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loveanddeepthroat · 3 months ago

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Baby Blues

Pairing - Sylus x f!MC

Summary - In the first two weeks of being new parents, the dynamic hasn’t been quite what you and Sylus expected. He’s eager to be involved, but your daughter doesn’t seem to have warmed to him.

Word count - 2.7k

⚠️Warning⚠️ - Mentions of pregnancy and childbirth. Hurt/comfort, fluff, and a little sprinkle of angst.

Your newborn didn’t like Sylus.

It sounded ridiculous, but you know he was thinking it too. You didn’t have the gall to say it out loud—not that it even needed to be said. The fact was definitely lingering between you both.

You never thought much of why she would wriggle and kick up a storm in your stomach whenever he touched the swell of your belly, but you now had an inclination that it was because she didn’t like his hands there.

It was strange and upsetting, but he didn’t seem too hurt by it so far, only silently helpless as he watched you do everything. You were two weeks postpartum, so your emotions were already all over the place. It seemed as though Sylus was holding his own feelings back to make room for yours, and when you had asked him about it, he simply kissed your forehead and reassured you that he was fine. All while your screaming daughter cried for you against his chest.

Not that he opened up to you all that often. You did manage to get things out of him with a push sometimes, but he was like an unyielding gate, refusing to open to anyone.

Your exhaustion was only adding to the toll on your fragile emotions. The baby only wanted your touch, and sleep was almost impossible for you because of that very reason. Only you could feed her. Only you could soothe her. Only you could touch her.

That was one thing that was really getting to Sylus. The bloodshot whites of your eyes as you rocked the fussy newborn to sleep and fed her at all hours of the morning. The barely touched plates of food that ended up stone cold and in the bin. Not to mention the completely non-existent ten minutes you needed to at least have a wash without having to run out of the shower to her aid.

He must have felt quite useless in the weeks where you should be recovering, but he didn’t want you to worry about his feelings by indulging you in his thoughts.

Your pregnancy had been smooth, ending with a good twenty-seven hours of rather torturous labour, and pushing that went on for an agonising two hours. It had all been worth it, though. Your little bundle of joy with tufts of platinum hair had finally greeted you both with a piercing wail, but eased her protests once placed against your heaving chest.

You just wished she would settle with both parents.

It was another day of desperate wailing, your arms becoming so heavy with the exertion of having no option but to hold her. You tried to put her in her pram for Sylus to push her around for a while, but her cries only increased to the point of her little face turning purple. You couldn’t sit and just listen to it, and you absolutely would not ignore her—no matter how much Sylus pushed for you to go and get some sleep.

“She wants me,” you say for what felt like the millionth time that week.

Sylus was evidently reluctant to stop trying, but he wouldn’t keep you from her. He conceded with a defeated huff, watching your every move as you gently lifted your screeching daughter out of the plush pram. Her screams died down quickly as you placed her against your chest, her ear-piercing wails whittling down to soft whimpers.

“Of all the dangerous paths I’ve crossed and violent challenges I’ve encountered, it’s our newborn daughter who finally defeats me,” he mumbles quietly, trying to make a lighthearted joke about it.

You tried to smile at his attempt to add a bit of humour to the situation, but the comment only made you cry. Hard.

“Hey.” He immediately stepped toward you, rubbing a large hand up and down your back soothingly. You had to give it to him, his patience with you in the last two weeks had been immaculate. “Don’t cry, sweetie.”

You couldn’t stop, your ragged breaths and shaking shoulders refusing to relent. “I d-don’t get it,” you bawl. “What are we doing d-differently?”

Sylus sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His hand continued to rub soothing circles against your back to ease your upset. “Well, she did live inside you for nine months. Besides, you didn’t exactly like me either when we first met.”

He smiled faintly, tilting his head down to capture your gaze. Despite the obvious tease, he still seemed to be holding himself back. It was frustrating him more than he wanted to admit to you. You knew he was protecting your feelings, but you wished he would just show some sense of vulnerability.

You don’t dare set your sleeping daughter down in her moses basket, knowing full well that she would just wake straight back up. So the rest of the afternoon is spent with your tiny newborn curled up against your chest, a few feeding and changing breaks in between.

Once the day turned into night, nothing in the world sounded more appealing to you than a hot shower, a hot meal, and a hot cup of tea. But letting her scream and cry while you did that was not an option. It wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t fair on Sylus.

He didn’t leave you unless he absolutely had to throughout the day. You watched him every time he heard a little whimper from the baby, his hands flexing and twitching. Every time you had to get up to do something for her, he was either at your back or side.

He wanted to help.

The chef brought through a very large bowl of marinated chicken and pasta for you, upon Sylus’s instruction. As soon as the bowl was set on the little table beside your recliner chair, you almost began drooling. You hadn’t managed to eat much at all in the chaos, and Sylus wasn’t amused when you didn’t even get the chance to finish the two biscuits he’d brought you earlier in the day.

You reached a careful hand over to the fork, not even lifting it before your daughter began to wriggle and whine in your other arm. Dropping it immediately, you retract your hand, only making it halfway back to the fussy newborn before long, slender fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.

“No,” Sylus says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Your initial response is to immediately go on the defence. “She’s cry—”

“I know she’s crying,” he interrupted tightly. “I know. But you’re going to eat while your food is hot, and you’re going to do it without our screaming daughter on your chest.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

He had that commanding look in his eye, the one that would intimidate most, but was only used on you when he was especially adamant on you doing something necessary for yourself.

You were a little relieved to see him so passionate, if you were being honest. He had been treading on eggshells to not upset you or the baby for fourteen whole days, and it wasn’t good for anyone. You felt the tension on him every time you both managed to get into bed together for more than five minutes. He needed this little outburst.

“This needs to stop now. I’m going to figure her out, and you are going to eat. Alright?” His tone left no room for argument, and the more your daughter protested against your intention to eat, the more hungry and tired you felt.

It wasn’t easy, but you handed her off to him carefully, swallowing a lump in your throat. You couldn’t take your eyes off of her distressed little face as Sylus attempted to cradle her.

You were practically twitching, your legs about to push the footrest of the recliner down to retrieve her in the first thirty seconds she was away from you. Sylus noticed immediately, and pushed it back up with his foot before you could close it down fully.

“She’s not in any danger,” he said calmly, but his whole body was visibly tense. “She’s right here, I won’t leave the room. Just eat, sweetie.”

You wanted to protest further, but he wasn’t going to yield this time. His eyes remained trained on you until you finally sagged back into the chair, and it wasn’t until you picked up your fork that he finally turned away, focusing on the distraught newborn kicking up a storm against his chest.

He held her the way you did, one hand cupped over her head to keep it steady while the other hand softly patted her back. Why she didn’t want to be near him was an utter mystery to you, he wasn’t doing anything incorrectly.

You couldn’t eat while the two most important people in your life were quite clearly in a distressing situation before you. “Are you alright?” You asked him gently, hoping that he would answer you.

“I will be if you eat,” he quickly responded, not looking at you.

Sighing, you stab a slice of the chicken onto your fork, just looking at it for a moment. Your brain had managed to kick itself into gear as you forged a new approach to his silence.

This was an opportunity to head in the right direction.

“I’ll eat if you speak to me.”

Blood red eyes shot in your direction, an eyebrow raised. “Blackmail?”

You quickly shook your head. “You were right, this does need to stop. Starting with you shutting yourself off from me.”

“Eat.”

The forked piece of chicken points straight at his unamused face. “Talk.”

He shook his head a little in clear annoyance, the stress consuming him. Your daughter continued to wail, immune to the warmth and safety of his arms. He was basically trapped after promising to remain in the room with you.

Your bleary eyes held his irises of rubies, neither of you conceding. It was a mental challenge to ignore the fragrant aroma of garlic and fresh basil beneath your nose, but you were not eating until at least one of the two beautiful people before you had calmed down.

Sylus visibly swallowed, finally giving in as he noticed your lack of a bluff. “Do you think she knows?” His voice was quiet, barely heard over your newborn’s cries.

“Knows what?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, nodding his head towards the piece of chicken on your fork. You shovel it into your gob, eager for him to continue.

His eyes flicker down to your daughter before he speaks again. “Do you think she knows that I’ve done terrible things? Do you think that’s why she doesn’t like me?”

“I—” you grumble and roll your eyes as he nods to your plate of food again, waiting for you to take another mouthful that you end up having to speak through, “I don’t see how she could. Is that why you’ve been so quiet?”

The corner of his mouth curled upward ever-so-slightly. “Missing my tongue, kitten?”

You couldn’t help your own smile as his shoulders sagged a little from where they were practically touching his ears. It wasn’t often that he opened up to you like this. You almost always had to pry or throw in a proposition to coax him into speaking.

You took another bite of your food, moving the plate from the small table to your lap. “Do you really think she doesn’t like you?”

His smirk faded away quickly, a gentle thumb brushing over your daughter's head. She continued to cry, but the volume had dropped a little. “Do you not think that?” He asked.

You didn’t know how to answer that question. To tell the truth, you did think that, but not for the same reason he was thinking.

“I think she may be a little attached at the moment. We’re very different shapes and sizes. Maybe she feels—”

“Unsafe?”

His tone had dropped an octave—something you didn’t think was possible considering the already bone-chilling vibrations of his voice. Never before had you witnessed him in a state of such vulnerability. He was insecure about this, and it was finally starting to show.

You went to stand up to be near him, but he immediately stepped forward to halt your movement.

“Eat.”

Not wanting to lose this free-speaking Sylus you had barely met before, you did as he said, twirling a fat mouthful of pasta onto your fork for extra brownie points.

You both remained in silence for a few moments, only your fork scraping against the bowl in your lap marrying with the sounds of your baby’s cries surrounding the small sitting room.

Sylus’s gaze didn’t leave the newborn cradled in his arms, a gentle sway in his hips as he tried to keep her moving. All you could do was study his composure, seeing it as it cracked.

After a moment, he looked back at you. “I don’t want to keep failing you.”

You coughed on the mouthful of the creamy pasta at his words, completely in awe of his confession.

Failing you? How did he get to that conclusion?

“You’ve done everything for her,” he continued, not allowing you to immediately reassure him. “I want to be able to do everything, too. For both of you.”

The all too familiar sting in your wet eyes built in intensity by the second, and you quickly found yourself sniffling.

Not only was he insecure about your daughter not feeling safe in his arms, but he felt that he’d failed you both in the past two weeks. It was heartbreaking for you to hear.

“Don’t cry—”

“You’re…fuck, Sylus. You’re not failing anyone,” you tuck your fork back into the pasta with a loud sniffle, ignoring his glare that silently demanded that you continue to eat. “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

He looked entirely reluctant to answer, his head dropping back down to stare at his tiny twin. You didn’t want him to stop speaking again, so you quietly picked your fork back up, hoping it would capture his attention.

The silence stretched between you as you made the effort to eat for his sake. Even your daughter's cries became a little weaker—like she was pitying him.

He didn’t look at you as he said, “I’m the bad guy. The boogie man. The kind of monster that parents threaten their kids with visits from in the middle of the night if they don’t brush their teeth before bed.”

“Not in our story, you’re not,” you quickly reassured him earnestly. “You’re the husband and father who keeps the monsters away from your family. That’s the only Sylus she will ever know. The real one.”

He still didn’t look up from the newborn, now almost completely silent in his arms, but you catch a subtle bob in his throat. You didn’t need him to respond to you. You knew you had said the right words to soothe that self-deprecating thought in his complicated mind. You could see it.

“Have I told you how perfect you were two weeks ago,” he asked, knowing full well that he’d told her every day since then.

Your mouth curled into a soft smile. Even after all these years together—after welcoming your first child into this scary, yet beautiful world—Sylus had no trouble giving you butterflies.

“I think you might’ve mentioned it,” you hummed softly.

And on that very note, the baby was fast asleep in his hold for the very first time in two whole weeks. His face didn’t reveal anything, but you knew he was relieved. All he wanted to do was make this easier for the both of you.

Finally, you had managed to figure out what the problem had been all this time.

“You were too tense,” you point out quietly, noticing how openly at ease he now was. “That’s what she didn’t like.”

He hummed in response, unable to tear his gaze away from the sleeping babe in his arms. You didn’t say anything further, letting him enjoy that special moment in peace while you proceeded to enjoy the rest of your meal.

Despite the challenges of becoming new parents, things were going to be alright from that point onwards.

A/N - Hello! I hope you enjoyed this oneshot, thank you so much for reading. Just to let you know, I do take requests ❤️

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hellsslibrary · 6 months ago

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Hello! There's just not so many sub! Kaiser fics and I'm d y i n g to read those 😔😔

Can I request for a sub! Kaiser x male reader where Kaiser has a praise kink but doesn't ever want to admit it 👀

#a.n. :This is so same! Kaiser is such a babygirl, I want to kiss him, eat him, hug him, and then rock him in my arms and let him relax... But no, this bitch is always top, lol. Even funny.

"I don't like your damn praise! Just fuck me alre—...What?"

!!Warnings: Bottom!Sub!Michael, Dom!Top!Reader, sex on an indoor football field (it's empty, it just seemed interesting to me, imagine the echo there...), praise kink obviously, Michael tries to be dominant, but he's too much of a pillow princess (he came out so gentle... In his own way), in fact everything is quite vanilla, but he kicks you when he's unhappy, also very romantic in general. × And the reader is somehow connected with football company. You can be a manager, a football player, or even a cleaner there, honestly.

The football field in the building was closed at night, knowing full well how persistent football players in the leagues can be. Darkness, silence, idyll... Except for the flashlight from the phone somewhere in the middle of the field and quiet groans echoing from the walls.

"Why did you decide to have sex here? Plus, at this time?" You ask, looking over at Michael, who was clutching at the trimmed grass in the lawn as you thrust into him at a careful, almost tremulous pace.

“I think you said yourself that you wanted to experiment... So we’re starting with something easy,” Blonde whispers, wincing from the unpleasant feeling of artificial grass in his hands, so he just hugs your neck lazily.

“Well, yes, but... You obviously have some other reasons. But I won’t push if you don’t want to talk,” Michael just sighs at your words, but it immediately turns into a soft moan when your lips touch his neck.

“I just love the atmosphere in here, as weird as it sounds, so shut up and fuck me,” A disgruntled mutter escapes his lips, only to be cut short when he tilts his head back, giving you better access to his neck.

You look over his face, surprisingly too peaceful for him. Maybe this place really brought inner comfort to his soul, erasing all the doubts and burdens that he kept inside and sometimes shared with you. Maybe it was. But your heart broke at the sight of him for some reason, you understood his feelings more than anyone... Because you were probably the only one he was able to open up to so much.

“Micha? You’re a good boy,” echoes from your lips almost casually, but with a sickly sweet note that you want to listen to forever and drown in these sweet speeches.

"What was it?"

You find yourself torn from examining his face by his question. And really, why did you say that? He didn't do anything special during your entire session, which lasted about half an hour. And you too... But one look at him is enough for you to understand why.

Your attentive gaze glides over his perfect facial features, long eyelashes giving his eyes an unusual softness and warmth. Instantly you feel the desire to say that he is beautiful, extraordinarily beautiful. Faithful hands, strength and tenderness in every touch, sincerity and warmth in every word, just for you. The desire to praise, to say how much love and kindness he has, how he is able to bring a smile even in the most cloudy weather.

His soul shines brighter than the stars in the sky, his smile can melt the heart of icy granite. The desire to praise, express gratitude for all the beauty and kindness that he brings into this world. He is not just a person, he is magic, miracle, a spark that pushes you to move even in your most difficult moments.

The words seem unfair, but the heart is filled with feelings that are impossible to carry on the wind. Praise, approval, love — all these are small before the greatness of his soul and his existence. You really want to tell him about this so that he understands how amazing and significant he is to you. Just as the sun rises every morning, he awakens in you a feeling of awe and admiration that seems endless and will remain so.

“Because I love you,” You say without thinking, and immediately catch a light, rare blush on his cheeks.

His hand immediately drops down from your shoulder to cover the pink dust on his cheeks, but you intercept his hand, kissing his fingers tenderly, intertwining your fingers together.

"You idiot... Why so suddenly?" He asks, even if he doesn't wait for an answer, lightly kicking you in the side, groaning when you lean over him a little closer, hitting his sweet spot at a pleasant angle.

You find yourself thinking that you would worship him if he were God. It’s not that you didn’t already worship him... But he was definitely the person for whom even an atheist would reconsider their views on the world.

"Why suddenly? I'm always ready to praise you. You are tenacious, driven, incredibly smart, caring for those you care about in your own way... You are simply magnificent."

"Shut up, please shut up. I don't need your praise, just fuck me and..." He trails off, kicking you in the side again as he realizes something, "You didn't say that I'm handsome."

“Your beauty is a fact. But your appearance is far from the main thing that you have, even if you think differently... But if I started to list what I like about you externally, then we would move on to dithyrambs and ballads, and not to the climax."

Michael chuckles, finally distracted from contemplating you in response, realizing that he really feels a knot growing in his stomach. In general, he would never admit that he would be glad to listen to these dithyrambs and ballads and much more if it came from you. He's always taken praise for granted because, yes, he's Michael Kaiser, but now? He's just a puddle in your hands that's trying to look like ice.

“I’m not clenching around your cock right now because...” He cuts himself off, groaning as your mouth sucks on his neck in the area of his tattoo, “It’s not because I liked the praise, is that clear to both of us?”

“Of course, my King, as you say,” You say, biting the skin of his neck, causing him to whimper quietly as one of your hands slides to his cock, stroking it in time with your thrusts.

Your pace gradually picks up as you get closer too. And the sight of Michael, who clearly enjoyed your previous praise, did not at all ease your hard-on, nor did the warm walls around him.

"Call me!" He suddenly shouts, kicking you in the side once again, although you have no idea what he means at first, pulling away from his neck.

"Good boy?" You ask cautiously and to your surprise and pleasure, his cock twitches in your palm, and after a few thrusts he actually comes, squeezing you tighter than usual, which is why you can’t help but cum, thrusting into him a couple of times in post-orgasmic bliss, and then laying down on his chest.

The quiet rhythm of his heartbeat calmed you as he lightly ran his hand through your hair. You were both regaining your more than ragged breaths before the comfortable silence was interrupted by a question that made you chuckle hoarsely.

“Why did you ask this and not state it as a fact?”

#seme male reader #top male reader #dom male reader #a!writes.#sub character #sub blue lock #blue lock smut #blue lock x male reader #blue lock x reader #sub bllk #bllk x male reader #bllk smut #bllk x reader #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x male reader #sub michael kaiser #michael kaiser smut

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jolalibrary · 9 months ago

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1. butterscotch orange

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over <redacted>. frankie being a single!dad to a son. coffee date. an: it is finally here! this little thing has rotted me from the inside out and nothing brings me more joy than a romcom. so here we go. buckle in. all hail @secretelephanttattoo for the wondrous idea and support (seriously thank you, i know you know ily, but i don't think I've been this happy writing something in so long). a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who i forced to read this when we had our sleepover, ily.

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics [winks]

IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT. ALL YOU NEED—

It rings, echoes through your skull.

Has been doing so the whole ride over—your groan doing nothing to dilute it, even as you kill the engine of your car and are welcomed with silence.

There’s an element of regret you feel thrumming in you since discovering that perky voice, her high-pitched excitement becoming the bane of your existence. Forever replaying in your head. Regardless of whether it is actually playing. It remains on a loop in your mind—all light and sweet—grating on you from the amount you’ve had to watch it, just to get to this stage.

Realistically, you know you shouldn’t hate the voice, because it has been helpful—in that effortlessly playful way that’s kind of begun to fuck you off.

But then, you’re not even sure if any voice would fare much better. Because you just don’t feel like it’s just that easy—so possible, all simple and quick to do.

Because DIY apparently isn't that trouble-free for you. The bandaids on your palm, fingers, and forearm are proof of it.

Yet, somehow you’re outside of a hardware store.

One that Google promises will have all you need and more. Not that you know what that is.

The only thing you do know is that it at least gives you another reason to focus on something other than the mountain of boxes that never end. The ones not unpacked. In the home that’s now only slowly beginning to feel more like yours, and not the people you purchased it from.

Eyes flicking over the front of the store, the clutter of things all left outside—in judging various shades of buckets and plastic garden chairs—before your eyes land on the door to Harold’s Hardware.

There’s no breeze, but the door moves ever so slightly. Sitting, slightly ajar, as though once—a long time ago—it fit in the frame perfectly, but now remained warped and unwilling to even try. Then there’s the glass, all smeared and sitting inside (what you assume) would have been a bright-white frame that’s slightly yellowed and has been adorned in scuffs, swinging in its layered overuse.

But, at least it’s visited, you think. Shoving open the door, a bell sounds in some distant corner, ringing, it almost muffled by the voice from the video continuing to play in the space between your ears—a to-do list, a handful of items required, listing themselves on a never-ending loop, the billionth play through since you’d woken up.

It’s so much bigger inside than you banked on. Jaw-ticking to the side, eyes marvelling at the floor-to-ceiling display and the array of things all living and existing under hanging signs that appear worn and peeling.

With each second, more and more of the charm comes to you.

That there’s a radio, crackling away, a song from decades gone by playing with difficulty, as an array of scents swirl, fighting themselves for your attention. But, two stand out, fresh-cut wood and lemon disinfectant. The latter you assume kills dirt but doesn’t make the floor tiles gleam in the way they once did. Scuff marks adorning well-walked paths. But the former, you gravitate more to, wish for it to fill your nose and remain with you long after your visit.

Adjusting the strap of your bag, you glance about again, almost fidgeting your feet in your shoes, before it dawns on you. Slams into you as you flick your gaze from sign to sign—

You haven’t got a clue about where to start.

Listing the things from memory—suddenly distant and difficult to find amongst the dooming overwhelm—as your feet begin moving of their own accord. Choosing an aisle, selecting it—all eeny-meeny-miny-mo.

Because better that, than standing aimless, lost. Watched on some flickering CCTV in the back where you assume the person who works here is.

Dragging your eyes, scanning them up and down, taking in the varying types of paint brushes, different thicknesses, different intentions. Moving from single purchase to grouped, to multi-packs, and landing finally on rollers before you’re turning, heading down an entirely different aisle.

The next isn’t any less overwhelming.

If anything, it’s more, because it’s at least more of what you needed.

Screws, bolts, fixings.

Your brain assessing, attempting to assemble whether a bolt is what you need, a screw or—

“You need a hand?”

It throws you off, the voice.

Cuts through your processing, through the low replays of the video (the ones only in your head) and the cracking radio which has moved into an advert for migraines.

It’s low, a slight gravel that he rids with a clear of his throat as you look over your shoulder, eyes sweeping over the owner of the voice, eventually turning to face him.

And fuck.

He’s broad, dressed in a deep green t-shirt under a tan apron—name badge scratched over, only leaving the lingering marks of a “here to help” and the fading logo you’d seen outside.

You don’t mean to gawk, but yet you do all the same.

Practically swallowing, attempting to whir your brain into gear as you take in the rest of him. The thick loose curls atop his head, the strong nose and the round-brown eyes. His moustache, the wiry facial hair across his chin he slowly begins to scrape at, as he remains waiting for a response.

“Screws.”

“You… you need screws?”

Nodding, you will your brain to work, to function. But, he’s just so—

Lifting his chin, he runs his thumb up and down the underside of his chin, waiting, waiting, until he smiles. “Do you know the kind?”

Think. Think. Fucking think.

And then you do. Somehow able to unspool some thoughts, find sentences. Beginning to explain, in barely-there pauses and animated hand gestures about your move, and your new lease of life, and this video you found and how you felt inspired by it to the point it had led you to order wood cut to size and tools from the internet, but screws, screws and this and that are all that you’d forgotten.

And, he listens. Sliding a hand over the sleeve of his sun-scorched tee as he does. Just nodding on occasion. Thin lines appear along his forehead at certain parts of the story, but nonetheless listening.

“Show me.”

“Show… you?”

Then he smiles. Soft, it slides up in a slow, almost cautious way, but then it’s at his eyes, touching, brushing itself there and sending sparks up into the darker brown flecks.

Licking his lips, he gestures, “The video.”

You do.

A quick shuffle in your pocket, a slide to unlock your phone and then your fingers are brushing his. They’re warm, his. That you can tell.

Heat radiating from them, slowly blanketing yours as his hand and yours cradle the phone like a newborn in an announcement photo.

From there, your chest tightens, more so when you meet his eyes, finding them watching you as intently as you wish to look at him, and it makes your heart stammer, skip—a full chaos of beats following before he’s holding your phone independently.

That’s when a new crisis calls. A new thought is all set to erode your mind.

Because your phone looks tiny in his hand.

The plastic case is almost dwarfed by him as he tips his chin, watching the video, occasionally tapping at the screen to skip ahead before he nods to himself, you all but busy trying not to choke on your own drool.

“I know what you need.”

“You do?”

A foolish question, all escaping without thought or rationale.

He just smiles, in a way that seems to settle your incoming anxiousness.

“I do.”

And he does.

A tilt of his head, his back turned to you, a brief thought crossing your brain at the sight but you quickly rid, and you’re following. Listening as he explains, as he points out things with his long, thick finger, as you nod, as though nothing lives in the space between both of your ears.

It isn’t until you’re back in your car that it hits you. Do you suddenly wish as your engine ignites and your car roars to life, that you had asked for his number—or better yet, his name.

It’s been days, and you’re still wondering if some part of you’d concocted him, made him up—thrown up an illusion of a man and exaggerated how good he looked.

