thinks just watching you fall apart on his fingers will be more than enough for him. 

You part your legs further as he slips down to rest his cheek against your inner thigh. His hair tickles the soft, sensitive skin there and you giggle. He moves just enough to press a quick, open mouthed kiss and dreams about the marks he hopes you’ll let him leave there one day. 

With a nod from you he moves his eyes to your cunt, swollen and dripping, and runs his fingers over your clit just to feel your thigh twitch against his cheek. He wraps the hand he’s not using around your thigh, clutching it to him tightly as he eases two of his fingers into you. They slip in easily with no resistance and the feeling of your warm, hot walls snug on his fingers makes him grind his hips down into his bed. 

“Shit—she feels good, hugging my fingers so tight.” Your hips buck up against his hand, urging him in deeper and he smiles against your leg. A groan slips out of him when your hand slips down to rub slow, loose circles on your clit, head rolling back so that all you can see is his eyes peeking up at you. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so hot in his entire life. He can see the little beads of sweat rolling down your forehead and how you’re panting and whining above him, especially when he curls his fingers upward and finds that spongy spot that has your mouth dropping open and eyes squeezing shut. 

“There it is, yeah? That’s the spot?” You’re nodding quickly, fingers that were circling your clit are now sliding into his hair and gripping it tightly. The burn of it makes him moan against your thigh, the sting of your grip making his eyes roll back into his head almost. 

“D-don’t you dare stop, Harrington. M’close, so so close.” He doesn’t think there is anything that could get him to stop. Not when you’re dripping down his hand and your thighs are shaking like they are. 

The final straw is when he moves his mouth down a couple of inches, teeth scraping against the skin where your thighs almost touch and he bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. He hears the thud of your head knocking against his headboard and the curse that flies out of your mouth as you clench down on him so hard you almost push his fingers out. He works you through it, licking over the mark he just left to soothe the sting and slowing down his fingers once you start to twitch and whine from the feeling. 

It’s not until you're pushing his hand away and letting your legs slump that he takes a peek at you, a lazy smile on your face and hair sticking to your forehead where you’d been sweating. He knows there’s a widening grin on his face as he looks up at you, placing one last kiss before he’s sitting himself up so his legs are under yours and his hands are resting on the tops of your thighs. 

“If that’s what you call payback then remind me to piss you off more often!” 

You roll your eyes, letting your body fall back against his headboard, “Don’t get smart with me now, Harrington. Not when I’m about to make you cum. I would hate to change my mind.” 

His ears perk up and honestly he hadn’t even thought about himself since he’d gotten between your thighs, content with watching you squirm and moan around his fingers. But he wasn’t gonna turn you down, hell no! Just the thought of you anywhere near his cock had him twitching in his boxers. 

He closed his mouth, fingers coming up to mimic zipping a zipper of his lips and tossing the non existent key far behind him. You smirked at him, hand coming close to pat his cheek, almost like you’d pet his head. 

“Good boy, now turn around and take those boxers off, please.” 

          ********************************************

Holy shit. You didn’t think you'd ever cum so hard in your life. You swear you might have actually seen stars for a minute there when he curled his fingers just right. And when he bit you? How the hell did he know you had a thing for biting. 

Keeping him at arm's length had been the hardest thing you’d ever had to do, especially when he was looking at you like you were a five course meal in front of him. He’d practically been salivating at the sight of you and it took everything in you not to give into him immediately. 

But now that you’d cum, all you could think about was him. About finally getting your hand on his cock and listening to the way he’d gasp and whine with your hand around him. Just the thought was enough to send another wave of arousal and need over you, your toes curling and fingers digging into his bed. 

He still hadn’t moved in front of you and you cocked your head at him, trying to figure out why he suddenly had that sad pout on his lips. “What’s the matter?”

His cheeks were red and he looked almost embarrassed as he tried to avoid eye contact with you and you worried you’d done something to upset him. Maybe this wasn’t as good for him, maybe he didn’t like you teasing him? 

“S’just…you haven’t kissed me and I just—I wanna kiss you so bad but I didn’t know if there was a reason you hadn’t or maybe you just didn’t want to or—”

You cut him off, gripping his shoulders and pushing your lips against his that were swollen and slick with spit. He moaned against you, sighing and relaxing in your hold. Fuck—how had you not kissed him yet? 

His tongue swiped against your bottom lip and you heard the little whine he let out when you didn’t let him in, laughing against his lips. He took the opportunity to move closer, hands moving to fist at your hair and you felt lightheaded from how good he felt, how sweet he tasted. 

When you needed to breathe you regretfully pulled back, foreheads touching and noses bumping into one another as you both took big, greedy gulps of air. His eyes almost sparkled as he looked at you, a shy smirk on both your mouths. 

“Better?”

“Perfect.” It was hard to ignore the way your heart thumped against your rib cage like it was trying to fight its way out. He was perfect. Everything about him and the way he carried himself drew you to him like a moth to a flame. Your mind was consumed with all things Steve. 

And while you wanted to be mushy and sweet with him, one glance down between you had your mouth watering and fingers twitching at your sides. There was a dark wet patch on his blue boxers and the outline of his cock was prominent. You think you know why he was so cocky in high school now, he definitely had the goods to back it up. 

“Kiss me whenever you want but if you don’t get your boxers off in the next 5 seconds I might do something crazy.” 

