#is that blood? is it his old colours? who knows

[moriaarts]

Cody o’clock!!! - Republic & Empire

[tteokdoroki]

IF IT’S ONLY A TOUCH…AITA? - satoru gojo.

✩ — about. “but one day, she just grew up…and i haven’t been able to look at her the same.” satoru gojo never meant to fuck his best friend’s little sister. he never meant to make her fall in love him. he never meant to fall in love with her. satoru doesn’t want anyone to know, suguru has no idea and she wants to tell the whole world…does that make him the asshole? … ( 46.5K )

✩ — warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! nsfw, smut, angst with a bittersweet ending. college!au, age gaps ( reader is 22, satoru gojo is 27 ), forbidden romance, toxic relationships, situationships, co-dependency ( on suguru geto ), controlling older brother, panic attacks, violence, fight scenes, arguments, alcohol mentions, smoking weed, manipulation, gaslighting, three smut scenes, spit, praise, dumbification, fingering (f!receiving), hand jobs (m!receiving), pussy jobs, dry humping, hold the moan, light!choking, light!oral-fixation, public sex, bathroom sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f + m!receiving), overstimulation, orgasm control, multiple orgasms, creampies, adopted geto!reader, fem!reader.

✩ — things to note. my entry for @ohkento ‘s reddit collab ! i’d like to thank everyone for their patience with this labour of love. it was first a silly idea that blossomed into something more complex and beautiful. i love this fic so much and i hope you do too!! special thanks to @todorosie for beta reading n all your encouragement!! and to @rinhaler for the sukuna reference hehe <3 - m.list ⋆ playlist ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ ⊹

AITA (27M) FOR FUCKING MY BEST FRIEND'S (26M) LITTLE SISTER (22F)? hey reddit. i’ll get straight into it. i met my best friend, we’ll call him S, when we were kids, as young as five i guess, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. he was there for me at my lowest, and right by my side at my highest. i’ve never been the greatest person…but there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me and vice versa. that’s why i feel so bad. he’s got this younger sister, i used to find her so annoying, but one day… she just grew up and i haven’t been able to look at her the same. we started fooling around two years ago around the time she’d settled into college but decided to keep it a secret from her brother. now she’s graduated from college and wants to take the next step… TLDR: we’ve been fucking around for two years but now she’s graduated and is ready to be more serious with our relationship. she wants to tell her brother — i’m unsure. AITA?

coming back home after four years of brutal education, late nights studying and heavy textbooks feels… almost comforting. 

sure, you’ve been home for the holidays before, and sometimes between semesters when things got a little bit rough. but this time around, being home feels more like a relief — an aura of permanency surrounding the occasion. at home, there’s home cooked meals instead of stale take-out and the house you’ve been raised in smells of warm spices rather than the unpleasant combination of old beer and dorm parties. 

there’s peace in being at home instead of college after four long years. it’s rewarding almost, to know that you’re welcomed back into the arms of the people who love you most after years of blood, sweat and tears. you’ve made it. you’re on the other side. you’ve got a degree under your belt and a bright, prosperous future ahead of you. 

letting out a determined huff, you throw your suitcases down onto the end of your bed — pushed up against the window of your childhood bedroom. the walls are a colour you no longer like (lime green… what were you thinking?) plastered with posters from groups you no longer listen to and movies you would only watch for comfort now that you’re a little bit older. nostalgia is warm under your skin as you look around at your teenage safe space, until your big doe eyes land on your sticker covered closet. 

being home for just the weekend, you thought you’d kill two birds with one stone. unpack the clothes you no longer need at your college dorm whilst joining your parents for a celebration. they had wanted you to come down from your university town in order to commemorate the end of your degree, since they’ll be abroad on business for your graduation ceremony in a few months time. not to mention, the outstanding job offer you’d received not long after being awarded  your final marks. 

your brother, suguru, would be joining you for the weekend as well. temporarily taking up space in his own childhood bedroom just across the hall — the keep out sign with black and yellow restricted tape still hanging from the white wooden door. geto had long since moved out of your parents place, what with him being five years older than you. he now had a job in the city as a big shot lawyer with hardly any time for his little sister anymore. so the fact that he was making the trip down just to celebrate you meant more than you could put into words.