The more you thought about him, the more insane it got. Even hearing yourself explain it to a friend made you question if you'd been dreaming. That maybe you’d let days mould him, shaping perfection in your consciousness.

It has more weight when you walk past the older man at the till, all white hair in a slick-back style and who tips his head and looks more what you’d expect from the decor of the place.

But a part, one fighting, scrapping for a moment to exist, still believes. Hopes.

Forcing your legs to wander down aisles you don’t need, pausing at each corner, desiring to be proven wrong. Hovering, hoping—half-wondering if it was essential that to make him appear, you had to look lost and hopeless—or whether that had just been a coincidence that first time.

With each up and down, you almost give up. Hope almost gone, erasing itself with each step, all but fading.

But there, in the centre of the paint aisle, speckled in dried flecks, it clinging in varying shades—a kaleidoscope dream on his jeans and worn t-shirt—is him. The man you haven't stopped thinking about.

"It's you."

"It's me," you grin, heat flooding your cheeks, growing up into your neck.

Arm lifting, hand brushing the back of his curls not housed in a cap, as he matches your grin. "New project?"

"Something like that."

His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't lessen, not as his grin slopes into a shy smile, before he wipes his hand on his jeans, offering it out. "Realised... I never... I'm Frankie, by the way."

You hand him your name, dropping an octave as you do—all unmeaning, entirely accidental—fingers sliding past his as you shake his hand.

“I don’t… you’ve not got your apron on.”

Glancing down, you find him grinning when he looks up, “Not my day today. Here on personal business.”

“Oh is…” squinting at the paint can in his hand, “Butterscotch Orange on a hit list or something?”

His lips slide into his cheek, a tooth-filled smirk. “Should be, it’s a right bitc—pain in the ass to sell.”

Rolling your lips, you trace your tongue across your teeth as you grin. “It’s no…” eyes squinting. “Mt Rainier Grey.”

His brow arches. “That your shade of choice?”

“I like it—don’t hate the orange though. So, maybe it’s not the paint, but the seller.”

Something twinkles in his eye, lips still cocked to one side, smirk still ever-present.

And it’s a challenge to drag your eyes to look at the floor, you shift your weight. Trying, and failing, to think of an excuse, to leave before it gets weird—before you become too much and ruin this nondescript thing. But, his throat clearing stops you. It forces your chin up. Barely just able to catch it, the whisper, how it’s almost said to the can in his hand than to you.

“You… doing anything right now?”

Shaking your head slowly, you bite your cheek as you grin. “Just talking to a man holding a paint can.”

Tapping his fingers along the top, lips rolling, “You fancy getting a coffee? With me?”

You have to bite your smile, out of fear you’ll show how practically beaming you are. Mouth opening, but he adds an addition of I don’t usually do this that makes your lips curl into a smirk.

“What? Invite random customers for coffee or accost them with paint you can’t sell?”

Biting his upper lip, he shakes his head, tucking a curl behind his ear as your eyes glance over at them. How they glisten under the yellow-fluorescent light.

Letting your heart dance like leaves in the wind. “I’d love to get coffee with you, Frankie.”

It’s nice, the coffee place.

Not a far walk, a few doors down. The charm of it coaxes you in with sounds of crunching beans and strong scents of varying levels of caffeine sliding over and relaxing your shoulders from your ears.

Because suddenly you’re nervous.

A slight shake to your bones, a twitch of your fingers.

“Let me get this.”

Smiling, you find him watching you, not caring to drag his eyes away when you catch him.

“Because you never do this or because you’re hoping to persuade me to buy your unsellable paint?”

Smirking, he traces his eyes over you, “Both.”

The corner of his mouth slides back into his cheek, a dimple appearing, deepening—one you want to brush over with your thumb the longer he keeps looking at you the way he does.

All dark eyes, beedy, but sparkling.

'Who's next?' breaks the spell. Shatters the magic. It forces you both to blink, to focus on the task at hand. Both orders said, whirring and crunching sounding as you admire the place, glaze over the menu until he’s nudging you.

With your order in hand and tucked away in the corner—the large window letting in light and warmth from the sun on your back—you try not to moan at the taste of your drink once it hits your tongue.

Because it’s good. Brilliant, practically everything.

To the point you have to bite back a thank you, one that you feel would be never-ending, a constant swirl of words landing on the circular table between the two of you. Nothing napkins and good conversation could soak up.

Because good coffee is always great, but knowing where to find it in an unknown place is something else.

Distantly, you hear him say your name, chin dipped, eyes focused, realising—in a flood of embarrassment—he’s been talking to you.

“Sorry?”

“I said, I’ve not seen you in the store before…”

Swallowing, you take a steadying breath.

“You don’t have to…”

But, you do all the same. You pour open small bits of truth, words falling, tumbling half-strung together as your history rolls out in a timeline in front of you both. How you’d bought a new place, that it’s a bit run down, seen better days—a determination to prove friends wrong by doing it yourself.

Foolish, you comment with a shake of your head, I know fuck all about decorating.

And he listens—to the fact you’re alone, not even a pet; he listens even as you talk about your work, all boring, not entirely interesting. The two of you simply lost in one another, surrounded by coffee mug swirls and the sounds of sizzling food, coffee shop noises and mumbling daytime talk as you ask him about work, about his love for orange shades.

And your eyes glance down at his phone, how it’s turned over—his all undivided attention given to you—yet your eyes linger on the phone case. The one with a drawing, likely in pencil, a man in a hat on a hill, a child next to him and a sun with a smile on its face.

“I… I have a kid. Luca—shared custody,” he says, nodding, tongue peeking out between his teeth, hands leaving the table and wiping back on his jeans in slow slides up and down. “He… he made it me.”

It’s the grin that makes your heart swell.

Makes your hand cup your mug a little tighter so you don’t offer it out to him to hold, a thing which feels so natural, no thought required. Except you don’t know his last name—barely know a thing about him.

Yet, your body practically leans forward as you mirror the smile—all soft, as another piece of a missing puzzle sliding into place.

“Does he like drawing?”

Laughing, his palm slides along his jaw. “Loves it.”

“How old?”

“Five—does that… does that bother you?”

“That you’re a dad?” He nods, and you lick your lips, you make sure to hold his gaze. “Not in the slightest.”

You smile, watching him mirror you this time. It rushes out, kissing across every bit of his face—a shyness soon fluttering over him before he clears his throat.

“So, you freelance? You like being your own boss?”

“Not especially, but it does mean I can work at night.”

Nodding, he slides his hand around the white porcelain, hand practically dwarfing the mug. It makes you want to ask him to hold things, to see if IKEA pencils or children’s eating utensils look more ridiculous than your iPhone and a regular coffee mug.

“Prefer the night?”

“I prefer the quiet of it... to think. It’s why… why I began trying to do something in the day, needed to still be busy.”

“Sitting still not an option, Rainier Grey?”

Shrugging, you smile. “Says you Butterscotch and your three tins of unsellable paint in the bed of your truck.”

“You got me there.”

“I just… like to be busy, and with the new house, no partner—commitments, I thought why not try a bit of DIY.”

Nodding, he lifts his mug, and takes a sip—eyes remaining fixed on you as he does, as though it buys him time, lets him think up an opinion, an assessment. It makes your skin warm, but for all the uncomfortable reasons, the panicking ones—parts of you beginning to catastrophise that you’ve said the wrong thing.

“Open up your Instagram.”

You stare, blinking.

“Trust me.”

And you do. With another fumble, another slide of your phone screen open, and you follow his instructions as you type in the spelling he gives you. When you click the page, it’s hard not to grin, to not have your face explode into a smile so large it cuts into your cheeks.

“I don’t like to sit still either,” Frankie adds, as though the thousand photos and videos, the tutorials and follower count don’t say that on their own.

You’ve fallen down a hole—willingly.

It cracked open the moment you’d sat on your couch, drink in hand, blanket half over your body.

The moment you’d begun your scroll, you discovered you couldn’t stop. Starting with the latest and moving back, until you realise you’d rather see the story in the way it happened.

Choosing a moment, almost nine months ago, before you work your way forward to the present.

You were cautious, more careful than needed, to not like anything too late—to not give away how deep into his page you’d gone. Even if you were in awe, a little proud—your cheeks a little warm and lips turned up into your cheek—as you saw in real-time his confidence grow. The way he’d look at the camera, began experimenting with angles, all in all being smoother, more happy.

You suppose that’s why you type a comment under one picture:

Is that butterscotch orange in the flesh? 🟠

Stalking me are you?

Getting some tips from Mr DIY himself.

I know you went back some months, Rainy.

How do you know that?

Because as soon as you commented that’s what I did. You looked nice at the beach.

Now who’s the stalker, Butterscotch.

Me. Clearly. I’m being very upfront about it.

Out of interest, do you tutor at all? Give hands on help to beginner DIYers?

You genuinely asking or flirting?

Big-headed much?

I can help you with something if you need it.

I think I do.

Then I’m yours. Don’t worry, I promise to only snoop in your drawers when left alone.

Think we should get food first, show you what I’m thinking—make sure you’re up to the task.

You asking me on a date?

No. But if you keep showing off tools topless I’ll be tempted to ask you.

Knew you’d gone back further than a month.

FRANKIE’S INSTAGRAM 🌝

NEXT CHAPTER

an: you do not understand how giddy i am about this series. the chapters have flown out of me. i hope you enjoy it half as much as i'm enjoying writing it. see you soon xx

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories

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itoshiexx · 11 months ago

Text

thin line

synopsis: four times itoshi rin said he hated you, and the one time he finally said the truth.

pairing: itoshi rin x gn!reader | words: 5k (insane) | warnings: enemies to (implied) lovers, cursing (rin being rin), rin is a total tsundere and emotionally constipated, banter, teasing, one (1) sexual implication towards the end, i use the word hate a lot, kinda proofread

notes: oh my GOD. you have no idea how hard it was for me to write (and finish!) this. writer's block has been kicking my ass really hard and honestly i don't even know if i like this but i swear to god if this flops i'll kms. (jk. maybe. or not.)

masterlist sae's 4+1

itoshi rin was a hater.

he didn’t consider himself one, naturally. rin thought he was a pretty chill guy, but apparently, everyone who had some sort of interaction with the younger itoshi felt the same kind of vibe coming from him. at least, it was what his stupid teammates said after claiming rin was always hating on something — whether it was the line in the coffee shop being too long, every pass given to him by isagi or the librarian with “a stupid fish-face”.

on his defense, no one liked long lines, isagi had two left feet when it came to passing and the librarian was a fucking weirdo. even if he was a hater, he had a plausible reason for everything he hated.

“itoshi.”

that included you, of course.

rin was pretty convinced it was impossible not to hate you. every time he entered your shared biology class, a mere look at you was enough for his irk to grow even more. everything about you was just obnoxious.

you were loud. and, although unpleasant, that wouldn’t be much of a problem if you just weren’t unable to shut the fuck up and stop rambling excitedly at every friend you met. and you had many. you were some kind of weird social butterfly with infinite energy for social interactions — in a way, you reminded him of bachira.

but bachira was not always jumping at every chance to refute him with a know-it-all smirk. bachira wasn’t perpetually ready to throw witty remarks at his rudeness. and bachira definitely didn’t have a pretty gleam on his eyes every time he headbutted with rin.

in short, you were everything itoshi rin hated. and the worst part was that you knew. you knew how much your very existence annoyed him, and it seemed like you took as your life mission to make the next two years of his life a living hell.

“itoshi.” your voice reached his ears again. well, maybe if he just ignored you, you would… “itoshi!”

“what the fuck do you want?” he snapped, diverting his attention from the match playing on his phone to look at you. “i told you not to call me that.”

another thing he hated — to be called by his last name. it reminded him way too much of sae, and that was something rin didn’t want to do. but it wasn’t like he was going to tell you that, so he’d rather let you think he just didn’t want you to address him at all. which wasn’t a lie, either.

you gave him a puzzled look, tilting your head like an innocent puppy. a fake naivety, of course. “we’re not close enough for me to call you by your first name, though.”

“thank fuck.”

your eyes rolled at that. “language, itoshi.” he glared at you again, and you fixed your posture, putting your hands on the back pockets of your jeans. the malicious smile you gave sent chills down his spine.

“well, i just came to deliver you the news since you missed last period. there’s a project worth 75% of our grade to be delivered in two months, and guess what? we’re together!”

oh, hell no.

“you tell terrible jokes.”

“i’m serious, though. if you don’t believe me, just ask your friends,” you said, so absentmindedly that rin felt his blood pressure rising. he opened his mouth to retort, but you beat him to it. “and before you try, the teacher already said no one can work alone and that the pairs cannot be exchanged.”

his left eye twitched, and he was pretty sure all his muscles were tight and ready to combust. life just couldn’t give him a break, could it? it was like he was being punished — forced to work with you, of all people. what a fucking nightmare.

how the hell was he supposed to endure two months of constant interactions with your annoying sassiness and the pretty curve of your lips when you smirked? it might just drive him crazy.

“so, when can we start, partner?”

rin rolled his eyes so hard they almost got stuck on the back of his skull.

“i hate you.”

ii.

the soccer field was probably the only place rin felt at peace. the smell of grass and sweat was as familiar as his home, much like the round shape of the ball on his feet and the path to the goal. despite his rowdy teammates and their dumb antics, there wasn’t much that was able to distract him and break this peacefulness.

“itoshi!”

there was still something, though. or someone, for that matter.

the shock of seeing you in his “happy place” was so big rin nearly tripped on the ball, successfully letting bachira steal it from him. the snickers from reo and isagi made his skin boil with anger, but his harsh glare was directed at you — the fucking source of all his problems.

and no, he was not being dramatic.

“what are you doing here.”

it wasn’t really a question, more like a veiled threat; but you seemed oblivious to it, or simply didn’t care about his reaction. something in him even thought you liked getting on his nerves. he was sure of it when you smirked.

“the project, dummy. we need to start today if we want to get it done in time. it’s pretty long, hence why we have two months.”

“i can’t today,” was all he said.

“why?”

“because,” rin spat with venom on his tongue, “i have an important game next week.”

you stared at him in silence. rin would have thought about how the sun shining on your back framed you with a perfect halo and gave you a nearly angelic look if he wasn’t so busy controlling the heat on his face from your scrutiny. he hated when you did that. he hated you.

“we have to start today, itoshi. i’ll wait until you finish practicing so we can go to the library.”

he hated your stubbornness. he hated your voice, too — how it sounded like a siren’s melody, ready to trap him and bring him to the bottom of the ocean.

“fine. suit yourself.”

the young itoshi turned around and went back to the field, ignoring aryu’s pestering and shidou asking about who you were and if he could have your number. rin pondered if a yellow card was worth shutting up the insect, but eventually decided against it; he didn’t want ego to bench him, especially when they were so close to the tournament next week.

the rest of the game went pretty smoothly, although rin and his teammates could tell he had half of his focus on the sidelines, where you sat prettily at the stands with your laptop. a perpetual scowl was on his face throughout the rest of the match. you were so damn distracting it was annoying.

once the match was over, some of the boys went home, while others continued practicing, rin being one of them. he was expecting you to grow tired and give up, especially considering it was getting darker and colder, but you didn’t waver. your face was still present on the stands, haunting him even if he closed his eyes. you even had the audacity to smile when your gazes crossed.

he hated your smile. he did.

hours passed until every one of his teammates had gone home, and rin was the only one left in the field. deciding it was finally enough (and not admitting he was starting to worry for you), he stopped his moves, finishing up with a few stretches so that his muscles weren’t too sore. he stored the footballs on the cart and put away the cones, something that was already routine at that point since he was usually the last one to leave.

finally, rin walked towards you.

“i’m done,” he said as he approached you on the sideline of the field. his gym bag was right at your side, and he ignored the electricity that sparked his skin when it grazed yours.

your eyes averted from your laptop to look at him. “oh, hi! thought you’d take a little longer,” you retorted. “anyways, i’m done too.”

he stopped his movement. “what?”

“yeah, i finished the first topic. only fourteen more to go.” the giggle that flew out of your mouth reverberated through his body. rin watched as you stood up and stretched, looking away when your shirt rode up and a sliver of your stomach could be seen. you then proceeded to put your laptop away, and his brows furrowed.

“i don’t get it. i thought you said… you said it was too much stuff to do by yourself.” you nodded, not even looking at him. rin kind of wished you did. “and yet you did everything?”

“well, yes.”

his scowl only worsened. “what the fuck? why?”

you slung your bag through your shoulder, looking at him with those damn doe-eyes that always sparkled so much. it was annoying. why did they remind him of the stars? and why did rin wanted to watch the night sky on your face?

“you said you have an important game next week, so i figured it wouldn’t kill to do the first topic by myself,” you answered. “don’t get used to it, though! you’re gonna have to help on the next ones, partner.”

the young itoshi ignored the stupid nickname, his brain still trying to catch up to everything. something just wasn’t clicking…

“so why the hell did you wait for me to finish practice?”

you didn’t even falter.

“thought you could use the company.” you shrugged. and although your voice was nonchalant, you were smiling. and not your typical mischievous smirk — it was a sweet, sweet smile, dripped in honey and all things good in the world.

rin’s heart leaped on his chest. he could feel his cheeks becoming flushed, but he blamed it on the cold.

coming to think of it, it was really cold. and you sat there for hours… if he looked closely, he could see your frame shivering from the lack of proper clothing.

a little tsk came out of his mouth, and rin impulsively took off his jacket, throwing it on your face — ignoring the “hey!” you sent his way.

“what’s that for, itoshi?!”

“so that you don’t freeze to death, dumbass.”

rin had to admit your gaping expression was kind of cute. not that he would commit to memory or something… that would be lukewarm, and he was anything but lukewarm. especially when it came to you.

“don’t get any ideas, though,” he said before you could retort, turning around to follow the path to his dorm room, “i still hate you.”

iii.

things were calmer after the game passed. rin often found himself at the university library with you after his practice, leaving around nine or ten, and walking you to your dorm building simply because he didn’t want to be bothered in case something happened to you. not like he was worried for your safety or anything.

you still got on his nerves, but the project was going surprisingly well. rin learned you were very dedicated and meticulous, meaning you put in a lot of effort to focus and make everything as perfect as it could be. he wished he could say his focus was also as sharp as ever, but the scent of your coconut shampoo always lingered on the study booths and made his mind fuzzy.

it was tuesday night and you were both on your laptops doing research and writing on your paper, falling into the same little routine you established the past weeks. the library was nearly empty as usual — though you always sat at the furthest cabin because rin didn’t like to see, hear or speak to people — and the only sound in the ambience was the pitter patter of the rain.

everything seemed to be going fine, but things changed when the rain got heavier and became a strong thunderstorm that made the lights go out.

“fuck,” rin cursed under his breath, looking around to hear other people mumbling complaints and the librarian saying she would turn on the power generator, asking for calm and patience. he squeezed the bridge of his nose, annoyed, and turned to you. “hey, do you think—”

then he stopped.

the only source of light was the screen of your laptops and the occasional lightning striking on the dark sky, but rin could see you on the other side of the table as clear as day. and he felt his heart squeeze impossibly hard with the sight.

you were shaking like a leaf, hands squeezed tight and nails prickling your skin, and your eyes were widened and so, so scared. he had never seen you wear such an expression, always familiar with your confidant, cheery self, and he decided he didn’t like one bit.

“hey,” he whispered, trying to grasp your attention. however, your eyes were focused outside. “hey, look at me.”

slowly, your orbs met his, and rin felt his breath hitch. there were tears on your lash line threatening to fall, and panic began to rise on his throat; but he forced himself to stay calm for your sake.

“what’s wrong?”

your lips trembled, but nothing came out. he hated your voice, but found himself missing it. so he tried again.

“are you… afraid of the dark?”

his question was answered when the sound of another thunder reverberated again, making you visibly flinch. his gaze softened when a small hiccup left your lips.

“oh. it’s the thunder.”

you nodded, still unable to talk. rin could see you were forcing yourself to keep your sobs contained, as if the mere thought of crying in front of him was as dangerous as standing at gunpoint. like his words — venomous, harsh, cold words — could hurt you just as much as a bullet.

his stomach churned with that thought. he hated it.

so, as carefully as he could so as not to startle you, rin stood up from his seat and walked around the table until he reached the chair at your side, sitting on it. he felt you body tense with the proximity, more so when he slightly turned to stare at you, and felt the need to say something.

“it’s okay,” he murmured, so impossibly soft you could hardly believe it was itoshi rin saying those words to you.

it was even more unbelievable when he enveloped your body in a hug, bringing your head to his chest as if to shelter you from the thunder.

rin really hoped you couldn't hear the unrestrained beating of his heart. everything about that moment made him nearly combust; from the ever present smell of your shampoo when he rested his nose in your hair, the evident relaxation of your frame when he hugged you or the small arms that held his waist as if he was the only lifeline in the ocean.

you let your sobs and sniffles run free, burying yourself deeper in his embrace, and all rin could do was pat your hair and whisper soft reassurances on your ear.

it’s okay. you are safe. i won’t let it hurt you.

he didn’t know how long you both stayed in that position, but as he enjoyed the warmth of your body next to his, your sobs eventually died out along with the roaring sound of thunder. the rain became thinner and the lights finally came back, although neither of you made a move to separate.

the silence lingered for a moment before you broke it, “thank you.”

the male only hummed, trying to hide his disappointment when you slowly backed away. though his hand didn’t leave you, going from your hair to rest on your hip in some type of reassurance squeeze.

“i-i’m sorry, it’s just…”

“you don’t have to explain,” he interrupted. then, hesitantly added, “only if you want to.”

“it’s not something big or anything… this fear has just kind of been there. i think something happened to me when i was a kid and it was thundering, so every time it happens i just… freeze.” you shook your head. “it’s stupid.”

he frowned. “it’s not stupid if it makes you this terrified. it’s okay, we all have fears.”

you were yet to look him in the eye, seemingly embarrassed about your triggered phobia. “i cried on your shirt.”

“yeah.”

“it has tears stains.”

“yeah.”

you sighed. “i’m sorry.”

he squeezed your hip again. “don’t apologize.”

you finally raised your head to look at him, and rin could very much consider himself a lost man at that moment. your eyes were glistening from the remnant of tears, but that pretty gleam was still there, barging its way through any sadness and any fear to present itself with the shy smile you sent him.

even if it was still dark, he would be able to see it, because you shined. brightly, scorchingly and so, so mesmerizing, like some sort of classic painting worth millions of dollars. if rin had the choice, he wouldn’t want to look away.

“i think it’s enough for today,” you said, “do you mind if we continue tomorrow?”

“i don’t mind,” rin answered, although he secretly wished to bask in your warmth for a little longer. “i’ll take you to your dorm building. i brought an umbrella.”

because he knew you were a klutz and would most likely forget. not that he paid attention to you or something.

you smiled again, and rin had to use all of his might to let go of you and go back to his chair to pick up his stuff. silently, you both put away your things and left the study booth towards the exit, where the younger itoshi opened his umbrella and started to walk towards your destination. he felt his skin burning when you tangled your arm with his so that you were squeezed together under the shelter for the rain.

around ten minutes later, you finally arrived at your dorm building. and then, as the little minx you were, you stood on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek before running inside along with your goodbyes.

“thank you, rin!”

he stood there like a statue for what felt like an eternity, feeling his face impossibly hot. rin touched his cheek in mild disbelief, feeling butterflies erupting on his stomach without permission.

it was only then he realized you called him by his actual name, and a smile inevitably took over his features.

fuck.

itoshi rin hated you. but that day, he discovered that he hated seeing you cry even more.

iv.

he didn’t really know what the fuck he was doing there. rin was not the kind of guy who went to parties, much less fraternity ones; but somehow he ended up in one on a saturday night after a lot of convincing from his teammates. he claimed he only accepted so that isagi would shut up and stop pestering him, but the said boy insisted to say he only agreed after learning you would be there.

which was absurd, of course. a completely crazy, delusional and absurd thought. why would he want your obnoxious self to go and ruin the party? rin hated you.

right?

the music was loud and the people were even louder. there were dozens of bodies on the makeshift dance floor swaying to the beat, along with some people playing beer pong and small groups scattered around talking as best as they could. rin was part of the last type, although he was tuning out everything that bachira blabbed on his ear like a madman. his focus was solely on the entrance.

and then, you came in.

it was like a stupid romance movie — the way everything seemed to be in slow motion. from the way you walked, to the slight movement of your hair, to the blink of your curved eyelashes. and god, how much he hated that.

he hated the way your mere presence prickled his skin. how your voice soothed his lousy thoughts, how your smile lit up the room. he hated this urge inside of him to look for you every time he knew you'd be in the same vicinity, like you were some source of life that he couldn’t live without.

“are you okay, rin-chan?” bachira’s voice took him out of his thoughts. he blinked a few times.

“yeah, i’m fine.”

now, rin wasn’t a drinker; the red cup on his hand was merely for show. but he gulped some beer at that moment, as if trying to wake up from a hazy dream or get out of a trance. it made sense — he did think you were a siren of some sort.

there was no other reason for the spell you put on him.

the party went on, and he spent a few hours avoiding you like the plague and pretending he wasn’t stealing glances at every chance he got. truth is, he was always paying attention when you were swaying your hips on the dance floor like there was no tomorrow, glaring at every guy who thought about getting close while holding back his own desire to do the same.

it was only when you left to the backyard that his teammates finally decided to say something.

“you should talk to them” reo advised, eyebrows dancing in a weird, wiggly way. rin grimaced.