Your words snapped him out of his post kiss haze and you laughed softly as he scrambled off the bed to pull his boxers down his legs and practically kick them across the room. You gulped at the sight of him, of his pretty and thick cock already leaking and shiny for you. You motioned him forward, eyes kind and soft as you spread your legs for him. 

He smiled when you patted the space in front of you and he crawled back between your legs and shuffled so that he was sitting in front of you, his back pressed to your front, the material of his shirt clinging to his sweaty back. Your thighs stretched around his hips but you loved the slight burn it brought you. You laid back and brought him with you so that he was slumped against your chest, your feet hooked over his calves. 

His hands were on either one of your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there while his arms were loose at his sides. You took the opportunity to slip your hands under his arms, hands reaching up to run over his chest, tweaking one of his nipples on your way and watching the way his cock twitched where it was resting against his lower belly. 

Steve looked like a dream, head thrown back on your shoulder, thigh thighs spread open with his pretty cock on display for you. As your hands made their way to his tummy you scratched softly, fingers sliding through the trail that started under his belly button and went down. He must have felt sensitive there because he turned his head to the side, mouth pressed against your neck as he cursed. 

“S’good, so good. Fuck, I swear anything you do feels fuckin’ perfect.” You pressed a quick kiss to his shoulder at his words, feeling the high of them as he spoke. 

Holding your hand out in front of him, palm up toward his face he hummed against you, not sure what you were wanting him to do, but willing to do just about anything if it meant your hand would be on his cock. 

“Spit.” 

All that was heard in the room was his quick intake of air, eyes fluttering as he leaned toward your hand. He looked back at you once, to double check that this was real or for confirmation that you really wanted him to spit in your hand, you’re not sure. But you nodded, throat bobbing as he turned back and spit, watching in awe. 

“Good boy.” 

Any strength he had left was gone at your words, head falling back to its place on your shoulder as you moved your hand down, taking hold of his cock and hearing him hiss at the contact. 

You think this might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. 

His cock was hot and smooth under your touch, a mix of his spit and precum making it easy to glide your hand over his shaft, letting your thumb catch on the tip and relishing in the way he gasped in your ear. 

“Such a pretty cock for a pretty boy, hmm?” The feeling of his fingers digging into your thighs only spurred you on, hand tight around him as you stroked him quickly, loving the way his tummy would clench and he’d gasp at how slick he was, how good it felt. 

You’d never seen him so needy, so pathetic as he was right now, little whines and pleas against the shell of your ear as you gripped him. He was heavy in your hand and you wondered how he’d feel on your tongue, how he’d taste when he thrusted into your mouth. You’d add that to the list of things you needed to do immediately. 

“M’sorry, sorry fuck—you’re gonna make me cum, m’gonna cum—oh shit.” He was throbbing hard against your palm, breathing even harder against your neck and you cooed at him when his hips started thrusting up in time with your strokes. 

“Without asking? I don’t think so, Stevie. You haven’t even said please!” Your hand slowed and he moved so his hand was wrapped over yours, trying to get you to go faster but you swatted him away, scolding him with a pinch to his hip. 

Taking one look at his face that was still buried in your throat, you could tell he was out of it, so fucked out you weren’t sure he could even form words, let alone beg. But that didn’t stop you from egging him on, slowing down until he was so worked up he was on the verge of tears. 

“Oh fuck—please…baby, honey, please let me cum? I’ve been so good I just..shit I need it. You feel so good, perfect girl. O-oh my god, please. Please please please.” 

He was mumbling, a mix of curses and pleas as he left sloppy, open mouthed kisses against your throat. You think you’d give him anything he wanted right now with how pretty he sounded, all pathetic and fucked out for you. 

“Go ahead, pretty boy. Cum on my hand, yeah? Make a mess of us.” Your hand sped up on his cock, feeling yourself leak into his bed as he twitched against your fingers. You kept going, kept talking as his hips got sloppy and cock was red and begging for release. 

“Don’t know how you’ll ever fit inside me, Stevie. Gonna have to prep me for days I think.” 

“Next time you’ll have to use my mouth, yeah? I hate letting your cum go to waste.” 

“Y’look so pretty like this. My sweet boy thrusting up into my hand, gonna think about this for days.”

He thrusted up one final time, hips stilling and body going tight as his orgasm took over. His cum coated your fist that was still wrapped around him, reaching his belly and even spilling down onto his thighs. He couldn’t even see the way you pouted at how much had been wasted, cursing yourself for not letting him use your mouth. 

Slumped completely against your chest he mumbled something about his legs feeling like jelly and you giggled, cheek resting against his forehead. 

“Soooo, good then?” 

It took all the energy he could muster to squeeze your thigh, head moving to the side a fraction so he could look at you, smiling so big his cheeks had to hurt. “Are you fuckin’ kidding? I think I just saw god for a second.” 

Rolling your eyes and shoving at his shoulders, butterflies danced in your stomach at how pretty he looked. His skin was flushed and glowing, hair a mess where you’d both pulled at it, lips swollen and red from biting and kissing and holding them between his teeth. He looked phenomenal. 

As much as you’d love to stay here wrapped up in him for the rest of your life, your thighs had gone numb from being stretched around his hips and your back ached from sitting back against his headboard for so long. 