he hadn’t arrived yet, however, and your parents were busy downstairs sorting out your favourite home cooked dinner (oxtail, a favourite) to care about what you were up to — leaving you to unpack in comfortable solitude. you decide to start with your night clothes, the darkness of the winter’s evening starting to bleed into the purple painted sky. you’ll be sleepy soon, no doubt. 

turning your back on the window, you move to set your toiletries and a fresh pair of pyjamas on the back of your desk chair — hardly noticing the way the window panes creak open, accompanied by the chill of a light december breeze. the gentle tread of footsteps across your carpeted floor go without attention as well, you’re too occupied with sorting through your things to pay attention to anything. not until it’s too late. 

“boo!”

large and possessive hands on your hips make you jump in fright, relaxing only when you hear the familiar teasing baritone against the shell of your ear. “did you miss me?” gojo purrs, using his hold on the flesh at your waist to spin you around to face him. your palms settle on the broad spread of his sturdy shoulders while his fingers dip into the back pocket of your low-waist jeans — leaving very little room between your bodies.

“satoru!” you exhale sincerely with the wisps of a smile spreading across your lips and twitching at the corner of your mouth. “what are you doing here? when did you get back?” like butter in a heated pan, you melt into the man’s arms, those same arms wrapping around your waist fully to pull you further into him. you feel dumb and lovestruck, tucked into the plushness of gojo’s chest as if you’d never left. 

“i couldn't miss my special girl’s special weekend, now could i?” the toothy smirk satoru gives you is enough to make your knees knock and you’re reminded that you’re lucky enough to be held up in his arms. happiness simmers hotly through your veins at the thought. a million and one girls would kill to be in your position, to have a man as handsome as the satoru gojo in their bedroom, all alone, sapphire blue eyes honed in on you and only you. 

he’s unlike any man you’ve ever met before. he’s so beautiful, not just anyone will do if it ever came to replacing him. he’s tall enough to tower over you, and make you feel small in a way that isn’t terrible at all. his hair is as white as winter frosts and unfairly soft for someone who probably doesn’t take as much care for it as he should. his lashes flutter against your forehead, long and to die for. satoru gojo is a beauty if you ever saw one — and you find yourself grateful to keep him all to yourself. in this moment. of course.

the look he gives you itself is enough to keep you alive, make your cheeks tingle with heat just under the skin, make you feel like a schoolgirl about to give a note to her crush. but a million and one girls don’t have to hide their crushes or keep them secret, their relationships probably aren’t as complex or confusing as your own with the man before you.

things with gojo have always been weird…ever since you were young. he found you annoying and whiny, back then, he along with your adoptive brother would pick on you until your eyes were big and shiny and your nose a little snotty. in those times, suguru (who babied you too much for your own good on occasion) often followed his best friend’s lead, maybe because satoru was older (despite them both being five years ahead of you in age) and the more dominating personality of the two best friends. it was easy to think that he might have even despised you then, or to imagine that suguru would grow up adoring you. yet, for satoru, it all changed one summer after your eighteenth birthday, when you just… shot up. you filled out, your demeanour changed, you became everything that he ever wanted. 

satoru was spoilt. he always had been, even from childhood. the gojo clan had built an empire and he was right at the heart of it as soon as he left college. the white haired man with the dazzling rows of perfect teeth had all the money and power in the world — right in the palm of his dangerous hands. obtaining what he wanted was as easy as snapping his fingers, and in an instant he could have all the booze and babes he desired. whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. the issue with being a man of satoru gojo’s calibre is the difficulty in drawing a line in the sand and knowing when to stop. men like him have everything, but only desire what they can’t have. 

he only desires you.

see, early on in his friendship with your brother, suguru had given satoru one plain and simple rule. one that he could never break so long as he walked god’s green earth and breathed fresh air into his lungs. 