“what? why?”

the boys rolled their eyes and groaned, tired of the younger itoshi’s behavior.

“rin, man. you are clearly interested in them. and i’m pretty sure they’re interested in you, too,” isagi said slowly, as if rin was a child. “otherwise, they wouldn’t make the effort to pester you.”

rin could feel his face flushing. “i’m not—”

“don’t even try to deny it. it’s kind of obvious, really,” chigiri butted in, an exasperated countenance on his face. “just go, rin.”

he let out a tsk, chugging the rest of his drink and throwing the cup on the trash. “i’m going out just because i don’t want to keep listening to you idiots.”

“yeah, right,” nagi snickered, and the others followed, watching rin turn his back and move towards the backyard, where he would inevitably find you.

the chilly air hit his skin the moment he stepped out, and rin kind of thanked the relief it gave to his hot cheeks. quickly looking around, it was easy to spot your lonely frame leaning on the wall, staring at the stars as if they weren’t in your eyes. he walked to you like his feet had their own will, and once he got close enough, leaned the side of his body on the wall, facing you.

“you’re cold.”

not even a hello, how are you to start. great conversationalist, itoshi rin.

you turned your head to look at him, smiling when recognition took over your features. “hey, itoshi! didn’t think i’d meet you here!”

the giggle that went past your lips was the only reason he didn’t scowl when you didn’t call him rin.

“parties are not really my thing, but my friends convinced me to come.” you nodded, understanding. he blinked a couple of times, and said again, “you’re cold.”

you slightly flushed. “it’s just a bit chilly, but it’s not a big deal…”

but rin was already shrugging off his jacket, moving to be right in front of you as if to shield you from the wind. he handed the piece of clothing to you. “here.”

“oh… thank you,” you answered, bashful, taking the jacket and putting it on.

last time he lent you one, he didn’t stay to see how you looked like. but at that moment, rin was sure there was nothing prettier than the sight of you in his clothes. he swallowed a nervous lump from his throat.

“so… why are you out here by yourself?”

“needed some air. i danced a lot and it was kind of stuffy in there.” you shrugged. then, fiddling with your fingers, you look straight into his eyes. “and maybe… maybe i was hoping someone would follow.”

someone. you had your eyes on someone.

rin didn’t know what was worse: the stinging pain on his heart or the bitter taste left on his tongue. what he did know was that both felt like poison, one that would spread through his veins and consume him whole. and that he shouldn’t feel like this. because he hated you, after all.

he must have made a terrible grimace, because you threw your hands in the air in exasperation.

“for fucks sake.”

and then your lips were on his.

it was just a fleeting moment — something way too quick and definitely not enough to sate the dormant hunger inside of him. in the blink of an eye, you were already back in your place, staring at him with doe-eyes and a hundred doubts written in them.

rin freezed for a whole full minute with his mouth agape, until finally lunging forward to kiss you again. his right arm wrapped possessively around your waist to glue your bodies together, while his left hand found a place in your jaw, cradling your face as if you were some precious jewel. his lips were hungry on yours, and you gasped with the intensity, giving him the opportunity to shove his tongue inside your mouth.

kissing you was exhilarating, like scoring the perfect goal or winning a championship. adrenaline ran high on his veins and his head was a little airy. and rin swore he never felt so alive.

when you finally parted, you were both panting, chest heaving with every breath. rin rested his forehead against yours, directing both of his hands to your middle as if to look for grounding.

“you still hate me, itoshi?” you asked in a whisper, mouth inches away from his but still not close enough. that dangerous gleam was still settled in your eyes, and he could swear you were the perfect definition of sinful every time you batted your eyelashes at him.

“call me rin.”

“okay,” you giggled lightly. “you still hate me, rin?”

he could feel his blood pulsing on his ears. “yeah,” he answered, way too breathless for an athlete of his caliber.

and then, holding your waist tighter, “kiss me again.”

“we should get coffee.”

rin’s words cut the silence as you were exiting the library yet again. you looked up to see his face staring straight ahead, expression unreadable as always, but the light redness on the tip of his ears told you all you needed to know.

you decided to be a tease, as always. “hm… i don’t know, should we? you sure you want to spend even more time with someone you hate?”

he scowled like usual, but this time, there was a small pout on his lips. you thought he looked the cutest when he was like that, all shy and trying to maintain his stoic act.

he grumbled something under his breath.

“what was that?”

“i said,” he sneered, “i don’t hate you, stupid.”

you arched your brow. “you don’t?”

“do you think i would have kissed you if i did?” the smirk you give him is both charming and infuriating. rin would have said he hated it, but he was done pretending.

“i don’t know, itoshi. you are kind of emotionally constipated.”

“shut up,” rin quipped. then, he snaked your waist with his right arm as you walked side by side, pulling you closer. “and didn’t i tell you to call me rin?”

there was just mischief in your eyes when you answered, “yeah, but i like to get on your nerves.”

the male scoffed, still in disbelief with your antics.

“you’re a damn brat. i think you just want me to teach you my name tonight.”

rin could practically feel the heat on your face, and he smirked when he saw how red you were. god, you were so cute.

“at least take me to dinner first before we hate-fuck,” you still managed to joke, despite the slight shakiness in your voice. he rolled his eyes, and pulled you to a stop by the arm.

you both stood in the middle of campus, feeling the gentle caress of the breeze and listening to the birds chirping. it was a peaceful day, with the sun high up in the baby blue sky. rin thought there was no better time than at that moment.

his hand traced your arm until it reached your own, and he squeezed your fingers in reassurance.

“i don’t hate you,” he said again. “i just hate the way i don’t hate you. not even close. not even a little bit. not even at all.”

he watched your eyes light up and smile brighter than the sun, and he almost laughed at the disbelief in your voice.

“did you just quote ‘ten things i hate about you’?”

it was his time to flush. a small shrug was all rin answered with — he didn’t want you to know he specifically chose this sentence because that was your favorite movie. not like it mattered when you were gleaming at him and making his heart leap on his chest.

“well, then,” you squeezed his hand back, “let’s get coffee, rin.”

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vigilskeep · 2 months ago

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hello! you know a lot of dragon age lore so i thought id ask you— i saw a post earlier that was discouraging to me aa trans person where the op said that veilguard having top surgery scars in the cc goes against established worldbuilding. does it make sense for top surgery to be possible in thedas? thanks

my rule of thumb is that in a world where healing spells exist, there’s absolutely no logical, believable reason for it not to be possible. you don’t have to go back and provide sources about historical surgeries—which is something i personally know nothing about—for this to be true

like, i just can’t take this line of thought seriously. ohhh we can have floating cities and magical neon lights and spirit healers who can mend injuries just by passively standing next to you, but we draw the line as soon as it’s something that would make our trans players happy! it’s so transparent. do not listen to these people or let them discourage you

if you want to get into the worldbuilding potential of it—which is just fun to do—we can probably guess that for the top surgery scars to be as neat as they seem to look in the veilguard character creator, similar to modern ones, magical healing was involved. now i do believe that the chantry might get suspicious of body-altering magic, that magical power is hoarded by the circles in the south and the wealthy in the north, and also that “out” trans people are a minority in thedas. so i’m not saying that this is something easy for your average guy to get hold of. that’s where you can feed it into backstory. are they powerful and connected enough that they could find specialists willing to go beyond the ordinary? or do they have underground connections to hidden apostate healers, whose only priority is what helps (or perhaps just how much you’re willing to pay)? do they belong to a culture that might not be restricted by the chantry’s norms about gender or magic, like the dalish or the rivaini? or do they belong to a mage-focused community or order, who among themselves do whatever they like? endless options

some might be referring to a line in dai from krem, a trans man, where you can ask him about potentially changing his body with magic and he essentially says he wouldn’t let magic that could do that anywhere near his body, though when he was younger he might have dreamed about the possibilities. firstly, krem is absolutely not the gold standard for trans representation and nobody should care about being flexible from what bioware put out a decade ago. secondly, krem is a random mercenary who knows one (1) mage, who spends the entire time insisting she’s not a mage. i very much doubt he’s the no. 1 source for what might be magically possible in this or any regard

also ultimately, and i cannot express this enough, you can do whatever you want forever. it could be absolutely fundamentally impossible in-world somehow and it would still not be that serious to be “unrealistic” in the dragon video games. don’t let anyone discourage you from making the character you want to make. it being an option makes it canonically part of thedas, end of. they put it in the game and nobody bitching about it can take it out

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lightlycareless · 11 months ago

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Hiii, can i request a scenario on how naoya (when he has reached a point where he loves wife!reader from an arranged marriage) would react to one day not being greeted at all when he comes home? It is completely silent, no response as he calls for her and is getting a bit worried as he starts searching the rooms. But then he sees her laying on the couch, shivering and sweating from a cold that’s so intense she’s barely lucid and can’t even tell he’s there and talking to her

Heya!!

So... I took some liberties when writing this, kind of went a completely different route (the sick part, alongside worried Naoya still remains though), it just occurred to me when reading your ask, but I hope it's still of your liking 🥺!!!

anyways, here are the warnings: mentions of death, miscarriage, a very concerned and overprotective Naoya, a bit of fluff, and everyone wants to spoil you rotten lol.

And without further ado, happy reading!

“Y/N, I’m home!”

Home.

A word he never really cared for, always considering it sappy, alongside the fondness that was usually assigned to it, which Naoya couldn’t think of as nothing but ridiculous, if not hilariously overrated.

For many years, Naoya thought that a home was simply the place that one was raised in and that’s about it. Nothing of the sentimentality others liked to apply to it, brag about it…

Until, of course, he finally came to understand what the word meant; why it was so special, and why it was important to have one.

A home wasn’t made by the people he knew as family, blood related, found in the place he was forced to be in since he was born, and probably die in—no; it’s the one that was made by the people of his choice, people he met through his course of life, connected with, and now, cherished.

Amongst them, you.

He considered himself lucky to have found the love of his life, a concept he considered so… foreign, impossible for someone like him, if not a stupidity of delusional people desiring more from life.

So was Naoya destined to think for the rest of his existence, condemned by his same family to live a life of loneliness, hatred, and die the same way.

But you’d come to show him otherwise, shockingly, and unexpectedly, and in such a way he couldn’t even put up a fight, completely surrendering to you and the wonderful feelings that being in love with you provided.

Now that he’s experienced them, he couldn’t find the reason as to why his family would ever reproach such beautiful thing as harshly as they did—or that he believed them in the first place…

Well, that’s not something that bothers him anymore; the Zen’in clan could continue on in their hard stuck ways for all he cared; he, on the other hand, plans to spend the rest of his days alongside the woman of his dreams, starting by today, finally back in your arms after days of being pulled into pointless missions after pointless missions, which he would not hear of for a few weeks—having earned a well-deserved break for his consistently good performance.

Naoya even prepared accordingly for the occasion, having bought gifts from all the places he’d been to, as well as ideated ways to distract you from the boring estate and his nagging relatives he knows you don’t enjoy being around with, only tolerating them because they were, well, your in-laws, his family—with exceptions of those you do get along, and for them, he’s grateful that they do.

Ah, he couldn’t wait to see you, your face, and the adorable way it brightens up whenever receiving him.

To tell you of his day while resting his head on your lap, with you passing your fingers through his hair, gently soothing his stresses away as you reassure him that he’s the best sorcerer out there, he’s just… unlucky to bump into lesser talented ones.

Get something to eat too, he’d like his favorite for a start, miso soup—and perhaps have you feed it to him? God, it’s been a while since both have done that, and it’s not because he doesn’t like doing it, or you for that matter, but rather, he doesn’t want to risk being seen by others, it has to be in the utmost privacy, after all! He isn’t to be vulnerable in front of his family!!

Oh, he needs wishes to see you—right now. And he’s absolutely sure you’re feeling the same way…

If so… why hadn’t you responded? Why hadn’t you come to receive him in the same manner you’ve always done?

Naoya knows that his schedule can be a bit… unpredictable, making it difficult for you to know exactly when he’ll come back home—but even then, it didn’t take you that long to meet him after announcing his return.

You’d always come to the entrance, no matter if it happened right that moment, or a bit later; you just… did.

But today… it seems that you opted to break the routine by taking far longer than you usually do.

He’d remain attentive to his surroundings, hoping to either hear your approaching footsteps or voice softly calling for him at a distance, yet as time went on, he was received with neither…. And Naoya only begins to grow more worried.

Your husband tries to not jump to the worst conclusion just yet, opting to think that you were perhaps simply caught up tending to the house, maybe even partaking in an unwanted conversation with one of his relatives and having trouble brushing them off—for no matter the times you’d reminded them that your husband was back, and you needed to be there to receive him, still acted as if it wasn’t that important.

Things that implied that even when running late, you were still ok.

Yet…

“Y/N!” Naoya calls once again, hoping for a change…

…

Silence.

It’s by this time that he decides it’s better to search for you than to stand around and wait for you to magically appear.

Naoya begins by going into the main wing, eyes scanning through the gardens, your usual place of leisure when not busy, where you’d calmly enjoy the diligently tended for flowers (the ones he had changed to your favorite as soon as he found out which ones they were) while snacking on something, or in the company of your loyal staff—if that were the case of your absence, he understood why you didn’t answer.

But he wouldn’t find you near any of the gardens, or anywhere in fact! A statement that weighed even heavier upon finding out that the staff was in the same predicament as him, for when he asked a nearby servant of your whereabouts, he was received with the following answer:

“We haven’t seen her” Naoya’s heart sinks.

“What do you mean you haven’t seen her?” he breathes. “Where could my wife—did she—did she leave the estate?”

No. You… didn’t. Because that’s not what you told him you’d be doing a few hours ago, after letting you know he was on his way back home; if anything, you replied with how excited you were to see him again and that you’d be eagerly waiting for him!

So obviously, their words didn’t make sense. But if so… where were you?

Naoya now frantically searched for you through every wing, room, space, chamber, closet, just— anywhere, literally anywhere you could be while repeatedly calling out your name in hopes of getting a response, or even a glimpse of you; he doesn’t care what at that point, he’s happy with either!

Yet, the longer he went on without an answer, the bigger his sorrow became, to the point where his mind was machinating nothing but the worst-case scenarios, slowly losing his inhibitions as he repeatedly wondered Where were you? How come no one has seen you? Did he have to escalate this situation?

Just—Where are you, Y/N?!

Thankfully, there would be no need to pursue bigger solutions for he’d get his answer soon enough after entering the east wing, passing through the living quarters, and arriving to the laundry room, one of the last places he’d thought you’d be—rightfully guessing so, for you were there, apparently washing whatever garments you had pending, which you hadn’t been able to wash due to a variety of unknown reasons…

But far from feeling elated to have found you, Naoya felt as if whatever he had left of his heart was effectively broken, which felt short compared to the way he found you.

“Y/N!”

The sight that received him is one that will remain imprinted in the back of mind: you were laying on the floor, on your side, tightly clutching to your stomach as you breathed heavily, eyes tightly shut while groaning in what Naoya could only interpret as pain.

As if his worries weren’t through the roof at that point, this last conclusion is what urged Naoya to hastily make way to your side, swiftly kneeling to your level as he calls out for you once more.

“Y/N—Y/N” He’d breathe, firmly yet carefully placing his hands over you with intentions of picking you up, but his hold falters when his fingers briefly graze your skin, making him gasp in return. “Y/N you’re—you’re burning!”

This would be the only time you’d respond to him, barely able to move your head onto his direction, slightly opening your eyes to see him, a gaze that shows how much pain you were going through, barely able to understand what was going on, except for gently breathing the word that makes his heart squeeze out in pain.

“Na—Naoya…”

Any hesitation is effectively thrown out the window by that point, picking you up and rushing you towards their shared bedroom, all while barking orders to the nearby staff, demanding them to call for a doctor, as quickly as possible, unless they wanted to be jobless by the end of the day!

The staff reacts accordingly, and a few minutes later, the family doctor arrives to the estate, guided to your room and seeing that you were already being tended to, or at least that’s the idea he gets from the dampened towel on your forehead, undoubtedly in efforts of lowering your fever—which unfortunately, had been for nothing.

Well, he was there now, and he didn’t waste time either to get to work, quickly assessing your condition by the apparent symptoms, starting by your temperature, the color of your skin, and even the way you reacted to him while doing so, completely uncooperative—apparently, whatever put you in this state had evoked great instability from you, thus the doctor found it necessary to put you under sedatives.

But even when he was able to quickly gain control of the situation, the doctor still couldn’t arrive at a proper conclusion, less when the people around you had an even smaller idea of what struck you.

“I—I don’t know.” Naoya would respond, angrily, frustrated—and rightfully so. How come none of the servants had noticed your absence? Or worse, hadn’t seen anything that could hint as to what your sickness was about?! “Can’t you just—help her?!”

“That’s what I’m trying—I can’t help her if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.” The doctor responded as calmly as he could, but even he had to admit that everyone’s seeming ignorance annoyed him as well. “But I can still say that this seems much more than just a simple… sickness.”

“What do you mean?” Naoya frowns, the doctor looks at the nearby servants, tasked to be on stand-by if needed.

“I’d like to discuss this in private.” He tells them.

The servants don’t wait for Naoya to repeat the order before they’re already out the room and away from their earshot; a request that while didn’t raise any concerns from Naoya —if anything, he was glad their pesky, useless presence, was finally away from you— the doctor’s face was quick to convince your husband that something far worse than what met the eye.

And this made Naoya’s nerves reach a new limit.

“I told you; I don’t know what happened—” Your husband is quick to defend, believing the doctor was to interrogate him once more, only to be interrupted.

“You don’t need to tell me for me to know what happened.” He interjects, Naoya’s eyes widen.

“I’m lost.” Naoya scowls. “Stop talking cryptically and get on with it!”

“I’ve seen these symptoms before, Naoya. And as I said, these are not from a simple sickness, an allergy or any of the matter” He takes a deep breath. “I heavily suspect she was intoxicated—and not accidentally, but rather, intentionally.”

“Excuse me?” Naoya frowns. “I told you to stop talking in riddles, say what you—”

“Poisoned, Naoya. I believe your wife was poisoned.”

Naoya’s world comes to a screeching halt.

You…

You were poisoned.

According to the doctor, you—You were attacked, besieged, with malicious intents.

Taken advantage of in the one place you’d never be on edge, your home, the same one he had repeatedly reassured your father that you’d be safe in—the Zen’in estate, home to the prestigious Zen’in clan! There was no safer place in the whole world! There couldn’t!

No one— no one wouldn’t dare do such a thing here—they knew better! Naoya would force them to now better…

Yet, someone dared to commit this transgression against you.

And to make it all worse….

Almost got away with it.

Who would even think of doing such transgression against you?! You?!

You had no quarrels with anyone, and even when you did, you handled things in such an amicable way just so you’d live peacefully, free of nonsensical arguments—you had no space for them in your life!

And yet, this still happened, and right underneath his nose….

There’s no doubt that he’ll put an investigation into order to find the bastard responsible for your suffering, and once he does, he’ll make him regret his existence, to the point he’ll have him begging for mercy—and even then, it wouldn’t be enough for Naoya.

However, that is something that will have to wait until he knows you’re safe, healthier, which the doctor had slowly began to help you with by giving you something that will immediately trap the poison from being further absorbed by your blood—activated charcoal, so he remembers— as well as some other prescriptions for side effects he wishes to prevent.

“Your wife was very lucky to survive, have you waited a second more—”

“I wasn’t waiting.” Your husband immediately responds, offended by his wording. “I wasn’t aware of this until I returned.”

The doctor presses his lips together, taking notice that throughout his whole visit, Naoya has never left your side, nor freed your hands from his.

“And I’m not surprised.” He silently admits.

Naoya hates the notion the doctor was implying, that this was an inside job. But considering the odd behavior of the staff, their seeming ignorance of your location and your status… it all pointed to that same conclusion.

The boiling fury inside him grows bigger.

“How could this be?” Naoya seethes.

How could someone get this far, this close to you, and no one suspecting a thing?

Your husband might’ve reproached the way the doctor expressed himself, but there was an undeniable truth behind them; he truly was lucky to have gotten back home just when he did, for had he taken a second longer, just one, you could’ve die—

Outside of that, the second most important question regarding this whole situation was…where was your staff? Why, of all days, were they absent?

Naoya is confident that if Mariya, your closest confidant, had been around, this would’ve never happened in the first place; the moment she saw anything out of the ordinary, she would’ve pulled all the stops and acted accordingly.

Yet, she was nowhere to be seen, and this makes Naoya both highly suspicious, and furious.

Where was she? Where are the rest? Why would they leave you in your most needed time? Did they plan this? Plot against you?! Where the hell could they possibly—

“They’re going to be away for the weekend to visit their families.”

He suddenly remembers; you told him so earlier that week through a text.

“Will you be ok?” Naoya also remembers asking; he didn’t feel happy knowing you’d be alone without your most trusted staff.

“It’s just a few days, Naoya. Besides, they deserve a break! I don’t want them to get tired of me, you know?” you laugh. “But you better come back quickly, ok? Just because they’re not around doesn’t mean I like being alone…”

“I won’t take long. I promise.”

If only he’d kept his word…

Well, if that was to be the answer to their absence, then it wasn’t fair to hold any level of animosity towards them, a weight being lifted from his burdened shoulders upon realizing your staff could strill be trusted in.

Now all that was left to worry about is finding the culprit… and the status of that too.

“Is she ok?” Naoya would ask.

“She is, I managed to—”

“No, I mean… that.” Naoya’s voice hints to a silent agreement between the two. “Is… that ok?”

The doctor quickly catches what he means, affirming so by a nod. His reassurance lifts an immeasurable weight from his heart, even greater than the alleged betrayal of Mariya and the rest. One less thing to worry about.

“What now, then?”

“Since the damage was limited, to say the least, it won’t be necessary to move her to a hospital, however—”

She’s still in danger. Naoya concludes. More so if the attack came from someone inside… And what makes him think that just because he’s back they’ll stop trying?

If anything, seeing how close they got, they could try once again!

The mere thought is enough to push him into taking what is perhaps the most radical decision he could’ve taken in this situation, something that might come to torment him in the future, but until then, he won’t care, not even a bit; not when he had your safety to worry about:

That is… Naoya fired everyone, effective immediately.

He took no heed if any of them had been serving the family for years, if they were close friends of his father, or if their livelihood would be affected— Naoya just wanted them out of his sight, the estate, and as soon as possible, less they wanted to receive more of his anger, before continuing with the rest of his plan.

Due to the gravity of said situation, Naoya knew he had to contact your family; he also knew that you would’ve refuted the idea as soon as he mentioned it to you, not wanting to worry them if you’ve truly been attacked, but he couldn’t do this to your father; not when he was amongst the few people in the world he knew had your wellbeing as utmost priority— as well as holding a great amount of respect and appreciation for him, specifically for the way he welcomed him into your family.

Eiichi, your father, had to admit that getting a call from the Zen’in estate that didn’t come from you surely surprised him beyond any comprehension, and yet, that would be nothing compared to the shock he’d get upon knowing the motive behind said call; Naoya swore he almost heard your father passing out, or at least, in the process of.

“Poisoned?!” Eiichi gasped, tightly clutching onto the phone—he might’ve as well passed out and dived into a nightmare! “Is she ok?! Where is she right now?”

“At the estate, with me—the doctor didn’t think it necessary for her to be hospitalized since he was able to stop the poison from spreading any further, but she still needs rest.”

“And the baby?” the referenced secret between Naoya and the doctor; your pregnancy.

“Fine.” He breathes, swallowing. “The doctor didn’t tell me of any damage done to the baby… but I’m—I’m still taking her to the doctor, just—just to be sure.”

“How could this happen?” Eiichi laments, heart breaking not only for you, but for Naoya as well. Your father knew all too well what it was to lose the love of his life, a pain that he would never desire on anyone, not even his own enemies…

One that he could slowly begin to hear in Naoya’s voice; oh, he could only imagine the pain he was going through, or what waited for him if he had lost not only you, but his child too.

But, well, the worst is over… at least for now.

“Someone from the staff did it.” Naoya declares, Eiichi’s heart sinks even further. “But I’ve taken care of it, I’ve fired everyone.”

And your father, contrary to Naoya’s relatives, did not question him. If anything, he seconded his decision, because had he been in your husband’s shoes, he would’ve done the same thing.

“Was her staff involved?” Your father asks, feeling a slight… anger with the idea that the ones you greatly cherished could’ve plotted against you.

“No, they were not; in fact, they were out of the estate when all this went down.” Naoya responds. “But I know that if they had been here, this would’ve never happened in the first place.”

“Bring her here, with me.” Eiichi immediately suggested, Naoya blinks, startled by the idea, if not against it.

“Father—"

“We can take care of her while she’s recuperating, take her to the doctor too. I’ll make sure that she has everything she needs. And not to misjudge your staff, or lack of, but the people here would never hurt her—they’ve known her since she was a child! There won’t be another safer place for her to be than here, Naoya. At least… until she’s better.”

Previously, Naoya would’ve questioned the veracity of his words, done all he could to prove you were much better with him, but after this occurrence… he had to agree.

As much as it hurt him to know you’d be away from him, especially when you were pregnant… he knew this was the right decision to make. He couldn’t expose you to another similar situation—not even if he got a completely new staff… or if you didn’t want to leave.

So, Naoya accepts Eiichi’s suggestion, alongside buying him a ticket for the earliest available flight to Kyoto; a few hours later, your father would arrive to the estate, rushing to your side, keeping you company while tending to your every need as Naoya prepared everything for your departure.