Out of the corner of your eye you could see him nodding off on your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut and little puffs of air hitting your skin. You tapped his cheeks with your clean hand, “C’mon, Stevie. Gotta clean us up and then we can go straight to bed.” 

He groaned in protest but leaned up enough so that you could slip from behind him, legs tingling when you stood on them, hobbling to the bathroom on shaky legs and flipping Steve off when you heard him chuckle from behind you. 

“Oh fuck off, Harrington.” 

          ******************************************

When Steve wakes up the next morning it’s slow and sweet, eyes blinking open and a small smile on his lips when he feels you pressed into his side. 

He looks down and tries not to laugh at your mouth hanging open, a little bit of drool on his chest from where your cheek is squished against his skin. Your hair is sticking up in every direction and he can feel your breath on him. It makes his heart grow in his chest, an overwhelming sense of joy and contentment washing over him as he stares down at you. He could get used to this, you attached to his hip and waking up to you in his bed. 

Thinking back to when you barely gave him the time of day, he smiles at your relationship now. How you’re just as needy as him, tugging on his belt loop to pull him to you if he’s not close enough for your liking, pulling his hand to your thigh in his car if he doesn’t do it first. He’s seen you use your foot to pull his chair closer to yours at work countless times, a little smile on his mouth every time. 

There’s a part of him that doesn’t know how he got so lucky. He feels that way all the time but especially when you laugh louder than you mean to, hand coming up to cover your mouth with a bashful smile. He feels it when you're humming along to a song you’d heard on the radio, head moving side to side and hips swaying to the beat in your head. He feels it when you randomly bring his hand up to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm and to his fingertips. 

He feels it all the time, really. 

And he loves when you're mean to him, when you tease him about staring at you too long or for getting all bashful when you do something normal like tuck your hair behind your ear or scrunch your nose. He loves that you turn him into mush. 

“Stop staring, you creep.” He’d been so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice your eyes opening or how’d you had scooted closer to him, one leg coming up to tangle with his, wrapped together tightly. 

“That’s rich coming from you considering I’m gonna have to clean your drool off me.” You gasped, sitting up straight and smacking at this chest, appalled at the notion that you would ever—could ever—drool on him in your sleep. 

“Keep it up, Steve. Remember what happened the last time you pissed me off?”

As if he’d ever forget. Unfortunately for you, the idea of repeating last night, or anything like it, was hardly going to deter him from pressing your buttons in the way that only he knew how to do. Reaching out he tugged you back down to him, tucking you back into his side and pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. 

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.” 

[specialgradefckr]

Beat Your Heart to Death

tw: explicit content, extremely toxic dynamics. gojo/geto, gojo/reader, geto/reader, and yes, stsg/reader. female!reader. mutual pining, requited unrequited feelings, the yearning, good god, the YEARNING. relatively unwilling voyeurism. EXTREMELY manipulative dynamics – boundary pushing, gaslighting, etc.

satoru and suguru are completely fucking deranged. their brains are operating on a level where human consciousness and emotion just hits different. they say INSANE shit at the end of this fic. you have been warned.

Sequel: Heartline Gone Flat

This must be what dying feels like.

You watch them, together. Leaning against one another, sleeping, vulnerable. Curled up in each other's embrace.

This must be what dying feels like. Seeing the man you love and the man you lust for, so painfully, peacefully, blissfully in love with each other.

If this is dying, you're surely going to hell for thinking something so awful about a feeling so beautiful.

It’s the sort of thing you think to yourself, bury deep – deep – inside the recesses of your mind. Dredging it out in the late hours of the night when you can’t sleep. Wallowing in your unrequited love, feeling sorry for yourself, while also comforting yourself with the thought that at least now you didn’t have to do anything.

You would never have to approach your longtime crush, Suguru Geto, and potentially ruin your friendship with him. It was something you’d struggled with for years, and after Gojo showed up – you didn’t have to struggle anymore. It was already lost.

And the insane twists your fantasies would play out for you, in those lonely nights in bed – you could be free of those, too. You could completely dismiss the insane idea of propositioning the man-whore menace of a human being who made your heart race, Satoru Gojo.

Satoru and Suguru loved each other, and it would be wrong to get in the way of that. At this point, even saying anything to either of them would be a trespass on your friendship, with both of them.

That was all there was to it. Nothing more to be done. You were mourning your feelings. Strangling your dreamy sighs at Suguru’s kind gestures, stomping the flutter in your chest when you caught Satoru smiling. Killing your heart and leaving it to rot, stepping around it like it’s not there.  

Unfortunately, you couldn’t escape the fact that all three of you lived together.

It doesn’t help that Satoru is just as prone to PDA with Suguru as he was with all his numerous hookups. More, even, because he doesn’t keep it to just his bedroom, doesn’t make the token efforts to stay quiet at night and shoo them out in the morning.

You do your best. Look away. Try to ignore how your heart jumps, twists, does all sorts of funny things at the sight of them kissing.

Satoru’s pretty white lashes flutter closed, Suguru’s warm gaze softens, cheeks flushed as Satoru’s hands jump up to cling to him. He cups Satoru’s face like it’s a treasure, tilting his head and leaning into the kiss like he can’t get enough of it –

You’re staring, fuck. You’re looking too closely. The scene burns itself into your eyes and you want to rip them out, never see it again. But you struggle to avert your gaze, greedy mind committing every detail to memory with a racing heart, dry mouth.