suguru had made him promise never to go near you, sexually or romantically. 

they’d known one another their entire lives, been together through thick and thin, ups and downs. if anyone knew what the real satoru gojo was really like… it would be your brother. he had seen every arc of gojo like the phases of the moon up above. satoru was a partier, he drank until his veins were 50% alcohol and poured the bourbon until all of his organs were burned black. he smoked away his burdens, numbing his brain with whatever he could get his hands on. people, back in college, were just as disposable to gojo as his father’s income and even now, with his position at the heart of Gojo Corporations — satoru was no more stable than a drowning child, struggling to keep his head above the water and air in his scarred lungs. 

he was in no position to look out for you like suguru did. to the older geto, you were a prized possession and a treasure to be cherished. his innocent baby sister who was too sweet for the hard liquor gojo drank by the gallons and the papers that knew to tear him apart by name. you needed someone to rely on, someone to look out for you when the world gets tough and the rose tinted glass ceiling shatters down on you. suguru had tried his hardest to shield to growing up, becoming partly responsible for your dependence on him. 

he learned how to braid your hair and cook the foods you liked before moving to japan for your adoption. when he wasn’t being mean to you along with satoru, suguru cared for you deeply. he was a good adoptive brother.

so, it was a wonder how you even managed to get into and go to university all on your own — without your older brother’s watchful eye to keep you safe from the dangers of men, sex and money.

and gojo, being gojo, was never a stickler for the rules. he’d innocently reached out to you once you’d settled into college, under the guise of checking on his best friend’s little sister. much to his amusement, you’d already broken out of the safety net your brother had cast over you — you were more brazen and adventurous, sleeping around between study sessions and partying when you’d told your family you were tired from the week’s work. 

before anyone knew it, you’d become the college girl who liked to be wined and dined by older men — presenting the perfect opportunity for satoru to sweep you off your feet. 

texts to check on you every once in a while became calls to ask about your day and wish each other good morning and good night. these little things, as sweet as they might have seemed, snowballed into something bigger. something more. at least to you. you were falling in love with satoru gojo, and fast. it was the first time you’d ever felt like that towards someone, and he’d gotten you right where he wanted you. 

it wasn’t long before you were paying off your dorm mates to keep quiet about having an older man over, no less gojo. you were naive but not stupid, it wouldn’t take an idiot to know that geto had people keeping an eye on you nor that money was what made the world go round — people would do anything for a hefty price or designer bag. they kept their lips sealed each and every time gojo swung by your dorm to pin your knees to your ears and fuck you raw until your voice was hoarse and there was a dent in your wall from the force of his thrusts against the bed frame. 

satoru had been the one to take your virginity, of course. suguru would have had an aneurism if he ever found out.

and while you loved the thrill of sneaking around with someone older, someone who seemed to know the world better than you ever could, someone who excited you — there were times where you wished your heart hadn’t chosen the enigma that is satoru gojo. your relationship with him ruined the little time you had to explore yourself in college. he knew all of your friends, he knew all of the boys in your classes and the ones that dared to hang out with you outside of them. he sometimes paid them off to break your heart or cheat on you just so that you’d go running back into his arms — bleary eyed and emotionally drained.

satoru knew about your every move — the parties you went to and the socials you attended. you were never able to mess around with people, not with the tabs he had on you. silly little you, don’t you know? you’re satoru’s property. 

the worst thing he could have done to you is fail to put a label on your relationship. you were never his girlfriend and he would always dance around the question like he was avoiding a bullet to the chest. ‘what are we?’ you would ask, and like always, satoru would grin lazily and slowly — in the way that brews a hazy fog over your mind and respond with. ‘whatever you want me to be.’

what you wanted was something official. not to be satoru’s little pet, hidden away from the rest of the world while in private he promises you that you’re the only girl he’s ever loved. it hit hardest whenever you would go to visit him, noting another’s car in the driveway that wasn’t yours or satoru’s. you knew that you never meant much…but in actuality it was slowly killing you now. he gave you comfort, gave you warmth but whenever you woke, he was gone by the morning. that’s how it always was. 