When you eventually regained consciousness, you were (although a bit surprised) overwhelmingly elated to see your father visiting you, for it had been so long since you’d seen him, probably around the time you announced your pregnancy!

However, that excitement would soon diminish when Naoya told you why he was there… alongside the cryptic explanation of your “sickness.”

“It was an allergy.” Naoya would say, not wanting to stress you by the fact that you were intentionally poisoned, although that excuse did little to stop you from doing so. “Rare, but it can happen, especially with pregnant women.”

“An allergy…? But I didn’t…” you frown.

“It happened to your mother, once.” Eiichi followed Naoya’s lead. He hated lying to you, but… he concurred that keeping you safe, both mentally and physically, was worth doing so. “It’s nothing but hormonal changes, so don’t worry much about it.”

“I guess…” you frown, pressing your lips. “But that still doesn’t explain why I have to leave.”

“We need to check what caused your allergy” Naoya responds. “It might be something about the food, the flowers, or even the wood; I rather you be safe than to go through that scare again.”

“But is… all this really necessary?” Naoya gives you a tight smile and a nod. “Naoya, I—"

“It’s not all bad, Y/N.” Naoya says.

“Besides, don’t you want to spend time with your papa? It’s been so long since I’ve spent time with my adorable pumpkin!” Eiichi laments.

“Dad!” you gasp, flustered by his words. “Don’t—don’t say that in front of Naoya…”

“What? It’s true! And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do since I learned I’m going to be a grandfather!”

“Stop it!” your face becomes redder. “You’re embarrassing me!”

Naoya chuckles; it’s not like he’s seen you in… worse situations. Or better?

“But… I guess a visit is overdue.” You eventually concede, Naoya and your father sigh out of relief. “Though what about Mariya, Haruko, and Hitomi?”

“They’ll go with you, if you want.” Naoya says; he doubts they’ll say no, especially after knowing of the whole fiasco that occurred when away, might even offer themselves before he suggests the idea.

“If I didn’t know any better, sounds like you want me gone.” You jest, Naoya frowns. “It’s a joke, of course…”

“There’s nothing more I would like than you staying here, but until we figure out what caused that reaction from you, I’d rather not risk it.”

“It’s only temporary, Y/N. Besides, look—I brought you gifts!” Eiichi says, taking out the bag he brought from home seemingly out of nowhere, filled with things he knew you’d love, such as sweets, your favorite mochi’s of course, alongside some plushies that would always brighten your day when you were a child. “And there’s much more back home…”

Naoya can’t help but feel relieved you had your father for support, but at the same time, a bit jealous and, well, threatened. Not for bad reasons, of course, it was simply because how the hell did he not think of bringing you gifts first?!

“Dad… you’re embarrassing me in front of Naoya.”

“Ah, that’s a parent’s bane, isn’t it? To always embarrass their children—you’ll see what I mean when you both have your baby.”

Perhaps the main reason why you ended up agreeing to leave was because your pregnancy did not seem affected by your supposed allergy; had it been you would’ve refused to leave your husband’s side!

… Well, you still would’ve refused either way, but perhaps a bit more. You hate the idea of being away from the father of your child for too long, after all.

“I don’t think so—Naoya and I are going to be the cool parents, you’ll see.”

“That’s what your mom and I thought, and look at me now, can’t even say anything without you telling me I’m embarrassing you!” Eiichi says, you chuckle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mom was cool! You were always the funny one!”

Naoya smiles.

Now he knows for sure that there’s no safer place for you to be in than with your family, even if that were to be on the other side of the country…

After Naoya prepared everything for your departure, the three eventually made way to the exit, where you and your father would bid their last goodbyes.

“Won’t you accompany me?” you ask, a slight pout on your face, he smiles in hopes to cheer you up, but really, he felt miserable.

“I want to, but I can’t.” He explains. “I have to deal with this as fast as possible if you’re to come back quickly.”

“… Will you visit me over there, at least?” you frown.

“Yes. As soon as I have a chance, I’ll go see you.” Naoya promises.

It had all been too soon, just a few hours ago he arrived at the estate, and now, you’re leaving. Naoya laments that he couldn’t spend a day with you before your departure… but he guesses this to be a rightful sacrifice for your well-being.

“I wouldn’t dream of keeping away from my wife and baby for too long.”

At those words, Eiichi couldn’t help but frown out of sorrow.

It wasn’t fair that neither of you had been able to enjoy this wonderful occasion as you should.

He still remembers the excitement in your voice, the glint in your eye, and the beaming smile on your lips when announcing your pregnancy—alongside the nerves that came with it, of course, which Eiichi eased by reminding you and Naoya that their enthusiasm was nothing but indicative they were already on their way of becoming the loving and supportive parents their baby needed.

But as excited as both were, Eiichi had to cruelly put a stop to their celebrations, especially after Naobito was made aware of this, who wished to proceed by announcing the news to the whole community.

“I have to disagree, Naobito.” Eiichi would be the first to reject the idea, much to everyone’s surprise—yours, specifically.

“And why is that?” He’d ask back, not understanding why the father of the expecting mother, of all people, would be the one to reject so.

“It’s best if Y/N keeps her pregnancy a secret, at least… until it’s undeniably noticeable.”

“But… why, dad?” you asked. This was a moment of absolute joy, to be treated as such! So why did he intend to keep it a secret? Was he… disappointed?

No. Never. He was nothing but happy to see you happy and become a grandfather himself for the first time in his life!

But as a man of his years, he’s learned to be cautious of how said blessings are to be celebrated, as well as seen his fair share of happiness turn sour… things that Eiichi would rather take upon him than allow them to ever befall you.

“Because there’s people out there that might try to hurt you—or the baby.” He’d explain. “Naobito cannot not deny this, but if anyone hears that you’re pregnant with the Zen’in heir’s baby, those that want to hurt the Zen’in clan, or our family, will see this as the perfect opportunity to do so.”

“I’d never allow such thing, rest assured, there’s no safer place than—” Naoya quickly interjects, wanting to reassure your father, but Eiichi was set on his warnings.

“I wouldn’t have said this if I didn’t see it myself.” Eiichi reminds him, Naoya swallows. “We live in a highly competitive world due to the nature of our families; I’ve lost my wife because of this! And I’d be damned to allow it to happen again to my daughter.”

He hated to remind you of the harsh truth; hated to see how your face would sadden, the excitement for your first child, his first grandchild, quickly disappearing…

“Why would someone do that?” you murmur, frowning.

“They wouldn’t dare—I’ll make sure of it.” Naoya hisses.

Eiichi remained silent, sad for you and your husband. Because even if you’ve experienced first-hand what it is to lose someone through these matters, both have yet to fully understand the extremes those supposedly loyal to them can go to if properly incited. Especially for someone who had so much to lose, just as the elite members of prestigious Zen’in clan.

Even then, your father would not allow such pain to reach you, not the same way it almost did to him and your mother, so, he insisted you keep these news secret from the world—and if you must, only if you must, reveal it to your most faithful ones; the rest could learn when your stomach was too big to deny.

If you do so, keep your baby hidden from the world, safe from those that harbor nothing but pain and sorrow… all will be fine. Eiichi promises so.

…

Or so, that’s what everyone hoped would’ve happened, because if there’s one thing to be learned from this incident, is that no matter how cautious you were, word of your pregnancy still managed to land in the wrong ears, and now, were actively against it.

The question no longer pertained as to how, but rather, who; who was the author of this terrible act?

The notion that someone of Naoya’s relatives, indirectly informed through Naobito’s… drunken rambles, soon crosses the minds of your father and husband. If so, it would make sense as to why they’d use an innocent staff member to do the deed, keep their hands clean of the whole situation, instead of going to bigger extremes.

It’s the most probable of the theories, but they could not annul the following: jealousy from the servants.

Naoya considered that statement to be the most delusional one your father could’ve gathered, but he’d be wise to remember how others perceive him—or more like what he represented. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched that others would desire what he had, or him, in some cases. And naturally, you’re an obstacle to that goal, your baby even more so…

It wasn’t fair, but it was your reality.

Nonetheless, Eiichi and Naoya will still do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

“It’s just for a few days, pumpkin.” Your father would say upon seeing the sadness in your face, which remained even when reassured that Naoya would be with you as soon as possible. “Besides, you’re going to see your brother and sister too—they’ve missed you very much, you know? They’ve been wanting to spoil you and their future niece, or nephew!”

You smile, it’s good that even when in the storm, your family is still able to exude happiness. You could only imagine how enthusiastic they’d be when the baby was finally here.

“I know… I missed them too.” You admit, before looking over to Naoya one last time. “Well… I hope that whatever is keeping you here is quickly dealt with.”

“You won’t even notice I’m gone.” Naoya promises, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything—before you know it, you’ll be back at the estate, with me.”

That’s a promise he unfortunately, doesn’t know if will become true inside the promised timeline, but will do anything in his power so it does.

Either way, it’s safe to say that Naoya did manage to keep one part of his promise—and that would be the one where he reassured you wouldn’t even notice his absence, done through sending you endless amounts of gifts, every day, effectively filling your room to the brim with all things he’d knew you’d like, and some for baby too: from clothes for you, to cute onesies he’d like his baby to wear when she was finally here.

“You still think the baby is going to be a girl?” you’d ask through one of the many videocalls he’d make—one daily, at the very least. “Wait a minute… you better not have spoiled me!”

“I just know” He reiterates with shrug; you roll your eyes. “If not, then I’ll have lots of things to return.”

“Well, if it’s worth anything, I also feel like our baby is going to be a girl.” You smile, warming up Naoya’s heart. “I can’t wait to meet her—I just know she’s going to have your eyes!”

“Or yours, I hope.” He longs, you blush. “Have you been eating well, my love?”

“Yes; and no allergies yet.” You explain, Naoya feels relieved—at least the problem didn’t follow you there. “Maybe I was just unlucky that day, Naoya… Are you sure I can’t return to the estate yet?”

“Not until I’m sure you’re going to be safe here.” Naoya responds, and while his words are meant to be comforting, you can’t shake off the sense that something worse happened; that something far bigger than a simple allergy had struck you, specially with the way your staff and family would act around you, going as far as denying you of any information pertaining to the Zen’in.

But… if your husband had a reason to not say anything now, then the best you could do is trust him. The truth will come out eventually, you suppose. So instead you could focus on other pressing matters.

“Well, at least don’t send me too many gifts.” You continued. “While I appreciate them, between you and my father, I don’t think my house has enough room to store all the things you’ve both given me.”

“Who’s given you more things? Me or your dad?” Naoya nonchalantly asks, you gasp.

“Naoya! That’s not the—take it seriously! Control yourself with the gifts, ok?” you say, he chuckles, but ends up agreeing; at least until the topic has quieted down, because there’s no way in hell he’s going to let your father win the upper hand like that one day ever again. “Or at least save them to when I’m back at the estate… which I hope is soon.”

“Almost there.” Naoya says. “Just a few more things, and we’ll be together once again.”

… even if the answer was to be the same, you still needed to ask.

“Is… everything ok?”

Not precisely, not when he has yet to find out the one responsible for all this…

But he’s gotten a lead, an idea of where to start, of who to hunt—which he knows he’ll find in record time thanks to the fury he harbors, further motivating him to do this as quickly and precisely as possible just so he’d have you back home, with him.

“Nothing you should worry about.” He reiterates. “Just keep focusing on your health, the baby, and not doing anything strenuous.”

“I’m just pregnant, Naoya… nothing extraordinary. I still want to help around., you know?”

“I know, and you’ll be able to do that and more in due time, but for now, keep safe, for me, ok? And our little mochi.”

“When will I see you again?” you ask again, hoping that perhaps this time around, the answer will be different.

“Soon.” He promises. “Soon, my love.”

Once he deals with the bastard that hurt you.

Naoya will give them nothing but a glimpse of the sorrow and pain they’d put you through, his fury—make their life a living hell, make them regret the foolish idea that they could ever get away from it; and still, he doesn’t think he’ll be satisfied with his revenge.

He’d want more, he’d want everyone to know that his family are not ones to mess around with.

He’d burn the whole world to set the message across if necessary—and that would only be the bare minimum for you, the love of his life, and now, his baby…

His home.

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

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gojoidyll · 1 month ago

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There is No Law that Emperors Must be Fair

Emperor ! Jing Yuan x Princess ! Reader

Chapter 8 | An Aeon

Summary | You are set to marry the Emperor, Jing Yuan. In order to break the engagement, you stage an accident and fake having amnesia. But now, your own cruel, cold, and distant fiancé, who seemed to not want anything to do with you, is now acting all lovey dovey!

want to be a part of the taglist? then pls go to taglist ^-^

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When you wake up, your mind feels kind of fuzzy. Almost as if you were missing something.

“Something the matter?”

You felt your soul leave your body at the sudden voice causing him to laugh. Snapping your head to the side, you noticed it was the man from before. The one who erased your death- wait, your death? And that was when it hit you. You couldn’t remember how you died or the pain that you felt. It was like-

“It never even happened?”

You gave him a weary look, causing him to chuckle softly at both your expression and how you were acting.

“There is no need to fret, you know? I am not going to hurt you.”

“What- what are you doing here?”

You ended up ignoring his lighthearted words and gestured to the library. You were still on the couch, and the book you were holding had fallen to the floor.

The man mused to himself, his smile light and warm.

“I suppose it was quite rude of me to task you finding my name.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because my name hasn’t existed in the sense that you know of.”

“…I don’t understand.”

Sunday turned a little and patted his lap. Despite not remembering your death, you did remember how you met him. So you crawled to him, moving some of the cushions in your way and laid sideways, your head nuzzled comfortably in his lap which allowed him to run his fingers through your hair once again.

“My name is Sunday, and I existed not too long ago. However, my reign was short lived thanks to that Emperor. And to worsen my pride, he went and erased my very existence by taking out everything that had any relevance to me.”

“Sunday…?”

You let his name roll off your tongue. The name wasn’t familiar.

“So you fought and lost against the Emperor?”

“I did. I suppose I wanted to see if I still existed somewhere. Anywhere. Though, if I don’t even exist in the Emperor’s library, well, then my name wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Why did you fight against him?”

“For my own beliefs. Much like everyone else.”

“What exactly are you anyway?”

“I’m just Sunday. An older brother. A friend. A leader of sorts. And someone who failed in the end.”

“How are you here now then?”

Your voice was soft as you spoke and when Sunday looked down at you, you wondered how someone so angelic could look so sad but still have that soft smile on his face.

“I guess you could say I got lucky with how supposedly died… if shorter terms, I became an aeon.”

“An aeon…huh? And what was that kiss you placed on my forehead? Ever since you did it, I have been having trouble remembering some things.”

“A kiss on the forehead erases pain and misery, so I kiss your forehead, however, a kiss on the forehead can also erase memory. I suppose…, I just didn’t want you to remember the pain you felt when you died.”

“Why?”

Sunday smiled at your question, “because I wanted to, do I need any other reason?”

You hummed at his answer, your eyes glancing back to the library door. You don’t remember closing, maybe Blade did?

“So now that I know your name, what am I supposed to do now?”

“Well,” Sunday started, “you still want to go home, don’t you? Find a way to do that.”

“But how? I kind of died the last time I tried.”

Sunday shook his head as he tried to keep himself from laughing, “don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find a way. And don’t worry about the rest. If you do die again, I’ll simply erase everything all over again.”

You nodded to his words, but yawned once more, despite sleeping for so long, you were still so impossibly tired which was when Sunday gently bent down to kiss both of your eyelids.

“A kiss to your eyelids, to erase your tiredness.”

And it was true, the sleep that was beckoning gradually left and just as you were about to say something to him, he was already gone. Your head was no longer on his lap and instead rested on a bunch of cushions, and just as you were about to sit up, the library door opened.

“You’re still lying down,” Blade said, an obvious hint of annoyance rested within his tone causing you to frown at him as you sat up.

“I was getting up,” you argued which caused Blade to roll his eyes.

“Whatever…, are you planning to stay here all day princess?”

Huffing at his attitude, you stood up while completely forgetting about the book you had been reading, “I get it, ok? I’m leaving right now.”

Stomping your way out of the library, Blade followed not so quietly after you.

“Woke up on the wrong side of the couch, did we?”

“Oh shut it you…,” your voice trailed off when your stomping slowly slowed to a stop as you looked out to the field where there were a few people riding horses.

A new idea soon forming in your mind.

“Blade.”

“What?”

“I want to go horseback riding.”

taglist pt 1

@danae-misfortune @frogsasfrogs @openthenyoor01 @zuhaine @ughlostmyotherac @joyfulnightprincess @thechibifoxcub @ceaether @satanisasofties @thetwinkims @yanrandom @honeybunbun @superdonkeypatroleggs @ohmyfinggod @baboon-milk333 @zareri @kclremin @rains-mae @yccoffeesimp @bloomiesty @moon-taffy @superdark-soul @pinkismyfavcolor @isa-l0v3r @its-astrotea-love @reapersan @junephantom21 @erisfayred @greyrain23 @justadekusimp @uzxotic @alisstaa @avalordream @unlivingdisaster @pix-stuff @sleepyxion14 @pillows-blankets @anicega @junni-berry @niaainthere @sorachitsuki @dyingsweetmackerel @rosariymchapter @immahuman @fluffy-koalala @momoniq @orphiclueur @insightedly

#hsr #honkai star rail #There is No Law that Emperors Must be Fair #emperor jing yuan x reader #emperor jing yuan x princess reader #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan #emperor jing yuan #hsr jing yuan

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2amriize · 2 months ago

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✩࿐࿔ eyes on you - eunseok one shot

genre: academic rivals, enemies to friends pairing: eunseok x reader

Eunseok is known for being one of the smartest and most perfect students at the country’s top university. He had never found anyone who could challenge his position until you arrived at the university as the new student. With an impeccable academic record, you quickly became his only rival.

From the very first day Eunseok met you, he saw you as a threat, and although he was friendly with everyone else, he hardly ever spoke to you. He basically acted like you didn’t exist. You always thought it was because he didn’t want to accept that there was someone who could compete with him.

At first, it could be said that it was only a rivalry over academic grades, but this rivalry grew over time, adding in popularity, achievements, awards in competitions, and so on. Tensions were rising as the school year progressed, and everyone in your class could feel it.

It was exam season. You usually studied in your room, but your roommate had invited some friends over for a few days, making it impossible for you to concentrate there. After trying several cafés to study, you decided that the best option might be to go to the university library. You had been avoiding it all this time because you knew exactly who always studied there: Eunseok.

You looked around for a place to sit, but since it was exam season, the place was completely full. You walked through the aisles to see if there was any empty seat towards the back, and finally, you found a spot where no one was sitting. You walked as fast as you could so no one would take the seat, and when you got there, you sat down quickly.

You sighed in relief, but when you looked up, you were completely stunned. Eunseok was sitting right in front of you, looking at his computer while trying to solve some exercises in his notebook. Eunseok raised his head, making eye contact with you.

“Well, well, what’s y/n doing here? I thought you could only study in your room,” Eunseok whispered, letting out a soft laugh.

“I came to keep a close eye on you,” you joked as you pulled out your laptop and notebooks.

“Don’t worry about me, y/n. You should focus on yourself. After all, it’s very easy for me to beat you.” Eunseok watched you with a smirk, the kind that always made your blood boil. You simply ignored his words, immediately getting to work on studying for the calculus exam you had coming up.

Although you thought it would be hard to concentrate in the library (especially with Eunseok in front of you), the hours passed by quickly. When you looked out the window, you realized it was already dark. You checked the time on your laptop: 11:38 p.m. You had been there all afternoon, and you were so focused on solving the exercises that you hadn’t even realized you had missed dinner.

You stretched a little as you lifted your head from your laptop, noticing that almost everyone had already left the library, but Eunseok was still sitting in front of you. He was focused on writing things on a piece of paper while doing some calculations on his calculator. You noticed that his hair was a bit messy, and he was wearing glasses. You had never seen him like this before. In class, he was always well-dressed and polished, and as far as you could remember, he never wore glasses to class. He really presented himself as perfect in everyone’s eyes.

Eunseok stretched as well, letting out a small yawn while looking at you. You were also starting to feel a bit tired, not to mention starving, but seeing how Eunseok started writing a new exercise in his notebook, you knew you couldn’t just get up and leave. It was a silent battle of sorts, where the last one studying the longest would win. This was also one of the reasons you had been avoiding the library to study, because you knew there would be a competition over who could study the longest. Still, you finished stretching and went back to looking at your laptop, starting to work on more exercises.

When you checked the time on your laptop again, it was 2 a.m. Your eyes were starting to close more and more, your vision getting a bit blurry as you looked at your notes. Plus, you couldn’t help but hear your stomach growling. What if I close my eyes for a few seconds? you thought as you rested your head on one of your arms.

You didn’t expect that when you opened your eyes again, Eunseok would be standing next to you, touching your shoulder to wake you up. You quickly sat up, confused as you looked at him.

“What… what’s going on?”

“You fell asleep, y/n. That’s enough,” Eunseok murmured as he started packing up your things, leaving you looking at him confused as you started to pack them too. Why was he suddenly being nice to you?

“No, I didn’t fall asleep, I was just resting,” you heard Eunseok laugh.

“Yeah, sure…”

When you finished packing up your things, you stood up from your chair, realizing you were wearing a sweatshirt on your shoulders that wasn’t yours.

“I put it on you so you wouldn’t get cold. I know better than anyone how hard it is to study when you’re sick,” Eunseok said as he started walking towards the library exit, and you followed him.

“Thanks…” You couldn’t deny that you were taken by surprise by Eunseok’s attitude towards you, but on the other hand, his words felt very familiar. It was true that Eunseok could understand you when it came to studying, since both of you had probably had the same experiences in high school, studying all hours to be the best in the class, even when sick.

You walked to the exit of the library in silence, stopping at the door. You looked at each other in silence for a few seconds until Eunseok broke the silence.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but it wasn’t so bad having you as a table partner. But, well, good night…” he said before turning around and starting to walk towards his dorm.

Did you hear that right? You couldn’t help but smile when you heard his words.

“See you tomorrow, Eunseok,” you raised your voice a little so he could hear you before heading to your room as well.

ᡣ𐭩 masterlist

taglist: @cherryishxo @gacktsa

#riize scenarios #riize imagines #riize x reader #riize eunseok #riize one shot #riize one shots #eunseok #eunseok one shot #eunseok imagine

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celaenaeiln · 10 months ago

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I think I really need to explain what it’s like having Jason be mad at Dick about not reaching out or whatever according to fanon because this is really bothering me.

So in Canon, Dick comes over and gives Jason his number and tells him to call whenever possible if he needs or wants anything. And Jason says okay. After that they don’t meet often except for a few instances and that’s that.

But for some reason this fact has been used a symbol of Dick being a bad brother??

Let me put this into perspective here: imagine having your older sibling attending Cal Tech in California, studying astrophysics, participating in 7 different clubs, being the leader of all those clubs, maintains his grades and goals, struggling with mental health, dealing with relationships, and then AS AN OUTSIDER getting mad at him for not dropping by to say hi to his younger sibling in New Jersey in the middle of the semester. Only in Dick’s case, he built the university, invited the students and colleagues, and ran the place both as the owner, administrator, and student. When people are struggling with one job he’s dealing with three.

Like actually how are you gonna pin any blame on him realistically. When reading the comics he’s so busy with the titans that you as the reader forget Bruce even exists so how are you gonna be mad at him for not showing up with toys for a brother you and he both know is safe and well taken care of. How?

“He could’ve called.”

WELL SO COULD JASON. I believe Dick’s words were “call me.” So how are you going to sit there saying that Dick should’ve been a better brother when it is it impossible for anyone to do better than he did.

Let’s continue with the previous analogy. The younger sibling ends up calling once but the older brother is in fucking Russia! But unfortunately the younger brother called the university, not the direct line which the older brother wouldn’t have been able to pick up anyway because depending on the country +1 (US) numbers don’t work on international calls! So how do you expect Dick to any way be held responsible??

Let’s be real here. There’s just no possible, conceivable way to call Dick a bad brother.

Dick has a guilt complex but that doesn’t mean he’s actually guilty of something. It just means he thinks he is because that’s the way he copes with living when others don’t.

#rant post #good brother dick grayson #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #robin jason todd #red hood #it’s 1am and I’m so mad #I am DONE with bad brother dick grayson lies

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arcanarix · 1 month ago

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Because You're a Big Deal - Satoru Gojo X Fem!Sorcerer Reader

Content Warnings: handjobs, body worship, exhibitionism, cockwarming, edging, cunnilingus, satoru might have a slight humliation/degradation kink, satoru is lowkey a creep and yandereish but not really, he also has no concept of personal space

Word Count: 10.1K

Summary: It’s common knowledge that Satoru Gojo is completely devoted to you. Why?—Because he makes it everyone’s, especially your, problem!

AO3

Since he’s been ripped out of his mother’s womb, life has bent to Satoru Gojo’s will. Everything falls into place as if the universe itself acknowledges that he’s destined for greatness. He barely has to lift a finger, and his achievements pile up, much to the irritation of literally everyone around him. It’s not just because he’s able to back up his skill—he makes sure it’s known that he’s the best sorcerer in the modern world, though—it’s also the way he exudes this untouchable self-assuredness which sets him apart from the rest. He’s practically a God walking among mere simpletons.