Thirsty, you’re so thirsty, in every sense of the word. They lean into each other, so in sync and so affectionate in a way that tugs on your every heart string. Fuck!

You start to just leave the room when it happens. You’d rather die than get caught staring, you’d rather go without water than thirst for droplets.

And you’d really, really, rather cut your fucking eyes out than face the feelings the sight awakens in you. Longing, yearning, how you want to tear them both off each other at once, how you want to see more, more, more, you want to touch, you want to taste –

God, fuck. You’re like one of those shitty girls who fetishizes male relationships. Aren’t you? You feel like this might be that. But you’re attracted to both of them individually, so it can’t be that, right? You’re not a creep, you’re just greedy. You leave the room when they kiss! You’re respecting their privacy!

They notice, though, is the thing. Not your staring (god you fucking hope they’ve never noticed the staring) but how you leave the room when they get affectionate with each other. It’s Suguru who pulls you aside to ask.

“…and listen, I know you’re not like that, I totally know, so does Satoru. It just… makes him feel a little weird, you know? He was raised by a traditional family, so they either think this is a phase, or call him disgusting to his face.”

Fuck your life. Actually fuck your ENTIRE life. “Of course not – I never – ”

“No no no, I know, I told you, he does too, it’s just – it’s a little disconcerting for him. But I can talk to him, make him understand. This is your house, too, you have the right not to see that sort of stuff.”

That just makes you feel a bit worse, actually. Satoru and Suguru shouldn’t have to hide away in their room whenever they want to kiss. It’s their own home.

“I’m sorry, Suguru, I – I don’t have any problem with you guys doing it around the house. I just…” You shift uncomfortably. “I’m not super comfortable with… PDA sort of stuff. It has nothing to do with you both being guys.”

Suguru nods, “No, I understand completely. Satoru will be disappointed, but you’re setting boundaries, and I respect that – ”

“It’s not that,” You say, “I – you can do whatever you like, really, I’ll just leave – ”

“No,” Suguru interrupts with a sigh, “That’s what’s bothering him. I think deep down he’s a little worried that you find it… disturbing.”

Your chest tightens with anxiety as you rush to reassure him, “Of course I don’t!”  

“No, I know, I know, we both do,” Suguru says in that warm, comforting voice of his, “It’s just how he feels – you know he can’t control that.”

And then your stupid mouth rushes ahead of you. Writes a check your heart can’t afford to cash.

“It’s fine! You don’t have to stop, I. Just… tell him I felt like I was intruding. I didn’t think he saw it as me being disgusted.”

And your heart will pay willingly, because Suguru gives you that smile. Warm and affectionate. The smile you’d fallen in love with.

“You’re not intruding at all. I’ll tell him you said so, it’ll be a great weight off his mind.”

So now the love of your life makes out with his boyfriend and you can’t even leave the room. Hahah. God. Maybe you should start thinking of a way to move out?

Problem: When Satoru moved in, he’d basically started paying all the bills. He didn’t have to worry about being cut off from the family money – even at his young age, he had his own financial success. Even if it started out with a few trust funds and an appointed position at one of his parent’s companies.

Every rent listing looked expensive when your current rate was “free”. And fuck, rent was expensive. You’d have to deal with other roommates, people you didn’t know (and love) as long as Suguru (and Satoru, at this point, you’d known him for years), and you’d be paying for the privilege.

You try, oh, do you ever try to get over it. Sexuality is fluid, after all, so it’s perfectly possible that Satoru and Suguru just ended up being gay. Being with either of them may never have been an option, except maybe as one of Satoru’s flings.

And wouldn’t that just suck? To have one night with Satoru only to watch him realize he’s gay and mutually in love with your longtime crush? Better to never sleep with him at all. You can’t miss something you’ve never had. And you wouldn’t want to be a fling anyways.

The thought stings more than it should, because deep down –

(You’d take it. You know you’d take it. That’s why you’re still here, really, under all the excuses. You’re fucking pathetic, pining for both of them. You’d take anything you could get.)

It doesn’t help that they get freer with their affections after your talk with Suguru. Looser. So unrestrained. You walk in on them fucking in the living room, having come back early from class, face burning up as you stand there stock still for a moment.

They don’t stop, or freak out, or cover themselves or anything. You see Suguru’s naked chest above the couch, Satoru’s hands pinned over the armrest of it, their bare legs and feet entwined and sticking over the other side of the couch. They’re both so fucking tall.

So beautiful. Satoru moans so pretty, and you hear Suguru purr, low and filthy, “Like that, you little whore?” and you feel yourself clenching all the way to your core.

You make a wild dash across the living room, staying on the other side of the couch so they can’t see you. Closing the door to your bedroom as quickly and quietly as you can, panting to yourself, feeling the heat rising on your face and the warm pulse between your legs.

(Pathetic, fucking pathetic. It’s like you’re actually some horny teenage boy with a crush on a pretty girl out of his league, rubbing one out every time you see her with her equally hot girlfriend.)

You’ve got to get ahold of yourself.

Your routine has changed, with the both of them being together, so openly. There were little things you’d shared, now gone, lost to the unfathomable whirlpool that was their relationship.

Used to be you’d buy sweets on grocery trips to share with Satoru. It was an old habit of yours, and when he’d first moved in, he’d caught you with them. Reaching for some with a grin before you smacked him away.