a piece of you threatened to crumble each and every time your lover was plastered over the tabloids and gossip magazines with another heiress. you wanted to tell the world that you were his and he was yours. you wanted suguru to know too. 

oftentimes, satoru would ease your worries with a simple toe curling and mind numbing kiss to your butter-glossed lips, uttering the words ‘but, wouldn’t that ruin our little secret?’ 

the very secret made you feel dirty and used. 

if satoru didn’t let you, then you could never bring yourself to tell suguru. it would break his heart, his entire soul to know that his angelic little sister was taking her eyes off of the very expensive prize of her university degree. and so, the track of your fragmented relationship (situationship?) with your mischievous white haired lover replays over and over again like a broken record — scratched and scathed. 

satoru comes over, you fight or cry, and he ends up balls deep inside of you — creaming your little cunt in a hotel off campus or paying off your friends to spend your night in your dorm again. 

when you finally graduated, you remember one of said friends asking. ‘will you ever go public with that… guy you’re always fucking? i mean… he practically lives with you.’

at the time, you’d pressed your lips into a thin and telling line. you couldn’t. you wouldn’t. they’d laughed about it then and you knew what conclusions were running through their minds. what a dumb, naive little rich girl, for thinking she was anything more than a sidechick. 

if only you could just show them the lengths satoru would go to be with you in the secrecy of your own little bubble. 

like right now.

“sweetheart, where’d you go?” cocking his head down at you, satoru’s sugarcoated, sickly sweet coo runs through your ears like molten sugar and drags you from the depths of deep thought. he clicks his teeth, using a thumb and forefinger to tilt your head up in order to face him — positioning you like his own marionette doll. “came all this way to see you, only for you to get lost in that pretty little head of yours.”

it’s patronising, the way he speaks to you as if you’re a child — but it’s all you’ve ever known. being babied by your lover and even your brother. “s-sorry! i was just… thinking…” you supply as a meek excuse, shuddering when gojo slips a thumb over the slightly cracked skin of your bottom lip. the impending winter’s cold had been nipping at it in his place.

“about me?”

you scoff playfully, begrudgingly pulling yourself from satoru’s grip before he makes your brain too overcast to even focus about unpacking. “about graduation. i can’t believe it’s all over.” 

returning to unfolding some casual wear left in your bag, your mind begins to wander if satoru misses you as much as you miss him whenever you’re not touching. your skin feels alive, teaming with life, whenever he’s nearby — as if two magnets that couldn’t be more different have attracted one another instead of repelling. it’s like you need to be near him in order to breathe, to feel, to exist. 

your…boyfriend? makes himself comfortable on your bed, trailing his index finger over the pink patterned sheets.  you realise then, that you’ll never truly understand what’s going on in his head. 

“i am proud of you, yanno.” gojo comments casually. he man-spreads across the edge of your bed, leaning back against his elbows as if to draw your eyes to the treasure between his thick jean-clad thighs. “not every day my pretty baby graduates with honours. such a smart little girl, hm?” it’s cruel really, how dumb he makes you out to be — but in a way, it makes your insides twist and a flutter make its way up to your chest.

you shrug as if it’s nothing, hanging your clothes up in the closet before you return to the bedside. “it’s a wonder i managed, ‘toru. you were always distracting me,” memories of your illicit activities on nights before papers were due or exams were to be taken flash behind his vibrant azure eyes, and satoru grins mischievously as his strong arms snake around your waist — his head pressed against your smooth tummy. “i have to unpack.” you remind him gently.

but then he looks up at you, like a sweet pet that begs for food, dragging you into the shining blue pools of his eyes that you can never seem to escape. and before you know it, you’re drowning in gojo’s attention once again. 

“did you miss me?”

satoru let’s his fingers slide under your loose top and gives your hips a possessive squeeze, watching you with baited breath. 