In a way, you find yourself pitying the guy at times. You can see how that kind of existence could be isolating. Being blessed—or cursed—with so much power from the get-go. He’s high above everyone else, like he’s observing the world from a higher vantage point—like a God in the sky or on another plane of reality. So to someone like you, who scrape by on sheer determination, ambition, and hard-headedness, Gojo’s life feels impossibly distant.

You’re not part of the elite three clans. You’re…just you, really. You’re a fledgling sorcerer who’s stumbled into this world all on accident, thanks to some Grade 2 curse spirits running amok on your college campus. Among the student and faculty body, you’re the only person you know who can see them, the only person who can react. It’s kind of made you an outcast there because you were afraid of stepping out of your dorm. That’s how you ended up here, after meeting Gojo and the others through chance. You’re training at Jujutsu Tech under Yaga and Gojo’s guidance, as a Grade 3 now—not that far along, but still a step above from where you began which was rock bottom. You still don’t compare to your peers at all in terms of experience.

But as much as you are grateful for Satoru Gojo and his small group of students, who have already rapidly become family to you, you can’t say you’re exactly pleased to be in his presence 99 percent of the time.

Why’s that, you wonder?

It’s simple, really.

From the moment he met you, he’s made it painfully clear that you have captured his attention. He’s obsessed, locked on you with such fervor it could decimate entire buildings with the same energy as a Hollow Purple. While it may have started as a shallow infatuation—you can’t even begin to imagine why—you know better than to let your guard down. With men like him, it’s easy to feel like a conquest, a prize to be won. From someone who’s so used to winning, without a doubt, he sees you as a challenge.

His favorite toy. You refuse to give him that satisfaction.

You don’t know how wrong you are about that assumption, though.

Because titles aside, he’s still just some dude who probably thinks more with his dick than with his brain.

You’re not sure why you in particular, either. Maybe others who’re more aware of his reputation might find it flattering, for the following reasons: he’s the strongest sorcerer of the modern times. That’s one. He’s rich as fuck. That’s two. He’s also stupidly handsome with those striking blue eyes of his and that lanky figure. That’s three.

You can’t find it in your core to give a flying fuck about it, though. Because beyond the superficial, he’s lacking in a lot of areas.

Everyone around you seems to agree.

Even now, as you sit in the classroom, waiting for him to show up—because of course, he’s late again as usual—you feel the tension building in your gut. You lean back, your chair creaking as a deep sigh leaves your lips. Your fingers idly trace the screen of your phone. Fushiguro’s gaze bores into your skull, with an all-knowing feeling. Is Gojo going to pull some bullshit today like he always does?

Your eyes roll, as you whip around to meet his gaze. As if silently communicating to him. Of course he is. Gojo always pulls something and everyone knows it, but especially Fushiguro. You have learned to expect it just as everyone else does.

The door swings open with a rush of air, and in strides Gojo, with that smug grin plastered across his face. He carries himself with a straight posture, hands stuffed into his pockets, acting like the world revolves around him because obviously it does. To him it does.

“Sorry for the wait! Since there’s not a lot of things we have to go over today before Megumi and the others are sent on yet another mission, I won’t keep you guys that long.”

Even without looking up, the weight of his gaze locks on you. You feel like you’re on a stage and those blinding blue eyes are the spotlight. When you do glance his way, you catch the faintest twitch of his lips. You’re not wearing your uniform today, and that seems to spark something in him. His blinding blue eyes, though hidden beneath his blindfold, must gleam with mischief. He’s definitely scheming.

“Well, most of you,” he finishes, that smirk of his widening.

You suppress a groan, already knowing where this is going and what thoughts might be running amok in that idiot brain of his, which only thinks with his dick in your presence. The outfit you opt to wear is nothing special—just a pair of shorts and a tank top—but for Gojo, it’s like a gift sent from the Heavens. He always twists the simplest actions of yours into a reason to give you a hard time.

As the briefing drones on, your eyes drift upward by mistake, sneaking a peek at him. What a bad move. Of course, he’s already looking at you, that grin still so wide his face is cracking. He raises his hand to his mouth—thrusting his tongue between two spread fingers—and your face flushes deep from embarrassment. Without thinking, your hands fly up to cover your face as you bite back a sigh.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Luckily, no one notices.

True to his word, the briefing is just that—brief. Itadori, Kugisaki, and Fushiguro head off, leaving you behind with Panda, Inumaki, and Maki for a few moments…at leaste, until they, too, make their hasty exit, leaving you alone.

Leaving you alone with that sad fuck of a man.

He slides up to you, peeling his blindfold up with a slender finger as he leans in closer than necessary. His breath fans against your forehead, and you have to resist the urge to step back lest you want to stir up more trouble for yourself, to push him out of your personal bubble. But Gojo doesn’t seem to have any concept of personal space. He never has. Those eyes of his, sharp, and blue like glaciers in the north, flicker across your face, down to the exposed skin of your shoulders and collarbone.

“Where’s your uniform?” he asks, his voice casual, with a playful note beneath it. There’s a layer of something else, though. His slender fingers trail along your arm, ghosting over your skin where the thin fabric of your tank top exposes you.

The guy acts like he can do whatever he wants. That he’s the man.

You aren’t ever going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that because he already knows he’s a big deal. He already knows he’s absolutely all that and he doesn’t need more reminders. You aren’t interested in stroking his ego (or any physical attributes of his body, for that matter). That must get under his skin and you might be a little too proud of yourself for that, mentally giving yourself a pat on the back every time he seems a little disheartened by your lack of reciprocation.

You need to set that record straight with him. He needs to be knocked down a LOT of pegs.

Fuck him and his Infinity…you’d love to kick him where it hurts because that’s the only thing he thinks with in that idiot brain of his…

You finally swat at his hand, irritation burbling beneath your skin. “Didn’t Ijichi tell you? It’s at the dry cleaners.”

Gojo gives a non-committal hum in response, but his grin never leaves his features as he settles onto your desk, sprawling out like he owns it. His gaze locks on you, studying every part of your body, and your insides are screaming at you to bolt out the door. But it’s only going to cause him to be more annoying.

“You sure you didn’t wear this just for me?” His voice is a low rasp, dropping an octave, a purr in your ear that sends a shiver dancing down your spine. His hand brushes your cheek, his thumb grazing your supple skin.

You smack his hand away again, maintaining a blank expression.

“Not interested,” you deadpan, rising to your feet. “Now, am I dismissed?”

Gojo’s expression falters for a fraction of a second before that smugness of his bounces back, slipping the blindfold back over his eyes.

“Sure,” he replies, but not before his fingers tuck under your chin, tilting your head in an angle ever so slowly.

You swallow on a lump of nothing—

Oh.

--that bulge in his pants, straining against the fabric of his uniform, growing more and more prominent by the passing second. You swallow hard again, your heart dropping tor your stomach.

“Now you know,” he finishes in a low murmur, sliding off your desk with his infuriating smirk still on his fucking face.

You scowl so deep your forehead wrinkles, stepping back away from him. Before you make it further, he grabs your elbow, pulling you close—too close. Flush against his warm body, where your thigh brushes against his hardness. You hate the way it makes you feel.

You hate that you don’t hate it.

“You’re too beautiful for your own good, you know that?” His voice is low, soft, reverent, but the edge of teasing remains.

“I could have you written up for sexual harassment,” you mutter under your breath.

His laugh is quick, sharp, echoing through the walls of the empty classroom.

“Hoho, I’m so scared,” he retaliates in a mocking tone as he allows you to break free from his grasp. “The worst Yaga will give me is a little reprimanding and a swat on the wrist, which won’t change much in the grand scheme of things.”

Utahime is right, you idly muse. He’s a fucking man child.

Why does he find such joy in being a troll? You want to give him the benefit of the doubt. That maybe he has some depth beneath the stupidity he embodies. Is it to hide trauma or something? Can’t he, for once, be a little more serious? Address you like a person because that’s all you want from people?

Do you even care to pick his idiot brain and find out?

“Because you’re the untouchable one in this universe,” you remark with a defeated sigh. Maybe consider transferring to Kyoto? But then he might find another way to harass you…

“Exactly,” he retorts, as you whip around to fully face him. He towers over you; he towers over nearly everyone. But you don’t often take note of how intimidating that is in combination with his reputation. You wonder if he truly is blessed in every aspect of his life (perhaps his only vice, that you can name thus far anyway, is his lack of interpersonal intelligence).

“I’ll be seeing you, Sensei,” you mumble through gritted teeth as you gather your things and amble out the door. His wolf-whistle follows you out, and you resist the urge to turn around and deck him on the spot. Not that you can be able to with his goddamn Infinity.

Maybe you should still write him up for harassment.

But then, upon further reflection, you sincerely doubt it’s going to make a difference. He even says so himself. Nothing changes his mind.

The cool autumn air rushes through your hair as you and the other students stroll down the busy streets, laughing and chatting it up. You find comfort in this routine—the way you can shed the weight of becoming a sorcerer, even if only for a few hours.

To cap off the end of a grueling week, the students often orchestrate a fun night out in the town. You and the other students engage in some semblance of normalcy outside of jujutsu society. You actually get to have fun—and not in the presence of any of your superiors, which helps you take the edge off, for sure.

Itadori and the others—well in particular he, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki—they make you feel like one of them and you haven’t even been with them for that long. Each and every one of them, they’re unique and talented and genuine people. You are willing to admit even Gojo is, in his own right. You just won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that, on some levels, you do respect him for certain things.

You probably won’t be alive today if not for these guys.

Itadori grins, his arms stretched behind his head as he glances at the group.

“Is anyone up for a karaoke night?” Itadori inquires, eyes twinkling.

“I’m down, but maybe after I’ve had a few drinks,” you tease with a light giggle. “I’m no Mariah Carey or Ariana Grande.”

“None of us are,” Fushiguro scoffs, shaking his head. “Except for Gojo. Naturally.”

You resist rolling your eyes. Even when he’s not here, Gojo finds a way to worm into the conversation and in your fucking bubble.

“Of course he is,” Kugisaki quips with a smirk playing on her lips. “Guy’s got no shortcomings.”

Fushiguro is quick to challenge that statement.

“Actually—!” Fushiguro starts, only for Kugisaki to cut him off.

“—What, Fushiguro? Apart from his lack of personality, what else?” Kugisaki asks, curious.

That clamps his mouth shut, lips pressed in a deep frown. He falls silent as you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Can we actually not talk about Sensei?” you ask, your own frown stressing your features. “I want one night where I don’t have to think about him and his stupid face.”

Fushiguro glances at you, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah, of course,” Fushiguro states, “Is he still giving you trouble?”

“When does he not give any of us trouble?” Kugisaki chimes in with a sigh. “Then again, he’s been a bit pushier with you lately. We can bring it up to Yaga, you know.”

Your shoulders tense for a moment, before you shake your head.

“He hasn’t done anything,” you realize how meek you sound and try to find that strength in your voice again. “Well, nothing Yaga would take seriously. Not like Gojo would take anything seriously, either.”

“Understatement of the modern age,” Fushiguro wisecracks in a low murmur.

“Come on, Sensei’s not that bad,” Itadori interjects, always the sort of person to give people the benefit of the doubt. Where applicable, of course. Which for someone like Itadori, it’s 99 percent of the time—especially when it comes to people he admires like Gojo.

Never mind how overt and rambunctious Gojo can be, he’s still a good person. Or at least, he fights for the right things. You can concede to that. But still…

“Sure, he’s kind of…persistent, though. I don’t know him all that well still so maybe Fushiguro will have a better handling on that.”

“He’s as idiotic as any other man comes,” Fushiguro concedes with a grunt. “If I have to punch him out, I’ll punch him out. That is, if he’s gutsy enough to shut off his Infinity to take a little disciplinary action like a man.”

“We’re still talking about him,” you point out.

“Sorry,” they all apologize in unison.

The conversation finally drifts away from Gojo, and you find yourself easing up a bit. The tension melting off of your body. It’s nice to be in the presence of your friends.

“So,” you drag out the word to catch their attention again, hoping to lift the mood. “Karaoke?”

“Yeah! Let’s do it!” Itadori jabs two thumbs up in the air.

The lights of the karaoke bar you all frequent blinks ahead. You’re excited for a few hours of escapism.

Of course, life has other plans as it seems the faculty of Jujutsu Tech orchestrate their own karaoke night. Since you’re together in the same bar, you decide to rent a room for all of you to sing your lungs out with unlimited drinks.

The karaoke room is dark save for a few string lights casting soft glows across the plush seats, low tables, and around the ceilings. The music blares from the speakers, the laughter of your friends mixing with the thumping, reverberating bass as you amble over to the couch. While Gojo and your mentors are here, you still find yourself unwinding and enjoying your time with your friends.

But of course, the universe has decided you can’t have nice things for very long.

On your way to the couch, you trip over something—a bag, a dropped can of beer, a foot, who fucking knows—and before you can catch yourself, you fall right into someone’s lap.

Not just anyone’s.

The odds, as always, are in Gojo’s favor. The planets always align for this fuck.

His arms secure around your waist instantly, securing you in place with an unyielding, vice grip.

“Well, well, well, happy birthday to me,” he murmurs, his breath fanning the nape of your neck. You shift, attempting to break free, but he yanks you back down, pressing your ass into his lap. That unmistakable hardness beneath you makes your heart jump to your throat.

“Stay,” he whispers, his voice demanding, as he presses the growing tent in his pants between your ass cheeks.

You grind your teeth, whipping your head over your shoulder to glare at him. His grin is as infuriating as ever—that shit-eating smirk that makes you want to tear him a few new assholes.

“I’m about to go back up and sing,” you hiss, squirming in his lap which only seems to encourage him, a low whimper escaping his lips that only you can hear. It makes your hairs stand on end and your blood burble. He tightens his iron grip, grinding his hips against yours.

“Stay a little longer,” he coos, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. He bites back another little whimper as he rolls his hips again, and there’s a heat pooling in your legs that’s impossible to ignore. Luckily, everyone’s too distracted with Shoko’s and Utahime’s drunken rendition of Smells Like Teen Spirit, and no one’s paying attention to you or to Gojo.

For once, the universe isn’t humiliating you.

“Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw. “I wonder how amazing you’d feel bouncing on my wood.”

“Gojo!” you whisper in a harsh tone, finally slipping free from his lap. You’re tempted to smack him, and you almost do, but you recognize the challenge in his gaze.

Him and his fucking Infinity.

“Fuck you,” you sneer, turning on your heel and returning to the others, but you still hear his response:

“Soon,” he calls back with a lazy wave.

You know you don’t get the luxury of avoiding Gojo.

You come to a realization that hits you like a Falcon punch to your gut: you’re not sure if you want Gojo to ignore you. It’s not because you’ve come to enjoy the attention. Far from it. He’s still crass; he’s still pushy; he’s still overt and obnoxious. It’s still infuriating and he’s still very punchable about this shit.

But today…today, you just aren’t into entertaining him. Today, you’re feeling really off your game in more ways than one, and he wants to whack the hornet’s nest out of sheer habit.

He must sense your shift in mood since that karaoke night. One second, you’re telling him to piss off, leave you alone, and the next, his large hand wraps around your wrist, jerking you toward him. His body is pressed to yours, and you can feel that hardness against our thigh.

You’re praising the gods above that there isn’t anyone around to witness this because this is probably you at your most unbecoming self.

“Sensei,” you grind out, your voice low with frustration. “Let. Me. Go.”

“Come on, no need to be so formal here. It’s us, baby girl. Say my name. Satoru.”

“Gojo,” you sneer, attempting to pull away, but his grip strengthens like titanium around your wrist. Those blue eyes of his—no, they look more like predatory slits now—bore into you with an intensity that you only saw once before back in Shibuya. When something inside of him fractures, splitting like glass under the high stakes. The memory of it, jagged and sharp, makes your heartbeat skyrocket.

You aren’t interested in exploring what lurks behind that gaze; you don’t wish to challenge it. But he doesn’t give you the luxury of turning away. His hand remains secured around your wrist, jerking you off balance as you’re spun in a fluid motion, pressing your back flush against the wall, his body caging over yours. You collide with the cool surface with a light thud, but you’re not all that disoriented. Just a little taken aback. The scorching heat of his body crowds into yours. His knee is still wedging between your legs, the pressure firm but demanding as it rubs into your clothed cunt.

“When are you going to stop punishing me?” he murmurs, his voice a near-growl that rumbles through his chest and vibrates against your skin. The sound is barely audible, yet it hits you like a tidal wave. Your breath hitches, and your eyes narrow into slits out of defiance.

“I’m not—!” The retort dies in your throat as his lips graze against your ear, his breath sending a rush of heat from your neck shooting all the way down to your groin. He shifts his knee, pushing it harder against the sensitive core between your thighs, and the friction draws a gasp from your lips before you can act to suppress it.

“Don’t feed me that bullshit,” he growls, his teeth taking in your bottom lip and grinding it between them. He chews hard on it, just enough to make you flinch, before his tongue swipes across the sore spot, soothing the light sting. More heat rushes to your cheeks, spreading in waves throughout your body as his hands roam your body, still skimming the modest areas, but it’s enough to make you squirm and fidget. It makes your breath come out in short, ragged, uneven breaths.

His grip slides dangerously lower, tracing the slight dip of your waist with his fingers that linger just a little too long for your comfort.

“Stop dancing around how you feel about me.”

“Gojo…” you whimper, though your voice pitifully muffled against his mouth. Your hands push against his chest, but to no avail, you’re weaker than him (everyone is weaker than him, but you especially so and for other reasons not related to physical prowess); your mind is torn between pushing him and away and… wanting to understand what the hell this is. What the hell he’s doing with you. What he wants to do with you.

“Satoru.” He corrects, his voice thick and guttural from arousal. The way he demands it, it’s primal, feral, a low rumble like distant thunder that leaves you no room to refuse him. “Say it.”

“Satoru,” you stammer, the syllables tumbling from your lips unbidden as he nips at your lips again, hard enough to draw yet another breathy gasp. You reluctantly tilt your head back, exposing the line of your neck to his relentless pursuit. “Stop.”

His eyes continue to bore into yours, drilling deep like a jack hammer through your skull. Those eyes of his, they’re so bright, so blinding, almost as if they can strip you bare with just a glance because he can bend everything to his will like he always does. Even with his Infinity shut off, they’re so intense. He’s suffocating. Inescapable.

Unforgettable.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispers, his voice softening to a lower murmur as he dips his head lower, his nose brushing along the sensitive skin of your neck. His lips trail after, feathery light over your skin, barely there, and he inhales sharply when he reaches your pulse point thundering just beneath your collarbone.

“I know you don’t mean that.”

Your cherry perfume lingers in the air between you as he continues. His fingers graze at the dips of your waist. Suddenly everything feels too constricting, all consuming.

“Please,” he mutters, his voice cracking. He sounds almost…pained, almost vulnerable in a way that you have never seen from him before. He’s always so sure of himself. So haughty. For another second, there’s something fragile flickering in his gaze.

“Stop torturing me.”

It happens before you can stop it—you can’t help the slight twitch of your eye. Torturing him? Is he serious? You almost want to laugh off the sheer absurdity of that accusation. But the thought soon dies when he leans in again, his lips wet, sloppy kisses along your jawline, taking his time like he’s savoring this moment. Like he’s not sure he’ll ever have a chance again. He might be wrong; he might be right.

You don’t even know yourself.

He stops at the tip of your chin, his voice a low crackle like the strike of lightning.

“You’re torturing me by not acting,” he grunts out that explanation, his words now rough and strained. There’s a rawness in his voice—a kind of sincerity that you’re shocked he even has in him. His hand slides even lower, now grazing your hips, before grasping your wrist and guiding it down to rest against his pelvis. There’s the heat of his arousal, the strain of it sticking through the thin fabric of his slacks, and you freeze.

“You see what you do to me. You see how hard you make me,” he whispers, guiding your hand along the rigid length of him through his slacks. His eyes remain locked on yours, bright, blindingly hungry, studying your reactions. As always, he’s relentless in his pursuit of you, determined to get what he wants. He’s not used to things not falling in his lap.

He moans low, guttural, still pained, like…like this is a need for him.

The world between you narrows, sharpens like a camera filter, focusing in on the two of you. Just the two of you in the empty classroom. His ragged breaths fill your senses, the feel of his smooth hardness beneath your soft moisturized palm. You feel the erratic pounding of your own pulse in your eardrums. He moans again, low, needy, a pained, pitiful sound. It’s so thick and suffocating, and you honestly wonder how you got to this point. Why you’re letting him do this.

It’s a lot, and yet you can’t find yourself ripping away from his gaze. His gaze never leaves yours, even as his hips buck slightly into your hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. Those eyes, full of that unsettling lust and vulnerability, continue to glow bright and shiny. It’s too much, way too much, too bright, too overstimulating. You want to break the connection, yet you can’t. You’re caught in his web. You’re trapped.

“Keep rubbing me like that,” he rasps, his voice in broken gasps, as he presses his body needily into yours. His hands find your waist and grips tight, fingertips digging into your skin, securing you in place as if he can’t bear to let you leave as he continues to grind helplessly against your hand. “Fuck… your hand’s so soft… feels so good…”

He keeps rolling against your body, making your breath catch. It’s kind of sexy. He’s unguarded in a way you’ve never seen him in other settings, even when he’s goofing off with other colleagues or the other students. Every broken whimper that leaves his yappy lips just adds to the appeal all of a sudden, because you can’t believe you’re able to make him succumb to you like this. You’re making his control slip with each passing nanosecond. You’re the center of this world, and you don’t find yourself hating that.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice pitching higher now, desperate as he ruts against your paml with a lot more urgency, a lot more desperation. His cock twitches through the thin fabric of his slacks, the friction too much, too good to pass up. His body’s shaking against yours, and it’s because of you. His breath hitches with every languid roll of his hips.

“I need you,” he quavers, his voice catching in his throat as he trails heated kisses along your collarbone. His lips feel soft, but his words are laden with a kind of desperation you’ve never thought you’d see in your life. “Can’t you feel how badly I fucking need you?”

You can. You can feel every ounce of his need, pressing against you. Your bodies are so close there’s nothing but headiness and heat. That need of his…it makes you a bit wary. You don’t trust Gojo for a myriad of reasons.

Not like this, at least.

Yet, while your mind is screaming at you to rip away, to cease this nonsense, you find yourself complying. Your hand remains where it is, your fingers grazing his bulge on their own accord matching the rhythm of each roll of his hips. He’s still trembling, falling apart at your touch. Something about that…something about that is so fucking hot, and you hate that you don’t’ hate this.

“Almost there?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering as your thumb brushes lightly over the tip of his cock poking through. It’s an instinctive motion, and his reaction is immediate, drawing out a choked gasp, his head dipping onto your shoulder as his full body shudders.

“Fuck…yes,” he moans, his voice still rough and strained from need and arousal, rutting harder into your hand. “More. Fuck… please, more…”

Your breath catches in your throat as you jerk him faster, each stroke sending him over a dangerous edge. That grip on your hips constricts, almost bruising your skin as he chases his release. His moans falling from his lips are so soft, breathy, needy…it’s so juicy.

“Baby,” he whimpers, his voice broken as he thrusts one final time into your hand. His cock twitches again, hard, swollen, before he creams into his slacks with a strangled, pitiful whine. He pants in short, ragged gasps as he nuzzles his forehead into your shoulder.

The world halts between you. The only thing filling the room is the sound of his ragged breaths. His body slumps against yours for a few more moments, before he reluctantly pulls away. His gaze never leaves yours, dazed, delirious…drunk off of you.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your ear before nipping it in a playful manner. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead before fully stepping back.

You remain there, pressed up against the wall, dumbfounded, your mind reeling from everything that’s just transpired. You want to feel disgusted, repulsed even. Yet…you’re not.

You feel almost…

Your cheeks burn at the mere notion. There’s no way. Guess Hell has finally frozen over.

Gojo says nothing more, sparing you the embarrassment as he retreats, his hands smoothing over his slacks, in an attempt to conceal any remnants of his little time to rejoice. His perfect posture bounces back far too quickly from this. It’s infuriating how he can act like nothing happened and you’re still taken aback. He bends down, retrieving a small disinfecting cloth from his desk drawer, then wipes your hand in a soft, reverent motion.

His eyes flicker to yours as he does, lingering with a softer expression.

“You…” Your voice comes out pathetic, wimpy. You find some semblance of strength over your voice and your body. Everything that’s happened finally sinks in, and your mind is swirling.

His natural scent still lingers, he’s so close. Crisp, fresh.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence like he always does, a spark of amusement hidden just beneath that calm tone of his. His lips twitch into that infuriating, ever smug grin of his. “Didn’t hate it?”

You open your mouth to snap back, to scream and yell at him, but the words catch in your throat. You can’t even hate him. You can’t even find the anger that should be threatening to burst through that tightly sealed lid, that you keep bottled up. There’s just confusion, frustration, uncertainty…

You rip your hand from his and twist on your heel, ambling toward the door as your body is operating on autopilot.

Your hand reaches for the doorknob, his voice cuts through the thick silence.

“Come on, it was good, right?”

You freeze in your tracks, your back still turned to him. His gaze burns into your skin. You don’t respond. You don’t know how to respond. You can’t. You twist the doorknob, the door emitting a creak as it opened, stepping out into the hallway—away from his suffocating, overstimulating presence.

Suddenly you feel lighter, cooler.

But as you stride down the empty halls, your mind replays the events in an endless loop—that nagging sensation gnawing at your soul.

Are you coming around? You don’t know. You know you didn’t hate it; that’s as much as you’re willing to admit. Your heart thunders, echoes of his parting words lingering.