The look he gave you, a slow smirk before he went all wide-eyed and pleading, staggering to his knees like a proper starving drama queen – god, he had to know how he’d made your heart flutter. He probably pulled that on so many people.

Still, he would eat the candies right out of your hand, lips just teasing on your fingertips, eyes lingering on you while he licked his lips. It made you feel weird, at first, but you eventually realized that Satoru was just a weird guy.

He’d yawn and stretch and if he caught you or Suguru watching he’d flash his whole chest, like a girl flashing her tits. He slept naked and left the bathroom door open when he was using it, and he’d often knock when on your bathroom when you were in there, even if he had his own.

He had about ten different game consoles and games for them, plus a huge collection of movies, which he likes to watch with the room completely dark. He sleeps with a nightlight on, and his social media picture is an ugly picture of him from high school with these weird round sunglasses.

Not at all what you expected from a pretty boy like him. But Satoru’s eccentric charm, and the unstoppable allure of his perfect face and body, it rewired your brain somehow. You feel like you’ve wanted him for as long as you’ve known him.

You try to find other people. But the problem with living with Satoru and Suguru is that no one is up to your standards. You’ll never meet anyone as handsome or beautiful as either of them, so why bother?

In your defense, Suguru is hard to fall out of love with.

It’s not uncommon to wake up to the sound of your favorite breakfast being cooked while Suguru hums away in the kitchen, his pretty hair all tied back. If you sneak in quietly enough you can catch a tender smile on his face, the smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee he makes for Satoru in some expensive machine.

If you are unlucky, he’ll catch you, and that smile will grow as soon as his eyes are on you and you’ll fall in love all over again. If you’re lucky, you can sneak back away, but Suguru will eventually come and wake you up with a knock so gentle you suspect he already knows you’re up.

He shares his hair care routine, and it leaves your hair shiny and lovely. But your hair isn’t exactly like his, so he must have adjusted it.

He offers to help you brush or style it, himself, and asks you if you wouldn’t mind repaying the favor. Like you wouldn’t kill or die for the honor of running your hands through his silken locks.

Suguru is the type of guy who remembers when you get your period and asks if you need anything for it. You magically find your favorite fruits in the fridge, cut up, dipped in chocolate or caramel or yoghurt, however you like them best.

He does your laundry without being asked because he says it’s easier, and cleans dishes before you can get to them.

Every birthday he throws you a party, bakes a cake and he’ll spend hours to perfect a meal from scratch to go along with it. He’s perfect at finding a thoughtful present – Satoru just gives you cash, or some expensive luxury purchase you find fashionable but would never buy for yourself (Suguru definitely went shopping with him).

You get why Satoru likes him. Satoru’s sort of a slob, always leaving clothes on the floor – walking around shirtless like he knows exactly what it does to anyone watching “Just providing a public service, babe~” – and Suguru is so perfectly domestic.

Almost motherly. Whenever you misplace something, the fastest way to find it is invariably to ask Suguru, if he doesn’t approach you first with a concerned smile after watching you look.

After enough times catching Suguru sternly chide him for not putting away his clothes, leaving wrappers on the table, forgetting to put his shoes away; you’re relatively sure Satoru’s called him mom or mommy at some point. Possibly during sex.

And god, you get it. Those gentle tones of “Is everything all right?”, and “I tweaked the recipe, how do you like it?” and “I’m just really happy you enjoyed it.”, it’s enough to make your heart ache.

How, exactly, are you supposed to fall out of love with Suguru Geto?

How are you supposed to leave, how are you supposed to want to, especially when you swear you hear him call himself Daddy, and you find your face getting hotter than it should be.

Whispering to Satoru how “I’ve got you, baby,” and “Let Daddy take care of you, mhhm?”

And god, the high-pitched whimpers Satoru makes in response. He’s a tall guy, mewling, melting beneath Suguru’s hands, his words, his cock – and you could so easily imagine yourself in his place –

How are you supposed to be platonic about this?

 How are you supposed to stop touching yourself when they’re practically putting on personalized porn shows for you?

It's after the third time that you start to think they're doing this on purpose.

Whatever’s between them is something you just couldn’t understand. You get that, you do.

The way they look into each other’s eyes – there’s no way Suguru has ever looked at you like that, no way Satoru would ever want you that badly.

It’s something magnetic that makes them slot together at all times, draws their gazes to one another, leaves no room for anyone else –

But you stumble on them… a lot.

Never mind making out on the couch. You turn into the laundry room to see Satoru backed against the washer machine, his cock so far Suguru’s throat you can see it bulge.

His face is flushed, eyes teary, one hand loosely in Suguru’s hair while he whimpers. Dark eyes gazing up at him, fierce, Adam’s apple bobbing and another noise escaping him.

Or Satoru’s sitting rather innocently in Suguru’s lap, at a certain angle, but the sounds he’s making are less than innocent. Vile, even. Suguru’s broad hand wrapped around Satoru’s cock, pumping up and down, Satoru’s body shifting as you can tell he’s grinding down against something below.

And sometimes it’s really just the noises. You’ve heard them so often now it feels like you can put expressions to every moan and grunt and whimper and whine. Satoru makes a certain sort of gasp and your imagination jumps to think of how deep Suguru must be inside him, how his pretty face must look, twisted in pleasure.