You don’t notice him peeping out through the door slightly ajar and watching you walk away.

You can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes.

Not through the briefing, where the low chattering of conversation barely registers over the pounding heartbeat in your ears. Sure as hell not through the training, where your hands fumble through the motions, distracted. Fushiguro and Kugisaki get a chance to tumble you to the ground without so much as a shred of remorse.

It’s like you can’t break away. Every time his eyes land on you, you can feel them burning straight through our soul, making your stomach twist and churn.

When you’re back in the classroom, it feels stifling. The chalkboard behind Gojo is worn from everything Gojo writes on it. You sit at your desk, twiddling a pencil between your fingers; your mind relaying the events over and over, no matter how much you want to shove them down, push them away. It’s almost impossible to focus on anything else. You entertain the glimpses of his expressions, how he unravels at your touch…they all keep floating to the surface of your brain and it’s both a nightmare and a dream. You’re not sure which.

He's always been open about his feelings. It’s never been a secret. He makes it everyone’s problem, for fuck’s sake. But now, seeing it firsthand, how he reacts to the slightest brush of your fingers…it’s different now. You don’t know how to feel about it.

“Yoooo,” Itadori’s voice snaps you back to the present, his hand waving in front of your face. You blink a few times, jerking back into reality as his curious eyes meet yours. “We’ve been trying to get your attention. Everything okay?

You force a smile, but it feels strained and awkward on your lips. It’s like a mask that doesn’t fit you.

“Yeah,” you lie right through your teeth, strained to your own ears. “Just a lot on my mind.”

You haven’t noticed Gojo excused himself at some point—how long has it been since he left the room? Not like it matters that much to you. Because even when he isn’t present, his energy clings to the air, inescapable, suffocating. Unforgettable.

Fushiguro leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses your reactions.

“Is it Gojo?” he asks, his voice a low, irritated grumble.

You hesitate, your fingers clenching around the pencil.

“…No,” you manage to say, the words slipping through your teeth with a bit of difficulty. “Other stuff.”

Itadori, ever the peppy optimist, flashes you a heartwarming grin. His sincerity can get so annoying sometimes, but endearing all at once.

“Enlighten us? Maybe we can help!” he suggests.

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact. You hate lying to him. “Nah, too dark.”

Itadori is unconvinced, his beady eyes focused on you. “You sure?”

“I’m good,” you insist, hoping your forced smile will suffice. “I swear.”

“She gets harassed enough by Gojo,” Fushiguro interjects with a snarl, swatting at Itadori’s head to knock some sense into him. “Knock it of, Yuuji.”

Before the conversation drifts to another direction, a voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“Yeah, Yuuji Itadori,” Gojo’s voice drawls in a playful way from behind you. You don’t have to see him to know his smirk is ever present on that stupid face of his. “Annoying her to death is strictly my territory.”

You stiffen in place, your muscles tensing as Gojo’s presence draws nearer. You don’t want to turn around; you can’t. His stare presses into your back, seeping through your skin like a stain.

“Alright guys, I think we covered everything we needed to today. Go enjoy the rest of your day, yeah?” he instructs after clapping twice, officially dismissing the students.

You don’t hesitate to scurry past him, the scrape of your chair echoing in the classroom as you hop to your feet. You don’t look back. As soon as the words of dismissal leave his lips, you’re up from your desk, making a beeline for the exit. You think you make it, your feet dragging you toward the sweet embrace of freedom—

--His hand is on your shoulder before you take another step. His grip is firm, not tight, but secure enough to make chills surge through your body. Every muscle in your body is screaming at you to run, but it’s like you’re stuck in place—pinned by the overpowering force of his presence.

“Hey,” he drawls, a soft, teasing purr that causes your skin to tingle. His lips graze against the shell of your ear as he chuckles. Your cheeks flush deep from heat. You curse your body for giving you so much Hell around him.

“Sensei,” you state, voice sharper than intended, yet it still lacks the strength you wish it normally has. “I’m just trying to enjoy the rest of my day, just as you instructed.”

He hums in response, breathing down your sensitive skin.

“Satoru,” he bites back in a growl, his lips still brushing the curve of your ear before nipping at it, a playful gesture that makes you jump in place. He soothes the sting with a few passes of his tongue, and you shiver.

“Say it,” he goes on again. “Say my name.”

You grit your teeth, annoyance laden in your tone.

“Satoru,” you mutter, the irritation in your tone clear. “What do you want?”

He chuckles again, but this time there’s a bit of an edge to it—that same, primal edge.

“You know,” he quips, and before you retaliate, his hand is guiding yours to his lap, and your breath hitches as you feel his unmistakable hardness pressing against his slacks again. He slips his cock out from his confines this time, and in an instant, he wraps your hand around his shaft. Your fingers trace the heat of his length. This time, he doesn’t plan on holding back. The realization of what’s happening dawns on you, and your mind is screaming bloody murder at you to knee him there and see how he likes it, but you don’t. You don’t know why you don’t.

You’re not surprised that he’s not lacking in this department either. So he’s not overcompensating.

“Like what you see?” he teases in a low, silken tone, his free hand sliding up to our neck, fingers wrapping gently around your throat and applying just enough pressure that sends a thrilling jolt through your veins.

“Someone might…see,” you manage through a choked gasp. Gojo glances over his shoulder, ensuring the door is locked, leaving no room for interruption because he won’t allow it.

His head dips lower, his soft lips pressing against the curve of your neck, planting soft kisses along the exposed skin as your hand strokes him, jerking him. His breathing quickly grows ragged, his shaggy white hair brushing against your cheek as his hips roll into your hand.

He’s letting go around you. You can’t believe you’re the one doing this to him. Satoru Gojo is the pinnacle of the jujutsu society, seeming so untouchable, just out of reach. The one who’s been blessed in any and every aspect of his universe. But here, his control is slipping at just your touch.

It’s…not just kind of sexy. It’s really fucking sexy. You will never give him the satisfaction of telling him that.

He clutches your waist, his fingertips digging into your skin and you bite back a whine.

“Fuck, baby, please, stop torturing me,” his voice is a soft, broken cry, and you chew on your bottom lip.

Your eyes flutter a bit, a little dazed and you’re untouched. Entirely focusing on his release. You’re not sure why you’re letting this happen. Probably because there’s not much you can do. If he’s so tormented by the prospect of your existence, then shouldn’t you feel an obligation to grant him some kind of respite?

Why do you even feel that way? You shouldn’t even care, and yet…here you are.

You assess his debauched expression with a soft stare. His face is flushed, his lips parted as he pants for breath, purring your name over and over again. His eyes—half-mast, glassy—flicker open, and you lock gazes. The intensity of his gaze makes your heart flutter.

“Say my name,” he rasps out, pleading.

“Satoru,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Are you…close?” you murmur, your thumb ghosting over his tip leaking with pre. He chokes on a gasp at that, and you don’t know why you feel so powerful in that moment. Probably because you can make the strongest sorcerer of the modern age like this and you’re barely doing anything much. You don’t think so, anyway.

Your breath hitches. Any smart retorts you may have, have died on your tongue long ago because it’s no longer applicable. You’re right into his hands; he’s putty in yours. Quite literally.

He tightens his grip on your waist and hunches further over as a distinct confirmation. He’s chasing the friction with your hand, his hips bucking in tandem with your strokes.

“More,” his voice is now an uncontrolled falsetto, and you jerk his cock in time with hie hips. “Fuck. More…”

And here you are, the one in control, stroking him faster, harder, watching him fall apart to your touch. You remember telling yourself you wouldn’t stroke his ego or any physical part of his body, but you’re doing exactly that now.

You’re such a fucking liar. He mewls your name, catching your attention.

“Fuck, baby,” he whimpers, jerking into your hand faster until shots of seed leaks from his tip, hot and sticky and gooey. His head drops to your shoulder as he catches hie breath.

He pulls away a bit, his half-lidded gaze meeting yours. He looks all dazed, delirious…satisfied. He leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss full of heat and passion, his tongue twirling around yours. When he breaks the kiss, a thin line of spit connects your tongues before he cuts it with a twirl of his own wet muscle, his eyes still never leaving yours.

You’re trapped in a state of shock, your mind spinning. You don’t know how to feel—should you be angry? Repulsed? Relieved? You don’t know. All you know is that he’s getting his way, and it’s pissing you off.

Gojo steps back from your personal bubble, moving toward his desk with his casual nonchalance, leaving you reeling. He once again retrieves a disinfectant cloth, wiping himself clean before tossing that and retrieving a fresh one, cleaning your hand and face as if nothing out of the ordinary just transpired.

You’re frozen, your mind grappling with the current reality as he finishes cleaning you up. He flashes a little smile.

Your lips curl into a soft pout, that frustration still burbling beneath your skin.

“What?” you demand, voice lighter than you intended—softer, more out of curiosity. He rests his hand—large, calloused, warm—on your cheek, brushing his thumb over your soft, plump lips. The tenderness of the gesture feels a bit foreign to you.

“Mine,” he growls low and gravelly. His eyes, usually filled with mischief and scheming a way to annoy or embarrass you, are shining with pure affection instead. You feel like he’s seeing right through you, and with those legendary Six Eyes of his, you might not be far off. He can read everything about everyone and anything. He’s always constantly processing everything with his Six Eyes and Limitless technique. His thumb presses into your ilps, gentle at first, before grazing the tips of your teeth.

“Gojo…?” His name spills from your lips, tentative, as his thumb pushes further, brushing your tongue now, as your senses are now hit with a tang of salty skin.

“Satoru,” he corrects in a sharp tone, his frown deepening, dissatisfaction etching across his stupidly handsome features. His eyebrows furrow, that little crease forming in frustration. Your attempts to pull away irritate him—it’s clear in his actions. “I don’t answer to Gojo or Sensei with you anymore.”

His words are definitive, absolute. He carries authority like he always does.

And it’s so fucking maddening.

“Satoru,” you try again, your voice faltering as his thumb presses deeper onto your wet muscle, warm and insistent against it. Your heart skips a beat; your heartrate speeding up as heat flushes across your skin. “What… what are you doing?”

He grins that easy, carefree smile you’ve seen thousands of times. Now it feels different. Dangerous, as his sparkly blue eyes twinkling with trickster energy. He might rival Loki himself.

“Assessing how pretty my girlfriend’s pussy is,” he answers easily, waiting for your reaction. “Especially when you’re riding my face the way you will my cock.”

His crassness, though usually expected, still catches you off-guard, and more heat rushes to your cheeks. Your breath is lodged in your throat, embarrassing consuming the very core of your being like a wildfire.

“Did… did you just call me your girlfriend?” your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something else…something that feels a little bit like…flattery?

Oh, Hell has certainly frozen over.

“And stop being so lewd!” you add in an icy tone.

He responds with a rich and lazy chuckle, far too pleased with himself.

“Don’t act so shocked, gorgeous; don’t dance around what’s been happening since you got here,” he coos. His thumb slides down, grazing your bottom lip. “Mine.”

You step back slightly, gripping his wrist and brushing him off; impressing yourself that you keep your touch firm when you’re trembling on the inside.

“Satoru,” you start again, trying to regain some semblance of control—some clarity amid all of this chaos.

“Yes, honey?” he addresses you in a low purr, teasing and commanding, making hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

He’s looking at you like he’s already won.

This fucking guy needs to be put in his fucking place.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to sigh. That frustration is still simmering beneath you; your foot tapping against the polished wooden floor, the sound sharp in the quiet classroom.

“What the hell is this?” you demand, narrowing your eyes into slits at him.

He tilts his head at you, folding his arms over his chest in that casual way of his. The movement causes his shirt to pull tight across his chest, emphasizing his taut lines.

“Isn’t it obvious? Or is your stupid showing?” he quips, but his voice is not in jest; it’s in a more serious manner. You’re impressed he can even take this seriously. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. It’s not rocket science, or some complex cursed technique, you know.”

You part your lips to protest, but he cuts you off, eyes flickering with something dark.

“Yeah, but—!”

“—but nothing,” he interjects, voice firm. “Mine.”

Your frustration finally boils over.

“No,” you growl, taking a few steps forward, forcing him to really look at you eye to eye. “You answer me. You owe me that much right now, Satoru.” You hate that your voice is trembling now, emotions raw and unfiltered because you have nothing to lose here.

He drags out a defeated sigh, the tension in his body easing as he relaxes his body. His eyes remain locked on yours.

“Fine.”

“Tell me the truth,” you demand, your voice low yet firm—a crackle of lightning in a raging storm. “What is this to you?”

He studies your face. When he speaks up, his voice carries a softer tone. More genuine.

“It’s simple,” he answers, carefully selecting his words. “You give me all of you. I give you all of me.”

His fingers trail down your arm, stopping at your elbow.

“Is it really so hard to understand how bad I got it for you? I’m nuts about you,” he goes on, his expression is almost…vulnerable. Open. He’s usually so guarded in spite of his silliness. “This isn’t a game to me.”

He’s giving you a chance to grapple with what he just admits to you. He’s giving a piece of himself he hasn’t given to anyone else since…well, you don’t know. You haven’t known him for as long as the others.

You chew on your bottom lip, warring with the questions in your mind.

“So…” you hesitate, voice barely audible. “Why me?”

He runs his hand through his shaggy hair, his eyes flickering with something that feels out of place. Raw. Honest. Something you’re so unused to seeing in Satoru.

“I mean, don’t you get it?” he sighs, almost to himself.

“Don’t you know how rare it is for someone to get my attention?”

You take a moment to process his words. You know they carry more weight than a casual, generic compliment. So far from sweet nothings. It’s a crack in all those layers he set up for himself. You’re peeling away at some of them.

“That’s not a direct answer,” you counter in a firmer tone, as a frown stresses your features. You won’t let him get away with just that.

His shoulders sag a bit in defeat.

“Then why don’t I just show you?” he suggests, his voice smooth, the challenge in his tone unmistakable. The atmosphere shifts like gears.

Before you can even process what he’s told you, Satoru hoists you by your bottom in a fluid, effortless motion, like you weigh a can of grapes to him (and you may as well have). Your back hits the hard surface of his desk with a thud.

His hands, gentle, but rough, trail down your thighs, his touch electric and the air between you growing thick and staticky, making shivers crawl down your spine. He meets your gaze, his electric blue eys locked onto yours. It’s too much to bear. Too much!

“May I?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly like earlier. His fingers hover just below the hem of your clothes. He’s so close yet so far away and you can’t believe you want this. You can’t believe you’re letting this play out. Maybe you like him more than you care to admit to yourself.

While he poses the question, his eyes tell you he already knows your answer.

Words dying on your tongue, tension in your body winding tight like a wind-up toy…

You bite your lip. With a barely perceptible nod, you grant him the permission.

In that same fluidity and effortlessness, he slips off your pants along with your panties, the fabric falling unceremoniously to the ground, leaving you fully exposed to him. The cool air nips at your skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps over your body as he spreads your legs wide across his desk. You’re vulnerable, laid bare before him, but the way he looks at you…you feel like you’re on top of the world.

Satoru’s gaze flits downward, and his liips part slightly as he takes in the gorgeous, raw sight of you, glistening in your natural arousal already. He licks his lips absently, a soft, animalistic sound escaping from deep in his throat.

“And you claimed you weren’t into it,” he purrs, his breath fanning against your sensitive flesh. The words are so teasing, so trolling, like he always is, but the effect he’s going for is anything but playful for you. Your body jerks involuntarily.

“Mean,” you pout, your lips forming that irresistible curve you know now that he can’t resist.

But you doubt Satoru’s going to give you any mercy here.

He shushes you, his voice a soft command as he leans in closer, his nose barely grazing your sensitive sex. Slowly, he uses both his hands to peel apart your folds, the movement achingly intimate. His eyes glisten with something almost feral as he whistles softly at the sight he’s been blessed to behold. Then, carefully, he dips a finger between your folds, gliding it along the slickness building there. His touch is feather-light, teasing, reverent, causing more heat to pool low in your belly and your groin.

“Look at that,” he teases, dragging the pad of his finger through your wetness, making you squirm under his touch. “All soaked for me. God, that’s the highest compliment in the world, baby. You have no idea.”

Your face burns from embarrassment, the flush spreading down your neck like you’ve caught a fever.

“Shut up,” you whimper as you feel his breath ghosts over your core again; the anticipation is worse. It’s so much worse. He eyes it for a few moments too long before finally sinking his teeth into the delightful meal that’s you.

The moment his tongue hits your sensitive flesh, a jolt of electricity shoots through your entire body. He starts from your entrance, rolling his tongue slowly up through your goopy folds, tracing a deliberate pattern toward your clit. The wetness, the gooeyness, everything leaves you breathless. You jolt in place, your back arching off the desk, but Satoru’s strong hands are quick to keep you steady. But his grip is tender yet firm.

His hands find yours, fingers intertwining with a kind of gentleness that is quite the juxtaposition to the party going on between your thighs. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in a soothing gesture, grounding you as his tongue pokes and prods at your sensitive flesh, lapping at your slick, gooey folds. He makes low groans, soft hums, little whimpers like he’s honored to finally do this.

It's so mean. It’s too much.

“Relax for me, gorgeous,” he purrs between fervent licks, his voice muffled slightly by the way he’s devouring you whole. The pressure coils in your stomach as his tongue continues to lap at your building slick, sloppy, wet, passionate. You can barely think straight now. The only thing swimming in your mind is Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. But you’ll never let him know that.

“Aw, fuck yeah,” he breaths, pulling back for a moment to speak and get an eyeful of your aroused, debauched state. “You have any idea how long I’ve been jerking off to the thought of this pussy?”

“Satoru!” you shriek, more out of embarrassment than indignation. Okay, maybe a little indignation. Each pass of his tongue makes every nerve ending in your body light up like fireworks!

“Stop being so lewd!” you demand, but there’s no real conviction behind your words.

He groans against you, the sound vibrating against your sensitive sex, and you’re squirming and writhing again beneath him and you know he’s savoring every minute of this, soaking this victory of his up like a sponge,

“I can’t help it,” he confesses, his voice ragged, breathless, reverent, as he continues to lap at your thick slick more urgently now. It’s messy, it’s sloppy, it’s wet, unrestrained, some of that thick slick catching on his chin. “You make me so wild, baby.”

He flicks his tongue over your clit, fast, hard, precise, and you swear you’re going to lose your fucking mind. Your mind is still spinning with Satoru, Satoru, Satoru, oh fuck. But you don’t want to say it out loud. It’s too much. It’s way too much

“And you taste so fucking good,” he growls, hoarse, that reverence in his tone still prominent, unmistakable.

Every roll of his tongue feels amazing. It’s dragging you under like the tides. You allow yourself to drown in the sensations, to live in the moment. Hie’s clinging onto you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

Finally, you feel something twitch down there, and something deep inside you snaps in two. The dam breaks, and you’re splattering more of your arousal on his face while screaming his name (something you can’t hold back now) which he gladly laps up like a thirsty dog, dramatically and loudly gulping down your slick as you come down through such an intense climax. Your pussy is still pulsating and he’s still licking along your gummy, sensitive skin, groaning at your natural taste; he tightens his grip on your hands, just slightly.

You find yourself pouting again when he pulls away, his lips and the bottom half of his face sheen from your slick. Your face is deeply red from arousal, panting as you come down. He shuffles around for more cleaning supplies, helping to wipe you down before helping himself.

“That convincing enough for you, gorgeous?” he inquires with a cheeky grin, sticking out his tongue in a petulant manner. He hums as he savors the taste of you still lingering on his tongue, dragging it along his teeth and catching any remnants of your taste.

“Fuck. That’s going to be amazing to come home to every day.”

“Satoru!” Your hands fly up to cover your face. “Stop! Stop! You’re being ridiculous!”

“I can’t help it,” he says again, prying your hands away from your face to get a good look at you in your flushed state. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. God, can’t you just let me spoil you now? Let’s stop dancing around this.”

“If you just stop being so….argh.”

“Like what, a pirate?” He strokes his chin as if lost in thought. “So when you say shiver me timbers, it’s because I’m making your legs tremble when I eat you out and worship you like the queen you are, right?”

You let out another frustrated groan and you so dearly want to wipe that stupid grin off of his pretty face! Why does he have to be so infuriating even now?? Even when you’re not wholly against the idea of being his girlfriend? It actually sounds kind of nice…

“OH MY GOD! SATORU! STOP!”

He chuckles, and a comfortable silence falls upon you both as you catch your breath.

“So does this mean you know how serious I am about you?” he finally asks, breaking through the silence. “I’m crazy about you. I’m nuts about you. I just want you to actually give me a chance to prove that to you.”

“There are so many more productive ways you could have gone about it,” you grumble with a shake of your head. “But fine, Satoru. You’ve earned this much. …I’m still a little pissed at you, but maybe you can make it up to me over time.”

“Deal,” he replies with a grin. “Just as long as I get to call you mine, and you get to call me yours.”

He cups his ear and leans in toward you, his grin not moving. “Now let me hear you call me yours.”

You roll your eyes in jest, leaning in toward him to whisper in his ear. “You’re mine, Satoru.”

His grin widens, and he pecks your lips, gazing into your eyes with pure adoration twinkling in them.

Yeah, you decide in your mind. You can give him a chance.

#satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo smut #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #erixtales

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mimisplayground · 10 months ago

Text

Sunday was an awful, awful angel. He was cruel, uncaring, and he had a stupid smile on his face all the time. Like he thought he was better. Like he KNEW he was better.

And watching the people around you begin to whisper awful things about you. About how Sunday had told them you were a wicked, mean person. You couldn’t help but feel a sinking feeling of despair. How were you meant to face this? He was a public figure, one of absolute authority and power that you could never hope to speak against.

So you go to him with tears in your eyes, asking how you could have ever possibly made him view you as so awful and wicked. “You’re undignified, unruly, quite honestly a bit airy in the head, and mouthy. Is that enough reason?” He smiles at you the entire time, tilting his head at the end of the question while watching fat tears roll down your cheeks.

“How do I… fix that…” you mutter through hiccups and sniffles, almost crying more when he coos at you and gives you a hug. Petting your hair as you went to full blown sobs. “It’s ok, just listen to what I tell you to do. I’ll always guide you properly. It’s not your fault you’re so stupid.”

He had sent you on your way, and the rumors and awfulness of those around you only got worse. You went from lazy to attention whore in their eyes. Clinging to Sunday and every word he speaks like gospel. Without so much as an approving glance your way.

You would cry awfully, not able to talk to those around you and not wanting to confront the man who had deemed you as a vile person again.

And you grew angry, though with that the talk got nastier. How awful you were. Being called for an audience with Sunday only for him to berate you for twenty minutes until you were a sniveling mess again was just awful.

In fact, the talk only seemed to vanish when you clung impossibly close to the man. In his quarters everyday, bringing him teas and snacks and not bothering to pay attention to the others.

It was easier that way. When you paid attention to the others you always found them saying awful things about you. When you were with Sunday it was like none of those rumors existed. And so you were like a personal assistant, telling people when he wanted an audience with them, bringing him foods and drinks, organizing things for him, anything he asked.

It wasnt hard to fall into the routine either. He was such a kind guy, he only ever told you when you did something wrong afterall. Your posture, your manners, your tone, what you were wearing, things like that. And you would always change it to fit how he said you were best. Because clearly he knew best.

He was handsome too, easy to look at. So of course it wasn’t long until you fell into his bed.

Sunday was a selfish lover. He would make sure you finished of course. But everything he did was with his own entertainment at mind.

Leaving you overstimulated and limp by the end of most nights. But he kissed you so sweetly afterwards, wiping you down and cuddling up to you. The next morning you would be pawing at him again, begging for more once again.

You were selfish in your own ways too. Sunday never seemed to mind when you were sat next to him, gripping his arm and glaring at whoever had come around to talk to him. How you would refuse to talk to them and bury yourself further into the man as he would laugh and apologize for your behavior with a dismissive attitude.

You don’t even really know when you began living with him.

Somewhere between his hand stuffing your face into some pillows as he calls you a mangy stupid mutt and the times where he thrusts into you slow and sensual while saying it was fine that you were stupid, because you were his.

Because you are his. No one else could ever fuck you the way he does. With a calm smile and a feral look in his eyes, pounding into you and rubbing your nipples. Sucking your neck and biting his claim all over you. And you babble insistently about how amazing he is. How perfect he is, how much you adore him as you pet his hair back and out of his face while he pounds you into a mating press.

He calls you a stupid little doll. A pretty pet. A cute accessory. Leaves you fucked out and drooling and laughs, making a comment about how he didn’t know you could get any dumber.

But it’s ok that you’re dumb. Because you’re his.

Forever and always.

——————

AN ACTUAL FULL FLESHED FIC??? FROM ME??? WOAH….

also hes TOXIC pls do NOT idolize him… anyways hes my idol :3 hope you all enjoyed lemme know what u want nexf!!

#fanfic #requests open #send asks #sunday hsr #hsr x reader #hsr smut #hsr fanfic #honkai star rail smut #sunday x reader #sunday smut #gender neutral reader #toxic relationship #yummy yum yum

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fettuccin-e · 2 years ago

Text

Hard-Pressed

okay gang this fic is dedicated to @fleurfairie because she sent me an ask for virgin!reader with big dick steve and i tried answering it and then i deleted it like fucking dumbass,,, so harmonia, this is for you! so there isn't any actual penetration in this, BUT it is one of the horniest fics i have ever created with HEAVY emphasis on steves gigantic dick,, so please enjoy

Tags: Steve Harrington x Reader, virgin!afab!reader, really light degradation, hung!steve, no actual penetration but talks about it, uhhh humping?? haha

You really should have known that Steve had his reputation in high school as “King Steve” for a reason. Getting together with him had been far too easy for there not to be a catch. Kissing him for the first time had been as easy as breathing, meeting his lips in a chaste embrace in his car after dropping the kids off at the arcade. Going on dates with him, holding his hand, doing all of the things people in relationships do together; it all had come second nature, as if you had both been doing this for years.