They come back sometimes, from parties, drunk together. Leaning on one another like they could never lean on you – you’re not tall, not built like either of them are. Cheeks flushed as they whisper words into one another’s ears, Satoru giggling, kissing his cheek, Suguru laughing and squeezing his waist as they stumble into their room.

Like they’re in their own little world that you could never intrude on. You just catch glimpses every now and then. They don’t even look at you, it’s like you’re not even there – their eyes are locked on one another.

But that isn’t the worst of it.

Satoru and Suguru start bringing other people in.

No - they start bringing other girls into it. Like it's a punishment for catching them, only, you're fairly certain they wanted to be caught.

Satoru’s never been shy when he had a girl over, about walking around shirtless – maybe it’s an exhibitionism thing. And you’re someone they know well, someone tolerant (pathetic) enough to not say anything.

Either that or they’re both just that good at pretending you aren’t there. But they talk to you, all the time. You eat meals together, have movie nights (if you ignore how Satoru will not-so-discreetly put his hand on the inside of Suguru’s thigh while you’re all sitting together), grocery shop together, smile and laugh and share things about your day.

It’s just that they’re also dating each other. And in love, so in love, it’s painfully obvious that there’s no room for anyone else between them. Which makes the girls they bring over turn your stomach even more.

Sure, they’re one night stands. But they don’t even try to keep it quiet. You hear unfamiliar, high-pitched moans and whimpers, a wet smacking sound that has to be Satoru overdramatically eating pussy.

You wonder what his face looks like. What his eyes look like. Is he staring up at her when she does it? Does she have a hand in the feather-down softness of his hair? Or maybe Suguru’s hand, shoving him forward, that sly smirk that creeps over his lips when you’ve seen his eyes grow dark with want.

Is she whimpering because she’s close? Do they tease her, edging her, enjoying the expressions on her face, the way her body trembles? When she begs, is it for them to stop, or keep going? Whose dick is it inside her? Satoru’s, Suguru’s? What does it feel like? Satoru’s stupid enough to do it without a condom but Suguru isn’t.

What are they doing when she cums? You hear Suguru groan (you know how his groans sound, you know how both of them sound), so he must be cumming too. What’s Satoru doing? He’s too needy to be left alone for long.

Is he watching while he jerks himself? Has Suguru forced him to sit back? Or maybe he’s down where the action is, right where Suguru’s cock is buried inside her, laving over her clit and his cock like the slut he is until they both cum all over his face.

Why can’t that be you? Why don’t they want you?

Your fists clench harder than they should.

One night you stumble onto them in the middle of the living room, all at it in plain view.

Satoru is in Suguru’s lap, tall enough to tower over him. Suguru’s hand wrapped around his throat, choking him, head tilted back in bliss as his lashes flutter. There’s a woman on her knees, between their spread legs, sucking Satoru off.

And you can tell, by the way Satoru shudders, how he’s loose like putty in Suguru’s arms, that Suguru’s dick is buried deep inside him.

Satoru and Suguru don’t even try to pretend it was an accident. Some fucking roommates they are.

Suguru will smile and blush when you ask him about it, apologizing in soothing, kind tones, offering to never bring another girl home again if it bothered you – you’ve been through the goddamn song and dance so many times already.

He has this way of just. Making you feel guilty for even asking in the first place. Like you were presumptuous to say anything at all, unless it was something he wanted to hear.

It’s turned you into this. So eager to please but desperate to keep them at arm’s length. Wanting, longing, and starving for it. Watching because you quite literally can’t do anything else, sights burned into your eyes. Unable to look away. Unable to keep watching.

You don't know what they want from you.

You don’t think you want to, anymore.

Satoru and Suguru are getting impatient.

No, Suguru is getting impatient. Satoru is getting desperate. It was his idea to start going out and finding girls to bring back and fuck.

It wasn’t particularly difficult between the two of them. And promising, at first – after all, what was more likely to get you to snap than watching – hearing – the two of them give some other girl everything you’ve ever wanted on a silver platter?

But you just keep going. Gritting your teeth and bearing with it. Suguru spent a whole week dislodging your vibrator slightly from its charging port, slowly squeezing your lube bottle empty, doing everything he could to drive you to the brink.

Satoru’s starting to remark how much it’s a waste of time. He gets snippy when he’s needy, and lately, Suguru’s cock just isn’t enough for him. He has to go through your laundry, plant a camera in your bedroom on one of those few nights they stay out late enough to give you some private time.

Satoru makes him wear your clothes when Suguru fucks him, lets Suguru gag him with your panties when it’s the other way around.

They play dress-up together and watch you touch yourself at awkward angles with muddied sound quality. It’s not enough, not nearly enough.

Privately, Suguru is a little worried. Satoru’s getting weird – not that he hasn’t always been. But weirder.

He goes right into the bathroom after every time you use it. He’s always quick to reach your drinks for a “taste test” after you’ve had a sip. And Suguru knows for a fact Satoru isn’t using his own toothbrush at night.

He keeps talking about you. Looking at you. Whispering dirty suggestions in his ears, asking impatiently if you look like you’re going to snap.

Satoru is needy like that, demanding, and you’d always balanced him out while helping Suguru relax.

But there’s a distance now that wasn’t there before. The tension builds and builds, needs unmet for so long that desperation is clawing at both of them.