The only thing tripping you up, embarrassingly, was actually engaging in one of the so-called “benefits” of a relationship. The… sex part.

When you had told Steve that you’re a virgin, he hadn’t made you feel embarrassed in the slightest, kissing you lovingly with a hand cupping your cheek. “I could show you, if you want, sweetheart. But if you don’t want to, if you don’t ever want to, I am perfectly happy just being with you. I don’t need the other stuff, you know?”

You just shook your head hard, hard enough to make Steve laugh at your vehemence. “No,” you had said, “I want it, Stevie. You have no idea how much I want it, okay? I mean, have you seen yourself? How could I not want you? I think I just, uh, need to practice, I guess. Taking stuff, y’know, uh, inside?” Your face had been burning, but you took comfort in the sight of Steve’s cheeks heating up in a blush as well. He had grinned though, one of his hands trailing down to brush at your hip.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he had murmured. “I would be honored.”

And thus started the process of your training to take Steve’s cock. One night, he had just inched a finger inside, the digit long and calloused inside you, while he licked and sucked at your clit until you gushed all over his face. A week later, he worked two fingers inside, crooking them up into a spot that you didn’t even know existed, while he pressed a thick thumb onto your clit. He had held you while you shook like a leaf, kissing you softly while working you through your orgasm. It was a strange sensation at first, having something inside you like that, but Steve’s talented fingers and pretty mouth made you grateful that you had waited.

But there still are some nights, like tonight, that you don’t really want one of Steve’s fingers inside you. You don’t really want anything inside, even though Steve’s so warm against you, his big arm wrapped around your shoulders, and the ache between your thighs is impossible to ignore. The sensation of taking things inside is still new, as strange to get used to as it is pleasurable, and tonight you don’t want to have to breathe through your nose as Steve slowly stretches you open. You just want to cum, hard, in the only way you can when you’re with Steve.

Damn, what has this boy done to you?

It’s fairly innocent, the both of you in Steve’s big, empty house, cuddled up together while watching a movie, and it strikes you that Steve has no idea. He has no idea that you’re so wet underneath the pajama pants that he has so graciously lended to you. He has no idea that you’re thinking about his head between your thighs, licking at your clit and telling you how good you are, how pretty you are for him when you cum. He has no idea that you had made yourself cum before he had picked you up from your house to take you to his, rubbing your clit with Steve’s name on your lips.

You glance up to gaze at your boyfriend, only to find his eyes already trained on you, not the movie. He grins boyishly, and your heart skips what feels like three beats at once. It’s hard sometimes, wrapping your head around how handsome Steve is, and that you get to call him yours. You lean up to press a kiss to his lips, unable to help yourself. Steve is already meeting you halfway there.

“Stevie?” you murmur against his mouth.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Can I try something?” you breathe, trying to tamp down your nerves. “It’s something, y’know, um, something sex- uh, sex-related?”

Steve chokes on a breath, blood suddenly rushing down to his cock. You’re a virgin, inexperienced and pretty nervous when it comes to the things you and Steve do in the bedroom, but Steve thinks you’re the sexiest thing in the damn world. And you don’t even try, which is like, half of Steve’s problem. He doesn’t think he’s had this many poorly-timed hard-ons since he was fifteen, but being with you just makes it happen. And you have no idea.

“Yeah, baby,” he chokes out, breaking himself out of his thoughts. “Anything you want.”

“What if I wanna see your cock?” you blurt out, and Steve’s eyes widen at your language, shocked at your confidence, before he remembers himself. He wants you to be confident, wants you to tell him what you want.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says, “but if you wanna, y’know, tak-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I’m not gonna try to, uh, get it inside me. But, I just, I wanna, y’know, I wanna get, I just, shit, uh- oh fuck it,” you growl, frustrated at the fact that you can’t even find the words to tell him what you want. “Just, Stevie, can you take your pants off?”

You don’t have to tell him twice, evidently. Steve takes his arm from around your shoulders to shove his sweatpants down his thighs, letting his achingly hard cock to slap up against his stomach, and holy shit. Holy shit.

He was “King Steve” for a very good reason. You obviously don’t have a lot of experience, but anyone could see how huge Steve Harrington is, especially with his cock hard and sticky and curved against his stomach, veins pulsing and aching for your touch.

This is the catch. Everything has been easy, so easy with Steve. But handling that? Shit, that’s going to be hard. In, uh, more ways than one.

There’s a brief feeling of panic that sinks into your stomach, a thought of ‘how is that ever going to fit’ ricocheting around your brain. But that thought isn’t important tonight, and even if it was, you know that Steve would never, ever take the chance of hurting you, no matter how desperate you are.

You eye the fucking monster between Steve’s legs as you stand, hoping that you look at least somewhat sexy as you slide Steve’s pajama pants down your legs, taking your panties with them. The cool air of the room meets your exposed cunt, making you throb desperately as you glance at Steve’s face. You want to giggle at his wide eyed expression, his gaze trained on your needy, dripping pussy.

You stalk forward, slowly, pushing lightly at his shoulder until he twists, laying down on the couch, his cock thick and throbbing against his stomach. You try to take a subtle, calming breath through your nose before you swing a leg over your boyfriend’s lap, straddling him just over his cock. You hear his breath hitch, just barely.

“Is this okay?” you whisper, wanting to make sure that Steve wants it just as much as you do.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “so much. Want it so much, baby. You just, you gotta be careful, okay?”

“Okay, Steve,” you smile, before sinking your hips down and resting the dripping heat of your pussy on Steve’s thick cock. He’s thick enough that he spreads the lips of your cunt apart, and you can feel how wide he is against your tight entrance.

You relish in Steve’s choked up moan, before rocking your hips, slow and experimental, and fuck. The veins along his length press into your clit as you rock against him, before nudging against the thick head. He’s hot and so hard between your thighs, pressed against the most intimate parts of you, and it’s so, so fucking good.

Steve moans softly as you rock back and forth against him, his fingers digging into your hips. It feels so dirty, his cock spreading your pussy apart, sliding against the tiny, tight little entrance of your cunt. You’re so wet, soaking his cock and getting him so sticky as you rock against him, frantic for it.

“My needy baby,” he mutters, and you whine in response, leaning forward to nudge your head into the crook of Steve’s neck, but not stopping your movements. You grind, desperate and throbbing, against his cock. “So innocent, baby, but you’re so dirty,” Steve continues. “My little virgin baby. Never touched a cock before, but you’re not innocent, are you? No, baby, I know what you are, sweet girl. Do you know what you are?” You shake your head against Steve’s neck, rocking your hips hard against him, your thighs trembling.

“You’re a slut,” he whispers, and you gasp, your cunt clenching hard against Steve, and he feels it. He feels it and moans, his hips twitching up to press himself harder between your legs. “My slut, just for me,” Steve continues, “I’m the only one who gets to see you like this, who has ever seen you like this, right sweet girl? Nobody else knows how needy you are, how much you need someone to make you cum. You wanna cum like this baby? Grinding against my cock like a slut?”

Steve uses the grip he has on your hips to pull you onto him, again and again, the ridges of his cock moving against your sticky, throbbing clit and you whine into his neck. “Yes, yes, need it so fucking bad, Steve, need to cum, please baby,” you whimper, and Steve moans in response. He shifts his hips up as he pulls you against him, and it’s almost like he’s fucking you for real. He’s so close, so close, and you want him to fuck you so bad, so fucking bad. Your hips twitch hard, and Steve grins, doing it again, and again.

“This is how I could fuck you, baby. Could just sink into your tight little cunt, baby, stretch you so wide to take my cock. You want it, baby, I know you do.”

“Yes,” you gasp, unable to help it. “Want you to fuck me so bad, you’d feel so good, so good in me. I’m so empty Stevie, oh god. Wanna be your slut, wanna be yours, I-”

“You are mine, sweet girl, all mine. Next time, next time I’ll fuck you for real, yeah? But right now,” he mutters, his hips desperately thrusting his fat cock against your sopping cunt, “I want you to soak my cock with this pretty pussy.”

It doesn’t take long after that, not when you’re both writhing against each other, minds fuzzy with need. The knot in your stomach is tightening, tightening, pulling taught, until it snaps without warning, sending you spiraling into a desperate orgasm. Your pussy clenches and throbs hard against Steve’s cock as you cry Steve’s name softly into his shoulder.

“Fuck, so good, baby, doing so good, so sexy for me, fuck baby-” Steve groans and you can feel how his cock pulses, shooting hot cum between you both. You can’t help the daydream of him coming inside you, of it dripping out of your used cunt.

Next time. Next time.

You both breathe together for a moment, Steve’s cock softening slowly beneath you, before you meet his lips in a soft kiss. “Thank you, Steve,” you murmur, and you nearly giggle at how quickly Steve’s eyes shoot open, his hands tightening again on your hips.

“Thank me? No, baby, thank you. Made me feel so good, sweetheart,” Steve says, peppering kisses over your face and grinning at your happy giggles. “Love you, baby,” he whispers, like it’s a secret.

“I love you too, Stevie,” you say, and you don’t think you’ve ever been more confident in anything before.

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #stranger things x you #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader

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wisteria-lodge · 2 months ago

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Manipulative/Morally Grey Dumbledore? An In-Depth Canon Analysis

So when I look at Harry Potter, my goal is to separate what I think the books are intending to say, from what they actually say, from what the movies say… and what the common fan interpretation is. So today I’m interested in Dumbledore, and specifically in the common headcanon of Manipulative/Morally Gray Dumbledore. Is that (intentionally or unintentionally) supported by the text?

PART I: Omniscient Dumbledore

“I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here”

In Book 1, yes Dumbledore honestly does seem to know everything. He 100% arranged for Harry to find the Mirror of Erised, publicly left Hogwarts in order to nudge Quirrell into going after the Stone, and knew what Quirrell was doing the whole time. It is absolutely not a stretch, and kind of heavily implied, that the reason the Stone’s protections feel like a little-end-of-the-year exam designed to put Harry through his paces… is because they are. As the series goes on this interpretation only gets more plausible, when we see the kind of protections people can put up when they don’t want anyone getting through.

Book 1 Dumbledore knows everything… but what he’s actually going to do about it is anyone’s guess. One of the first things we learn is that some of Dumbledore’s calls can be… questionable. McGonagall questions his choice to leave Harry with the Dursleys, Hermione questions his choice to give Harry the Cloak and let him go after the Stone, Percy and Ron both matter-of-factly call him “mad.” The “nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak” speech is a joke where Dumbledore says he’s going to say a few words, then literally does say a few (weird) words. I know there are theories that those particular words are supposed to be insulting the four houses, or referencing the Hogwarts house stereotypes, or that they’re some kind of warning. But within the text, this is pure Lewis Carroll British Nonsense Verse stuff (and people came up with answers to the impossible Alice in Wonderland “why is a raven like a writing desk” riddle too.)

This characterization also explains a lot of Dumbledore’s decisions about how to run a school, locked in during Book 1. Presumably Binns, Peeves, Filch, Snape are all there because Dumbledore finds them funny, atmospheric, and/or character building. He's just kind of a weird guy. He absolutely knew that Lockhart was a fraud in Book 2 (with that whole “Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy?” thing after Lockhart oblivates himself. ) So maybe he is also there to be funny/atmospheric/character building, or to teach Harry a lesson about fame, or because Dumbledore is using the cursed position to bump off people he doesn’t like. Who knows.

(I actually don’t think JKR had locked in “the DADA position is literally cursed by Voldemort” until Book 6. )

Dumbledore absolutely knows that Harry is listening in when Lucius Malfoy comes to take Hagrid to Azkaban, and it’s fun to speculate that maybe he let himself get fired in Book 2 as part of a larger plan to boot Lucius off the Board of Governors. So far, that’s the sort of thing he’d do. But in Books 3 and 4, we are confronted with a number of important things that Dumbledore just missed. He doesn’t know any of the Marauders were animagi, he doesn’t know what really happened with the Potter’s Secret Keeper, doesn’t know Moody is Crouch, and doesn’t know the Marauders Map even exists. But in Books 5 and 6, his omniscience does seem to come back online. (In a flashback, Voldemort even comments that he is "omniscient as ever” when Dumbledore lists the specific Death Eaters he has in Hogsmeade as backup.) Dumbledore knows exactly what Draco and Voldemort are planning, and his word is taken as objective truth by the entire Order of the Phoenix - who apparently only tolerate Snape because Dumbledore vouches for him:

“Snape,” repeated McGonagall faintly, falling into the chair. “We all wondered . . . but he trusted . . . always . . . Snape . . . I can’t believe it. . . .” “Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens,” said Lupin, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “We always knew that.” “But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!” whispered Tonks. “I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn’t. . . .” “He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for trusting Snape,” muttered Professor McGonagall (...) “Wouldn’t hear a word against him!”

McGonagall questions Dumbledore about the Dursleys, but not about Snape. I see this as part of the larger trend of basically Dumbledore’s deification. In the beginning of the series, he’s treated as a clever, weird dude. By the end, he’s treated like a god.

PART II: Chessmaster Dumbledore

“I prefer not to keep all my secrets in one basket.”

When Dumbledore solves problems, he likes to go very hands-off. He didn’t directly teach Harry about the Mirror of Erised - he gave him the Cloak, knew he would wander, and moved the Mirror so it would be in his path. He sends Snape to deal with Quirrell and Draco, rather than do it himself. He (or his portrait) tells Snape to confund Mundungus Fletcher and get him to suggest the Seven Potters strategy. He puts Mrs. Figg in place to watch Harry, then ups the protection in Book 5 - all without informing Harry. The situation with Slughorn is kind of a Dumbledore-manipulation master class - even the way he deliberately disappears into the bathroom so Harry will have enough solo time to charm Slughorn. Of course he only wants Slughorn under his roof in the first place to pick his brain about Voldemort… but again, instead of doing that himself, he gets Harry to do it for him.

Dumbledore has a moment during Harry’s hearing during Book 5 (which he fakes evidence for) where he informs Fudge that Harry is not under the Ministry’s jurisdiction while at Hogwarts. Which has insane implications. It’s never explicitly stated, but as the story goes on, it at least makes sense that Dumbledore is deliberately obscuring how powerful he is, and how much influence he really has, by getting other people to do things for him. But the problem with that is because he is so powerful, it become really easy for a reader to look back after they get more information and say… well if Dumbledore was controlling the situation… why couldn’t he have done XYZ. Here are two easy examples from Harry’s time spent with the Dursleys:

1. Mrs. Figg is watching over Harry from day one, but she can’t tell him she’s a squib and also she has to keep him miserable on purpose:

“Dumbledore’s orders. I was to keep an eye on you but not say anything, you were too young. I’m sorry I gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys would never have let you come if they’d thought you enjoyed it. It wasn’t easy, you know…”

It’s pretty intense to think of Dumbledore saying “oh yes, invite this little child over and keep him unhappy on purpose.” But okay. It’s important to keep Harry ignorant of the magical world and vice versa. fine. But once he goes to Hogwarts… that doesn’t apply anymore? I’m sure when Harry thinks he’s going to be imprisoned permanently in his bedroom during Book 2, it would’ve been comforting to know that Dumbledore was sending around someone to check on him. And when he literally runs away from home in Book 3… having the address of a trusted adult that he could easily get to would have been great for everybody.

2. When Vernon is about to actually kick Harry out during Book 5, Dumbledore sends a howler which intimidates Petunia into insisting that Harry has to stay. Vernon folds and does exactly what she says. If Dumbledore could intimidate Petunia into doing this, then why couldn’t he intimidate her into, say - giving Harry the second bedroom instead of a cupboard. Or fixing Harry’s glasses. In Book 1, the Dursleys don’t bother Harry during the entire month of August because Hagrid gives Dudley a pig’s tail. In the summer between third and fourth year, the Dursleys back off because Harry is in correspondence with Sirius (a person they fear.) But the Dursleys are afraid of all wizards. Like at this point it doesn’t seem that hard to intimidate them into acting decently to Harry.

PART III: Dumbledore and the Dursleys

“Not a pampered little prince”

JKR wanted two contradictory things. She wanted Dumbledore to be a fundamentally good guy: a wise, if eccentric mentor figure. But she also wanted Harry to have a comedically horrible childhood being locked in a cupboard, denied food, given broken glasses and ill fitting/embarrassing clothes, and generally made into a little Cinderella. Then, it’s a bigger contrast when he goes to Hogwarts and expulsion can be used as an easy threat. (Although the only person we ever see expelled is Hagrid, and that was for murder.)

So, there are a couple of tricks she uses to make it okay that Dumbledore left Harry at the Dursleys.’ The first is that once Harry leaves… nothing that happens there is given emotional weight. When he’s in the Wizarding World, he barely talks about Dursleys, barely thinks about them. They almost never come up in the narration (unless Harry’s worried about being expelled, or they’re sending him comedically awful presents.) They are completely cut from the last three Harry Potter movies, and you do not notice.

The second trick… is that Dumbledore himself clearly doesn’t think that the Dursleys are that bad. During the King’s Cross vision-quest, he describes 11-year-old Harry as “alive and healthy (...) as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well.”

Now, this could have been really interesting. Like in a psychological way, I get it. Dumbledore had a rocky home life. Dad in prison, mom spending all her time taking care of his volatile and dangerous sister. Aberforth seems to have reacted to the situation by running completely wild, it’s implied that he never even had formal schooling… and Albus doubled down on being the Golden Child, making the family look good from the outside, and finding every means possible to escape. I would have believed it if Molly or Kingsley had a beat of being horrified by the way the Dursleys are treating Harry… but Dumbledore treats it as like, whatever. Business as usual.

But that isn’t the framing that the books use. Dumbledore is correct that the Dursleys aren’t that bad, and I think it’s because JKR fundamentally does not take the Dursleys seriously as threats. I also think she has a fairly deeply held belief that suffering creates goodness, so possibly Harry suffering at the hands of the Dursleys… was necessary? To make him good? Dumbledore himself has an arc of ‘long period of suffering = increased goodness.’ So does Severus Snape, Dudley‘s experience with the Dementor kickstarts his character growth, etc. It’s a trope she likes.

It’s only in The Cursed Child that the Dursleys are given any kind of weight when it comes to Harry’s psyche. This is one of the things that makes me say Jack Thorne wrote that play, because it’s just not consistent with how JKR likes to write the Dursleys. It’s consistent with the way fanfiction likes to write the Dursleys. And look, The Cursed Child is fascinatingly bad, I have so many problems with it, but it does seem to be doing like … a dark reinterpretation of Harry Potter? And it’s interested in saying something about cycles of abuse. I can absolutely see how the way the play handles things is flattering to JKR. It retroactively frames the Dursleys’ abuse in a more negative way, and maybe that’s something she wanted after criticism that the Harry Potter books treat physical abuse kind of lightly. (i.e. Harry at the hands of the Dursleys, and house-elves at the hands of everybody. Even Molly Weasley “wallops” Fred with a broomstick.)

PART IV: Dumbledore and Harry

“The whole Potter–Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister”

So whenever Harry feels betrayed by Dumbledore in the books - and he absolutely does, it’s some of JKR’s best writing - it’s not because he left him with the Dursleys. It’s because Dumbledore kept secrets from him, or lied to him, or didn’t confide in him on a personal level.

“Look what he asked from me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly, trust that I know what I’m doing, trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!” (...) I don’t know who he loved, Hermione, but it was never me. This isn’t love, the mess he’s left me in. He shared a damn sight more of what he was really thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared with me.”

Eventually though, Harry falls in line with the rest of the Order, and treats Dumbledore as an all-knowing God. And this decision comes so close to being critiqued… but the series never quite commits. Rufus Scrimgeour comments that, “Well, it is clear to me that [Dumbledore] has done a very good job on you” - implying that Harry is a product of a deliberate manipulation, and that the way Harry feels about Dumbledore is a direct result of how he's been controlling the situation (and Harry.) But Harry responds to “[You are] Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you, Potter?” with “Yeah. I am. Glad we cleared that up,” and it’s treated as a badass, mic drop line.

Ron goes on to say that Harry maybe shouldn’t be trusting Dumbledore and maybe his plan isn’t that great… but then he abandons his friends, regrets what he did, and is only able to come back because Dumbledore knew he would react this way? So that whole thing only makes Dumbledore seem more powerful? Aberforth tells Harry (correctly) that Dumbledore is expecting too much of him and he’s not interested in making sure that he survives:

“How can you be sure, Potter, that my brother wasn’t more interested in the greater good than in you? How can you be sure you aren’t dispensable (...) Why didn’t he say… ‘Take care of yourself, here’s how to survive’? (...) You’re seventeen, boy!”

But, Aberforth is treated as this Hamish Abernathy type who has given up, and needs Harry to ignite his spark again. There’s a pretty dark line in the script of Deathly Hallows Part 2:

Which at least shows this was a possible interpretation the creative team had in their heads… but then of course it isn’t actually in the movie.

So in the end, insane trust in Dumbledore is only ever treated as proper and good. Then in Cursed Child they start using “Dumbledore” as an oath instead of “Merlin” and it’s weird and I don’t like it.

PART V: Dumbledore and his Strays

“I have known, for some time now, that you are the better man.”

So Dumbledore has this weird relationship pattern. He has a handful of people he pulled out of the fire at some point and (as a result) these people are insanely loyal to him. They do his dirty work, and he completely controls them. This is an interesting pattern, because I think it helps explain why so many fans read Dumbledore’s relationship with Snape (and with Harry) as sinister.

Let’s start with the first of Dumbledore’s “strays.” Dumbledore saves Hagrid's livelihood and probably life after he is accused of opening the Chamber of Secrets - and then he uses Hagrid to disappear Harry after the Potters' death, gets him to transport the Philosopher’s Stone, and he’s the one who he trusts to be Harry’s first point of contact with the Wizarding World. Also, Hagrid's situation doesn’t change? Even after he is cleared of opening the Chamber of Secrets, he keeps using that pink flowered umbrella with his broken wand inside, a secret that he and Dumbledore seem to share. He could get a legal wand, he could continue his education. But he doesn’t seem to, and I don’t know why.

So, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality is a well known fix-it fic that basically asks “What if Harry Potter was a machiavellian little super genius who solves the plot in a year?” I enjoyed it when it was coming out, but the only thing I would call a cheat is the way McGonagall brings Harry to Diagon Alley instead of Hagrid. Because a Harry Potter who has spent a couple of days with McGonagall is going to be much better informed, better equipped and therefore more powerful than a Harry spending the same amount of time with Hagrid. McGonagall is both a lot more knowledgeable and a lot less loyal to Dumbledore. She is loyal, obviously, but she also questions his choices in a way that Hagrid never does. And as a result, Dumbledore does not trust her with the same kind of delicate jobs he trusts to Hagrid.

Mrs. Figg is another one of Dumbledore’s strays. She’s a squib, so we can imagine that she doesn’t really have a lot of other options, and he sets her up to keep tabs on (and be unpleasant to) little Harry. He also has her lie to the entire Wizangamot, which has got to present some risk. Within this framework, Snape is another very clear stray. Dumbledore kept him out of Azkaban, and is the only reason that the Order trusts him. He gets sent on on dangerous double-agent missions… but before that he’s sort of kept on hand, even though he’s clearly miserable at Hogwarts. Firenze is definitely a stray - he can't go back to the centaurs, and who other than Dumbledore is going to hire him? And I do wonder about Trelawney. We don’t know much about her relationship with Dumbledore, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she was a stray as well.

I think there was an attempt to turn Lupin into a stray that didn’t… quite work. He is clearly grateful to Dumbledore for letting him attend Hogwarts and then for hiring him, but Lupin doesn’t really hit that necessary level of trustworthy that the others do. Most of what Dumbledore doesn’t know in Book 3 are things that Lupin could have told him, and didn’t. If had to think of a Watsonsian reason why Remus is given all these solo missions away from the other Order members (that never end up mattering…) it’s because I don’t think Dumbledore trusts him that much. Lupin doubts him too much.

“Dumbledore believed that?” said Lupin incredulously. “Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry James was dead? Snape hated James. . . .”

We also see Dumbledore start the process of making Draco into a stray by promising to protect him and his parents. And with all of that… it’s kind of easy to see how Harry fits the profile. He has a very bleak existence (which Dumbledore knows about.) He is pulled out of it by Dumbledore’s proxies. It’s not surprising that Harry develops a Hagrid-level loyalty, especially after Dumbledore saves him from Barty, from his Ministry hearing, and then from Voldemort. Harry walks to his death because Dumbledore told him too.

Just to be clear, I don’t think this pattern is deliberate. I think this is a side effect of JKR wanting to write Dumbledore as a nice guy, and specifically as a protector of the little guy. But Dumbledore doing that while also being so powerful creates a weird power dynamic, gives him a weird edit. It’s part of the reason people are happy to go one step farther and say that the Dursleys were mean to Harry… because Dumbledore actively wanted it that way. I don’t think that’s true. I think Dumbledore loves his strays and if anything, the text supports the idea that he is collecting good people, because protecting them and observing them serves some psychological function for him. Dumbledore does not believe himself to be an intrinsically good person, or trustworthy when it comes to power. So, of course someone like that would be fascinated by how powerless people operate in the world, and by people like Hagrid and Lupin and Harry, who seems so intrinsically good.