And that’s to say nothing of his own desires. Satoru, for all his faults, still has self-control.

Suguru passes your door every night and stops for a moment. He serves you dinner with a smile, domestic as he is, and thinks how easy it would be to slip something in there. To make sure you’d sleep through the night.

Would it even matter if you didn’t? You let him get away with so much. You love him, you must love him, don’t you? There’s no other reason you would put up with all of this. If he did slip, you’d forgive him, wouldn’t you? You’d drink up all his honeyed words with the same smile you always gave him.

But if he gave you such a convenient excuse, then he would always doubt. Whether you really loved him or if he just made it convenient to love him.

More importantly, you’re looking at them different. It was good, at first; your pretty eyes darting in a different direction, the way you try to hide your face, keep your words especially cool.

 They want you to TAKE what you want. Want you yelling and screaming and scratching them up like the hellcat they know you are, deep down.

“How long,” He whines between groans as Geto works between his legs, fingering him as he sucks his cock, “Is she gonna make us wait – fuck!”

Suguru pulls away with a pop. Saliva and precum dripping from his lips. Satoru pulls him in for a kiss, by the hair.

“You know she’s liked me a while,” Suguru murmurs, swallowing a moan or two as he works another finger into his hole. “She’s scared of pushing me away. And now that you’re my boyfriend, she probably wouldn’t want to break us up.”

“Fuck, but imagine if she did.” Satoru bucks into him, “She wants us, I know she does.”

He’s always so needy, like a puppy. Suguru likes it, but he can admit that he wants you, too. Misses the energy you’d provide. You’re not demanding like Satoru is. Too prideful. Satoru’s shameless. But you want, oh, do you ever want, and they both do know it.

Once he’s stretched Satoru out enough, he wastes no time shoving him onto his belly, burying himself in his hole from behind – “Fuck! Suguru!”

“On it right now,” He purrs, close to Satoru’s back, reaching lazily for his cock.

Satoru doesn’t like to cum too soon anyways. He likes to cum from getting fucked, to be edged into oblivion – or he likes going hard and fast and overstimulated to no end. Not much in between, unless he was the one in charge.

“Imagine it,” He pants like a dog beneath him. He’s pretty, so pretty, and the only thing Suguru could imagine that would be better is to see your face looking up at him from underneath Satoru, “Suguru!”

He grunts, thrusting his hips harder, “Imagining. What am I imagining?” God, Satoru’s a slut and a nuisance, but it’s always been worth it to indulge him.

“Her,” Satoru breathes after a particularly hard thrust, “Trying to break us up.”

Suguru grabs his hips for better leverage. Satoru dirty talks best when he’s getting fucked hard, after all.

“Fuck, imagine if she got me drunk or something, hngh, finally followed through on those fuck-me eyes she’s always giving me, ghhgh, fuck yes like that, and. Just fucked me in our room, waiting for you to walk in on us together.”

And he can see it, picture it so well.

A drunk night with the most beautiful man alive, because that’s what Satoru is; pretty even now, beneath him, all sweat and lean body trembling as he gets utterly railed.

You’ve always had the attraction, and Satoru couldn’t handle his liquor, and all the sudden, you’d slept together.

“Would you – ah, ahHhh, would you get mad, Suguru?” His voice is teasing now, even through the groans and utterances, “Would you cry~?”

“Ha!” He half-chokes out the laugh, because Satoru clenches around him and it’s hard not to cum right away. He’s going to leave bruises from how hard he’s holding those narrow, lovely hips.

“No," Suguru grinds out, "But I’m sure you both would. She’s the type, and you’re so fucking – gah, so fucking needy. What would you want me to do? Forgive you?”

His pace slows down, and he reaches to squeeze his cock in return, just for a taste.

“Nah – fuck! Yes, keep doing that, fuck.” Satoru bucks into his touch, always, always chasing after him, “She’s too fucking nice all the time. If she did it, it would be – hnng – like. A revenge thing. She should be fucking mad already, pissed off. She should make me cum inside her, say she’s pregnant. Make me dump you and marry her, so if she can’t have you, nobody can.”

Suguru barks out a laugh at the concept, and then a moan, choked off as he feels the heat shooting through him at the idea.

You’re too nice, like Satoru says, it’s a laughable concept, you acting like this –

But what had he seen in your eyes that day after you caught them both with that girl?

“Fuck, I swear I feel you twitching inside me – ”

“What would you do, then?” Suguru purrs hotly into his ear, “You want to win her heart while you’re married?”

“Well, we’d fuck all the time,” Satoru wheezes out a giggle, trembling as Suguru’s hand slides along his cock, “Fuck you – haaaahhh. But I’d be making nice with her, being a good husband, and then you could come and have an affair – ”

Fuck, fuck, that’s too much, “Close,” He grunts, driving himself deep and hard, chasing the edge, “Fuck, I could tell her I love her, blackmail her, even – threaten to tell you.”

A groan as Satoru gets closer, and Suguru continues, “I could fuck her, leave her coming home to you full of my cum – ”

“I’d eat it out of her,” Satoru laughs, near deranged as he jerks between fucking back into Suguru and rutting into his hand, “Jerk me off already – ah, fuck, what if you got her pregnant – ”

White-hot, like the idea of your face beneath him, both of them, accepting them with an open heart full of rage and bitterness and lust, Suguru cums.