PART VI - Dumbledore and Grindelwald

“I was in love with you.”

I honestly see “17-year-old Dumbledore was enamored with Grindelwald” as a smokescreen distracting from the actual moral grayness of the guy. He wrote some edgy letters when he was a teenager, at least partly because he thought his neighbor was hot. He thought he could move Ariana, but couldn’t - which led to the chaotic three-way duel that killed her.

One thing I think J. K. Rowling does understand pretty well, and introduces into her books on purpose, is the concept of re-traumatization. Sirius in Book 5 is very obviously being re-traumatized by being in his childhood home and hearing the portrait of his mother screaming. It’s why he acts out, regresses, and does a number of unadvisable things. I think it’s also deliberate that Petunia’s unpleasant childhood is basically being re-created: her normal son next to her sister’s magical son. It's making her worse, or at the very least preventing her from getting better. We learn that Petunia has this sublimated interest in the magical world, and can even pull out vocab like “Azkaban” and “Dementor” when she needs to. She wrote Dumbledore asking to go to Hogwarts, and I could see that in a universe where Petunia didn’t have to literally raise Harry, she wouldn’t be as psychotically into normalness, cleanliness, and order as she is when we meet her in the books. After all, JKR doesn’t like to write evil mothers. She will be bend over backwards so her mothers are never really framed as bad.

And I honestly think it’s possible that J. K. Rowling was playing with the concept of re-traumatiziation when she was fleshing out Dumbledore in Book 7. We learn all this backstory, that… honestly isn’t super necessary? All I’m saying is that the three-way duel at the top of the Astronomy Tower lines up really well with the three-way duel that killed Ariana. Harry is Ariana, helpless in the middle. Draco is Aberforth, well intentioned and protective of his family - but kind of useless, and kind of a liability. Severus is Grindelwald, dark and brilliant, and one of the closest relationships Dumbledore has. If this was intentional, it was probably only for reasons of narrative symmetry… but I think it's cool in a Gus Fring of Breaking Bad sort of way, that Dumbledore (either consciously or unconsciously) has been trying to re-create this one horrible moment in his life where he felt entirely out of control. But the second time it plays out… he can give it what he sees as the correct outcome. Grindelwald kills him and everyone else lives. That is how you solve the puzzle.

If you read between the lines, Dumbledore/Grindelwald is a fascinating love story. I like the detail that after Ariana’s death, Dumbledore returns to Hogwarts because it’s a place to hide and because he doesn’t feel like he can be trusted with power. I like that he sits there, refusing promotions, refusing requests to be the new Minister of Magic, refusing to go deal with the growing Grindelwald threat until he absolutely can’t hide anymore, at which point he defeats him (somehow.) I like reading his elaborate plan to break Elder Wand’s power as both a screw-you Grindelwald, the wand’s previous master, but also as a weirdly romantic gesture. In Albus Dumbledore’s mind, there is only Grindelwald. Voldemort can’t even begin to compare. I like the detail that Grindelwald won’t give up Dumbledore, even under torture. And, Dumbledore doesn’t put him in Azkaban. He put him in this other separate prison, which always makes it seem like he’s there under Dumbledore authority specifically. Maybe Dumbledore thinks that if he had died that day instead of Ariana…he wouldn’t have had to spend the rest of his life fighting and imprisoning the man he loves.

And then of course, Crimes of Grindelwald decided to take away Dumbledore's greatest weakness and say that no, actually he was a really good guy who never did anything wrong ever. He went all that time without fighting Grindelwald because they made a magical friendship no-fight bracelet. Dumbledore is randomly grabbing Lupin’s iconography (his fashion sense, his lesson plans, his job) in order to feel more soft and gentle than the person the books have created. Now Dumbledore knows about the Room Requirement, even though in the books it’s a plot point that he's too much of a goody-two-shoes to have ever found it himself. He loved Grindelwald (past tense.) And Secrets of Dumbledore is mostly about him being an omniscient mastermind so that a magical deer can tell him that he was a super good and worthy guy, and any doubt that he’s ever felt about himself is just objectively wrong and incorrect. Also now Aberforth has a neglected son, so he’s reframed as a bit of a hypocrite for getting on his brother’s case for not protecting Harry.

So to summarize, I think Dumbledore began the series as this very eccentric, unpredictable mentor, whose abilities took a hit in Books 3 and 4 in order to make the plot happen. He teetered on the edge of a ‘dark’ framing for like a second… but at the the end of the series he's written as basically infallible and godlike. I’ve heard people say that JKR’s increased fame was the reason she added the Rita Skeeter plot line, and I don’t think that’s true. But I do think her fame may have affected the way she wrote Dumbledore. Because Dumbledore is JKR’s comment on power, and by Book 5 she had so much power. In her head, I don’t think that Dumbledore is handing off jobs in a manipulative way. She sees him as empowering other less powerful people. That is his job as someone in power (because remember - people who desire power shouldn't wield it.)

Dumbledore’s power makes him emotionally disconnected from the people in his life, it makes him disliked and distrusted by the Ministry, but it doesn’t make him wrong. That’s important. Dumbledore is never wrong. Dumbledore is always good. That’s why we get the Blood Pact that means he was never weak or procrastinating. That’s why we get the qilin saying he was a good person. It’s why we get the tragic backstory (because giving Snape a tragic backstory worked wonders when it came to rehabilitating him.) And that is why Harry names his son Albus Severus in the epilogue, to make us readers absolutely crystal clear that these two are good men.

#hp #jkr critical #albus dumbldore #albus dumbledore meta #harry james potter #the dursleys #gellert grindelwald #albus x gellert #anti jkr #minerva mcgonagall #petunia dursley #severus snape #draco malfoy #close reading #hp fandom #literary analysis

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jolalibrary · 6 months ago

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13. hello yellow

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter thirteen of do me yourself

wordcount: 4.3k (she became a biggie) chapter warnings: reference to anxious!reader. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: this is the one you've been waiting for... .

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key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

It grows on your tongue on a cooler morning—the birds having only just begun chirping, the sun really only just rising. But he's there, truck parked outside as he brings you coffee, for no other reason than just because.

It's almost hard not to say the three words.

They thicken in your throat when you surprise him at work, having already spoken to Harry, asking if you can steal him for an extra half an hour. His face brightens, practically illuminating when he sees you at the register. It continues to do so when you take him back to the place where the two of you had lunch, his face beaming.

You’re not sure how the words don’t escape there and then.

There are a bunch of moments saying them could have been right. It would be so easy to let them slip out, but then he'll say something that makes you laugh, or his phone will go off and the conversation shifts, and you wait a little longer.

But you don’t just want right, you want perfect.

Just like him.

You know how we love Harold?

Yes?

He might have recommended me to a friend of his for some paintwork.

This sounds like a good thing, yet it feels very bad for me.

The only date the man can do is the day I said we’d go to the beach.

If this isn’t you asking me to come and help you be your a-paint-tice I’m going to be really let down.

You want to come paint a man’s house with me?

I want to do anything with you, Butterscotch.

It vibrates from two rooms away—buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

Your feet rush for you, socks almost making you a health hazard as you round the corner from your bedroom to the hallway. A laugh trying to escape from giddiness as your palms press into your off-white walls, before using it for leverage to continue.

Moving, almost running, not looking where you’re going, only realising at the last second when your foot collides with it.

Pain.

It pulses and makes tears spring to your eyes instantly. The hurt is more than radiating, it erodes, grows and pounds.

Fucking toolbox.

Hand grasping it as you half-hobble to the little side table where your phone almost topples off.

Butterscotch <3

A caller ID that usually brings an immediate smile to your face, and still, even as you clutch your foot in your hand and drag your finger across the screen, it somehow still does.

“Hey, I’m almost there—did you want lunch in or out?”

Stuffing a wince down your throat, you blink back fresh tears as your thumb presses down on a particular spot. “I need to show you something but maybe out?”

“You okay?” No, you want to hiss—wanting to add extra O’s and everything. “You sound off?”

Swallowing bitterness, you try to smile as you lower your foot—putting some weight on it as you suddenly become warm, and uncomfortable.

“Rainy?”

“Butterscotch, I bet you’re one street—you’re literally pulling up.”

You swear you hear him grin. Almost being able to tell even from the way he puts his vehicle in park that his smile is growing into his cheeks and cascading over his eyes. It makes your own appear, somehow rising to the surface and kicking its feet furiously to appear.

By the time you’d end the call, quickly check your foot inside your sock and put it back in place, your eyes catch his coming through your front door. Letting in amber streams of sunlight that paint across the hardwood in warm, honeyed hues. Bringing in warmth, a calmness, the pain suddenly non-existent when you see him slide out the key from the keyhole—the one you’d told him to keep, the one you’d give him, told him to use.

The sight pulls at something inside of you, making it easier to smile, to beam as he closes it behind him and walks himself up to you—mouth pressing to yours. The taste of coffee and mint flooding your mouth, your fingers full of his curls as his hand presses to your lower spine—bodies flush, his keys clanging in the air.

“You know I think you’re beautiful,” he whispers, teeth teasing your bottom lip before releasing it with a pop. “But, baby, what are you wearing?”

His hand slides down the plastic, water-proof full-body overalls you have on. It rustles, making your skin even warmer when he takes another long look at you, and laughs.

Not a giggle.

Not a quiet, hidden and disguised laugh. A full-on roar of laughter.

“I got it for next week,” you exclaim, heat rising up your neck. “You told me I’d need to wear something that would cover me—wanted to make sure it was okay.”

“Baby, I meant not your romper—'cause you’ll get paint on your legs. I didn't mean a… hazmat suit?”

Folding your arms, you take a step back, face scrunching in a wince you’re not sure he notices as you roll your eyes before turning on your heels to change. “I’m new to this.”

“I know, I know,” he says, trying to stifle his laugh, hand reaching out. “Baby, wait, I’m sorry. Okay? You just don’t need—fuck, Rainy. I can see your ass through this.”

“No, you cannot.”

“I fucking can.”

Letting him pull you into his arms, you shake your head, stupidly unable to stop yourself from grinning, before his lips brush over yours. Your nails digging into the t-shirt on his waist, mouth parting as he eases you back, a grimace hidden against his tongue as his knee nudges between your plastic-covered thighs.

“Frankie,” you whisper, it leaving your tongue like a whine.

He only hums in response, it vibrating against you, fingers tightening in his curls as his knee rises that bit more, friction so readily there, easily able to rock your hips if you so want to. Until it rustles, furrows, a noise so unsexy you feel him slowly grin against your mouth.

“Can’t believe you just wore underwear under this,” he teases, dropping his knee.

Your breath finds your lungs with more ease as you roll your lower lip between your teeth, admiring him, unable to stop ogling the man who is very much all yours after the position he just had you in.

“I should change before we go out for lunch,” you mumble. “Before I flash everyone.”

Moving away from him before he can stop you, you let out a groan as your bad foot flattens, unable to hide the misstep. Hearing him call your name, you're quick to wave him off. Digging your nails into your palm as you take (what feels like a thousand) steps until you’re unzipping the ridiculous plastic, all-in-one, and begin yanking drawers and doors open until you’re standing in something more appropriate for lunch.

Half-closing your bedroom door behind you, you don’t need to call for him, you know where he’ll be. Finding him exactly where you expected, tape measure in hand—right in front of one of the office windows.

“Thought you could do that in your head.”

Snorting, shooting you a look over his shoulder, he grins. “Wanna make sure I’m exact.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

Leaning against the frame, not obviously showing you’re taking the weight from your now pulsing foot, you try to smile. Listening as he begins telling you about getting something for your windows, instead of thinking how you should ice it, get him to wrap it, maybe ask him—politely—if he’d put his fucking toolbox away between visits before you actually break something.

Somehow, you hear enough to follow what he’s saying, about how blinds would help, that they’d give you more daylight while also shielding you if you wish to work in the dark—they’d be more flexible, modern. He could help you fit them.

And it dawns on you, that while you've had it in your head about curtains, this is a thing you should have thought of yourself.

A thing which feels so obvious now he’s said it that it irks you that you haven’t. Because blinds would be better. Digging a hole in you, making you feel silly, stupid, and foolish—

The realisation makes you pinch your forearm and take a deep breath. You re-centre yourself, thinking about the one image that inspired all of this, imagining it with blinds instead of what had remained fixed in your head, hung and stuck.

The problem with desiring something inspirational is that it isn’t always tailored to the person who desires it. To you, who will be using the room. Yet, Frankie has thought of you—like the considerate, beautiful man that he is.

“From your face, you don’t want blinds?” he asks.

Your mouth opens, before closing. Putting some weight down as your eye narrows in pain—it floods through you as you try not to frown. “It’s not that—I just thought curtains. Thought I preferred the way curtains look, is all.”

Frankie shrugs, staring out of the window, before glancing back. “Curtains it is then.”

“But, blinds do make sense.”

And you can see it, the way he chews his tongue—the way he swallows words he wishes to say. It flares something within. Rolling his head on his shoulders, and scratching the back of his head, he smiles.

“But you want curtains.”

“I did.”

“Then have curtains.”

He’s being nice—that’s what you remind yourself. He’s being kind and thoughtful. He’s taking what you’re saying and giving you exactly that.

Yet it feels… bad.

It makes you all of a sudden not want it—anger bubbling, trying to grow wider in your stomach. Instead, wanting him to tell you that you should have blinds, for all the reasons he’s listed, because it makes sense. They’re practical, and easy; it’ll block the sun out if it’s a bright day. They’ll even look modern; following the theme of the room.

And the fact he isn’t reminding you of that makes you mad. So much you feel it clawing up your throat, all ash and brimstone; flames and bonfire.

But you’re not mad at him. You’re mad at yourself for not looking. You’re not mad at him, just his toolbox. You’re not mad at him. You’re mad—

It repeating. Swirling. Shifting around the imaginary plug hole in your head as you wait for it to fall through and douse whatever it is that is brewing inside of you.

“I didn’t think of it like you did, so let’s have blinds.”

“It’s okay, it’s really—”

“But, they make sense, Frankie. You just said so.”

Jaw tightening, he hides his annoyance with a smile. “But, baby, you don’t want blinds, so let me just measure for—”

Standing straight, unable to hide the miniature sob from pain, you follow it with: “Stop being nice to me.”

He blinks. Both at your tone and the words that snap through the air as your palm pushes against your forehead, hoping to quiet it, the simmering anger that bubbles and thickens like soup.

“Rainy—”

“You don’t… I’m not broken, Frankie. Sometimes we can just… disagree. You can tell me I’m wrong.”

“I know that.”

He says it so quickly, all with a colder edge to his words. Ice threatening to wrap around them, freeze, as they go to land, pellet. Bruise against you.

Tilting your head, you stare at him—knowing you should stop. Remove your finger from the metaphorical scab. “Do you? Because ever since the other month you’ve been… extra nice.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“It is when I’m furious with you,” you snap, it’s out now, you think.

Chest tight, things unfurling and uncoiling, flames ripping through you as though all the emergency doors have flung open and allowed it to breathe through every part of you.

“When I’m mad that I tripped over your toolbox again because you didn’t put it away. Because you likely did something nice for me and forgot. But now I’ve really hurt my foot—”

“—Baby, why didn’t you—”

But you ignore him. Not even waving him off, just continuing, “—and that I can’t decide if I want curtains or blinds and yet you make a very good argument for blinds that I hadn’t considered and you always do that—have amazing ideas, great insight, plus, you seemingly know me better than I know me, which is so lovely, but I'm mad at myself for not thinking of it. But, you, you didn't do that, because you understand me.”

“Is this a bad thing?”

No, you think as your mouth jams shut. Staring. Blinking. Because of course, it isn’t. It’s just that it’s never been something you’ve had, never experienced, never thought could possibly be given to you.

A thing that you both love, so much, but also feel is going to be ripped from you at any moment. Better not to have it, than lose it. No skill to prepare for this level of care, so used to having to make decisions and choices and have no one offer to help.

But he’s not going.

He’s standing, hands at his sides, line between his brows. Confusion trying to crawl over him and lather his features, but he seems to be fighting it, stopping it. His eyes somehow remain soft even as your mouth hands open, more words set to spit and fire—

“I need. I need a moment.”

And you don’t wait for the okay or the sight of his face falling.

Just moving, hurrying. Feet trying to carry you through to the kitchen as your palms use the wall as a crutch to do so, finding a counter to rest on, to lean on, to breathe against as thick, uncontrollable tears begin to paint your cheeks. Whether from the pain or the fact you’d snapped. Unable to hold them back from rumbling out when your forehead presses against cool wood as you take breaths in and out, in and out.

Doing so until the pain dries on your cheeks and you’re merely resting, taking the moment you said you needed before you hear him clear his throat. Before he asks if he can come closer and if he can look at your foot, two things you quickly nod for—wanting to take it back, apologise, even explain. Instead, you let him aid you up onto the counter, slide the sock from your foot assess it and turn it, finger brushing over your skin as light as a feather as he asks does it hurt here, or what about here?

It makes your heart flutter.

Makes it even harder not to blurt three words at him, when really he deserves a chorus of them for what in the hell just happened. So, you lead with:

“I’ve decided that I don’t like fighting with you.”

Snorting, he picks up the sock from the floor, easing it slowly back over your toes. “It’s not my favourite thing we do together either.”

Smirking, you stare down at him. Watching him. “I don’t want you to think I’m fragile. That’s all.

“That you can’t challenge me just because of what happened the other month. Because it’ll happen again. But I can still make choices, you can still tell me I’m wrong—sometimes, I need you to tell me I’m wrong, because if you agree with me all the time, you won’t push me to be better. I’ll just stay stagnant, and choose curtains when I really think I’ll regret it and want blinds.”

Standing, he places his hands on either side of your thighs on the counter, letting out a heavy exhale as he looks at you, as he stares from eye to eye, before whispering your name. The one which sounds so kind in his mouth, that sounds like it matters—that it holds importance and weight, even if you prefer Rainy.

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he whispers as you slide your hand over his, watching his eyes soften, heal. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I did.”

Half-smiling, you nod. Eyes searching his, waiting to see if the lie appears when he blinks, whether it spreads out like paint touching water and if it makes his truthful eyes murky. But it never comes. Instead, his hand cups your cheek, in a way that centres you and makes you only want to look at him.

Exhaling, he smiles. “I just don't want to make you choose something you don't want. That's all, baby.”

Eyeing him chewing words, weighing up whether it’s worth it to speak them or let them slide back into the crevice they slithered from. Because it’s painful, maybe far too much truth for him, can see it in the way it makes lines appear across his face, as though it’s fracturing him to remember.

“I wasn’t really mad at you.”

Slowly, a grin breaks out. “Yes, you was.”

“Okay, a little bit, but it wasn’t your fault. So, I’m sorry. But I am mad at your toolbox, it really hurt.”

“I’ll be sure to tell it.”

Narrowing your eyes, you slowly part your legs, tugging on him to move between them, wrapping them around his waist as he shyly smiles. “Been thinking.”

“About how you now want curtains again?”

Pinching him, hearing him hiss, you smirk. “Too soon, Morales. No. I’ve been thinking that the cupboard closest to the office door.” He hums in response, it vibrating against your collarbone as he kisses it. “Think that’s where your toolbox should live.”

You feel him grin against your skin, blow warm air in an exhale against it. “You making room for my tools now.”

Lifting his chin, nose bumping against the tip of his, you mirror his smile. “I want to make room for all of you, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

Pressing a peck to his lips, you wipe your thumb over it. “Yeah.”

Babe, what is the attire for a kid's soccer match?

Comfort. It’s a lot of standing at the sidelines and hopeful cheering.

So knee-high socks and tight shorts are a no?

Fuck. That’s a fucking image.

Help me, because what I’ve Googled isn’t helping me.

I have a spare shirt you can wear.

Does it have Morales on the back?

It actually does.

Frankie, did you make adult versions of your son’s soccer team kit?

Does it make me lame if I say yes?

No, it makes me want to ask you if you can grab me fifteen minutes earlier so my mouth can show you how not-lame that is.

You'll be pleased to know I've sent the email and I am no longer working with 'prickly-puta', as you so lovingly called him.

I'm really proud of you. You okay?

I'd be better if I could celebrate with you, but I can wait.

How would you want to celebrate?

You sure you want to know?

Always, baby.

Well, I was thinking about showing you my power tools.

Maybe even using them? Letting you see what I do with them. It's very different from what you do with yours.

You there, I can see the typing bubble keep popping up.

Give me ten and I can video chat.

Oh no, you don't get an advanced preview. Might let you listen though.

Fuck me.

That's what I'd be saying if you were here right now.

You don't mind that painting ruined the beach because the rain is unrelenting.

The grey of the day filters through the bare windows, spreading itself as far as it can as Frankie prepares the second room of the three the two of you were set to do.

You don’t mind the sound of rain; you never have. You find it peaceful how it cascades down from the drains and runs in marathons down the glass. Right now, the sound trickles in through the open window, while the room is suffused with the scent of fresh paint from the kitchen, mingling with the aroma of the third pot of coffee Frankie’s been brewing.

Even if he doesn't admit it, you swear he's only making as many so he can take a moment to kiss you. To run his hands over your waist and slide them over your romper-covered ass—

“Have I told you how good your ass looks in this?”

Sipping your coffee, tasting each note of it, you reply, “Twice, actually.”

“Not enough then.”

Between acting like teenagers in a stranger’s home (including him leaving a large handprint firmly on your denim-covered ass), the paint goes on in thick strokes. You cut in, trying to match the rhythm of the song playing out on the radio—a game only you are playing to distract yourself—because the sight of Frankie using the roller is ruining you.

Unable to stop staring at the way his arms flex with each motion; how his shirt stretches out across his back to the point you're not sure how the threads haven't ripped.

“Want to see the colour for this room?”

It’s a serene shade of yellow, reminiscent of a summer’s day. It'll brighten the room, glide nicely over the old, smothering secrets and old stories, offering something new. Fitting, you think from the drive over when Frankie told you the situation.

“It's perfect.”

“Isn't it?”

Arm around his waist, fingers stroking up and down his side. “Did you pick it, Morales?”

Shyness breaks out then, smile lopsided, eyes averting before whispering, “Maybe.”

You made a note to tell him later what an eye for colour he has.

Dipping the tip of the brush in the paint tray, you swipe it against the corner where two walls meet, finding his eyes on you again.

“Stop marvelling at my paintwork and focus on your own, Morales.”

“S’not your paint skills I’m staring at.”

Smirking, you look over your shoulder at him, nose scrunching. “Who knew watching me paint was your kink.”

You like the sound of his laugh mingling with the yellow on the walls. It makes you smile wider, a thing you find yourself doing each time you refill your paint tray as torture him with your terrible singing.

The only other noise is the rain, the clink of a paint can and the rustle of plastic drop cloths as the transformation happens before your very eyes. It’s not even dried, and it already looks far better than the cigarette-stained walls and palm-covered handprints you hadn’t wanted to guess why they were there, yet had done all the same.

“Maybe he’s measuring how tall he is with his hands.”

Frankie snorts. “What if he wipes his dirty hands on the wall? Finishes his food, wipes. Gets something on his finger, wipes. Has a sticky hand—well.”

You’re about to tell him not to finish that thought, when the radio plays the beginning notes of something that steals your attention.

It hooks in the corner of your lips and drags it up your cheeks as the familiar melody of an old favourite drifts from the speakers, wrapping the space in a cosy embrace—both taking you back and rooting you here in a new memory.

You try not to, but you can’t help the movement in your hips. The way you begin whispering—hushed voice mingling with the music, filling the room with a gentle, attempted harmony as your pitch gets higher, and higher.

Then, you're swaying to the rhythm, lost in it, catching a glimpse of Frankie out of the corner of your eye as he leans against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

There's something in his eyes, you can see it. A tender look, one that makes your heart skip a beat.

But you close your eyes, and let the music carry you away, your voice rising and falling with the lyrics as they spill from your lips effortlessly. Opening your eyes at the bridge, finding him still watching, in awe, gaze unwavering.

And there's a softness there in his expression that you've never seen before, a quiet intensity that takes your breath away. It's as if the world has faded into the background, leaving just the two of you in this sunshine-filled room, back-lit by a horrid stormy day.

Yet, it feels perfect.

More so as you begin to sing to him, unable to stop staring as he takes a step closer, eyes never leaving yours. His fingers slide under yours, taking the tray and brush from your hands, placing it aside as his smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners, looking at you as if you're the most precious thing in the world.

“What?”

He reaches out, gently brushing his knuckles on your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady.

For a moment, the room seems to stand still.

A flicker of something sparks inside you. Those same words have been so close to your tongue for days now that you almost need to pinch yourself to see if you've really heard them.

But, you know you heard it. The declaration hanging in the air, weighty and profound, making the actual music fade into the background, you swear time itself pauses, allowing the enormity of his words to sink in.

Frankie slides his arm around your waist, still smiling, tugging you closer—a thing your body gives with all but ease. And he repeats it. Those three words.

This time, your heart skips a beat. Emotions swirl within you like a tempestuous sea. One that calms under the stroke of his thumb as your fingers wrapping around his wrist, drawing a soft shape there.

“I love you too, Morales.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, a grin breaking out like the sun on the walls. “I’ve been in love with you for a while.”

Then you hear it, the velvety, smooth sound of him saying good, as he kisses you to the last notes and chorus of an old, but new favourite song.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

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