He’s just aware enough to fist Satoru’s cock, sliding harshly along it until he hears the lovely whore beneath him gasping, twitching, spilling in his hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck,” Satoru whimpers. “Hnghh… god, just the idea of her coming home from the hospital with a black-haired baby.”

“Fuck you,” Suguru barks, because now he wants to cum inside you. He wants, so, so fucking bad to cum inside you.

But god, do you even want them?

You sit there, all day, looking away, running away. That’s not love, is it?

And he’s a romantic, at heart. Satoru is, too. They don’t want anything less than your whole heart. Your entire life, your mind, body, and soul, dedicated to them the way they are to each other. Mad with jealousy and rage and possession.

Satoru had left him with bruises, the day he found out Suguru was crushing on you. When Suguru told him, in no uncertain terms, that he’s been wanted you for over a decade now and he wasn’t leaving before he got you. Blue fury in his eyes, heart twisting in his chest.

He’d looked him in the eye, grin wild and wide. Staring down as he has him pinned. Suguru had raised his knee up between his legs to find his cock desperately hard and throbbing.

“I want to fuck her first,” had been his wicked demand. Pain and pleasure traded like currency in return for love, each of them furious at the other for wanting you. They reaped the cost of their love on each other, settled their scores deep in their souls.

Because even if Suguru had seen you first, could he really say he’d wanted you first? Did he really want to fuck you before Satoru moved in, before he saw you flustered from your attraction and playfully trading banter with Satoru?

Had he wanted Satoru because you wanted Satoru? Had Satoru wanted him because he could see that you did?

Lines cross and uncross between you and the two of them, too tangled to ever unravel.

Time to tighten the knot.

[rosy-hollow]

Your husband, Sukuna, is a menace—but he can't say no to your even bigger menace of a daughter.

He already can't say no to you—the absolute sweetheart he had fallen deeply for—so how could he stand a chance against his five-year-old daughter, who looked so much like you yet had the wrath and fury to make even hell freeze over?

It’s Yuna’s first day of kindergarten, and you and your husband have already been called to the school because of your girl's… behavioral issues.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. and Mrs. Sukuna. I, uh… as you’ve heard, Yuna has been acting disruptively in school today. We’ll have to send her home due to her actions, but I sincerely hope this doesn’t happen again."

Underneath the table, your hand finds your husband's reassuringly, squeezing it to let him know you'd handle this.

"I apologize for any inconvenience, sir... but may I know the details of what happened first?" you ask politely, maintaining a calm facade. And if the two of you weren’t talking to your daughter's school principal, Sukuna would’ve kissed you right then and there—because the moment he opened his mouth, he’d probably have a restraining order filed against him in every country.

Despite your calm demeanor, though, you were practically seething.

You knew your daughter. Yes, she had quite a temper, but to act up in such a way that caused a scene? That didn’t sound like her. And if she really had, then something serious must've happened.

The principal nods, sighing bitterly. "Apparently, there was a squabble between your daughter and another boy on the playground… He ended up with a tooth knocked out in the end."

You blink, taken aback, frowning.

Your daughter, though prone to getting angry, would never resort to violence. You and your husband raised her better than that.

Your blood simmers slightly as you take in the principal’s disdainful expression and condescending tone. You want to punch it off his face—but you don’t, much to your own chagrin.

Your husband is squeezing your hand so hard it feels like your bones might snap, but you still rub your thumb comfortingly against his knuckles.

"May I speak to my daughter? Though this behavior is unacceptable, this doesn’t sound like her at all," you say, and the principal sighs, nodding.

"Yes, but please make it quick."

You nod, mentally flipping the man off, before exiting the room with your furious husband in tow.

There, just outside, sits your daughter—wide red eyes filled with tears.

"I-I’m sorry, Mommy..." she whimpers softly, and something inside you breaks as you rush forward to envelop her in your arms.

It takes everything in you not to hunt down the people who reduced your loving daughter to this mess. And you're sure your husband isn’t doing any better—years and years of therapy doing everything it can to keep his rage at bay.

"H-He said my eyes m-made me look l-like a m-m-monster, and t-then he pushed me, and so I just pushed him back, and then he tripped over his shoelaces and his t-tooth fell out—"

Yuna is full-on sobbing now, and you freeze, holding her tightly.

Wordlessly, you pick up the small five-year-old and hand her to your husband, a glint in your eye. Sukuna stiffens, swallowing hard. His grip on Yuna tightens slightly as he watches you storm inside.

He’s only seen you mad maybe four times in your ten years of marriage—if Yuna could freeze hell over when she was angry, then you were the devil incarnate herself.

You reenter the principal’s office, slamming the door behind you. Sukuna decides to be a smart dad and take his daughter down the hall, avoiding what is definitely about to be verbal homicide.

When you finally exit the room, there's an eerily peaceful look on your face. Casually, you dust off your shirt, approaching your husband and daughter with a warm smile.

Sukuna and Yuna exchange uneasy glances.

"So~ who wants ice cream?"

Yuna’s not uneasy anymore.

Sukuna sighs.

He loves his two girls more than anything in the world—he never, ever would have pictured himself being the calmer one in the relationship, but you never ceased to prove him wrong.

That’s what he loved about you, though.

A/N: i love when beefy men are down bad for me (this has never happened)