“‘toru, you’ve asked me that already.” 

he squeezes again, harder, the rough pads of his fingers sinking into your mid-section, all needy like. he’s desperate to know that you haven’t found anyone else. “i missed you,” satoru quips in place of your silence. “i hate being away from you for so long, work sucks.”

as if he ever did any real work. satoru was just the pretty poster boy for his dad’s company — it worked out well though, you’d seen the amount of zeros in his bank account yourself. “i’ll be getting a job too, did you know that? at that big fashion editorial. you know the one, Heavenly Pact magazine. it’ll be in the city too so we can be closer together. it’s why suguru is taking us to dinner.” 

satoru finds your gushing adorable, pulling you to stand between his legs as you go on and on.

“and where d’ya think suguru got that idea from?”  he coos. “i had him set up a reservation at that place you like… yanno, the one where we spent our two years. something about the sushi there. you liked it.” 

satoru talks about the day as if you were really dating. two years. seven hundred and thirty days spent fawning over him and chasing the white haired male like a lost puppy. you couldn’t even call it an anniversary, not when you weren’t official. though, he’d taken the time to spoil you — he dressed you in diamonds and designer, picked you up in a fancy car that probably cost more than your rent, booked out the whole restaurant and filled it with your favourite flowers. gojo had made you feel like you were special, something special to him, and as usual you fell for the smoke screens and mirrors that masked how he truly felt. 

how he wanted to own every part of you. 

you’d wanted to celebrate two years being tied to one another and he let you, because in order to take — you have to give a little. 

gojo somehow feels closer than before, his lips treading lightly over your supple stomach while his thumbs trace circles over your hips. you preen into his touch, love bristling in your chest and replacing the heaviness that weighs it down. “you’re coming?” 

“wouldn’t miss it for the world, baby.” comes his husky, breathy whisper — uttered against your warm skin like a promise of love and support. satoru presses a wet kiss just above your navel all while slyly tugging your shirt further up, distracting you from the task at hand (folding clothes).

something stirs within your lower tummy, a blistering hot sensation spreads from your core to your chest, your mind and all four of your limbs as if someone’s thrown gasoline onto a fire. gojo’s curious silver tongue travels further — tracing over the saltine droplets of sweat on your skin while he licks up to your rib cage. every twist of his pink muscle against you makes your breath catch in the ridges of your throat and your entire body wrack with a case of the shakes. 

still, you continue to unpack, struggling with the items in your grip as large palms claw up your back and force you down into satoru’s widespread lap, not that you mind — being pressed up all against him. “oooh, that’s cute,” satoru taunts you playfully, pulling back from the love marks he’s painted where your breasts meet your ribs. he blinks over at the article of clothing between your nimble fingers, white flashes tickling your skin as he does so.

his scent is so overwhelming you can’t even think, not at all what one would expect. it’s fresh, almost cold to inhale, like peppermint, pine and cool air from the highest peak of the mountain. 

you look down at gojo dumbly, earning yourself the sound of his melodious laughter. in response,  he juts his head in the direction of your hand. “your bra, you gonna wear that for me?”

shifting your gaze over to the baby blue lace, you grin and toss it aside — using your free hands to push satoru back against your sheets. 

“maybe, if you’re lucky.” 

he growls in reply, predatory and playful all at once, lifting his head, with his pool of silver-moon hair rising from your bed, to capture your lips in a slow, spit-swapping kiss. he allows you to pin his wrists above his head, barely putting up a fight as you swallow him down and devour him whole — your tongues clash for dominance, slipping and sliding over one another while your hands do the same to the silver roots of his hair. 

one of your hands travel down to cup his cheek, tilting gojo’s head up just a tad more so that you can pour more of your passion into him. the kiss becomes, in the only way that you can describe it, hurried and hungry — the more of yourself you give to him, the more satoru becomes filled with your love and innermost parts of your soul. you give and give and give until his glass is full to the brim.

you grow weaker by the second, falling victim to the predatory, hot mouth of your lover and your grip on his wrists loosen just enough for his calloused fingertips to fluidly cascade down your body — finding purchase in the loops of your pesky jeans, tugging them away from your marred flesh and soft ass. once he’s bored with toying with your clothes, the silver haired man uses his reach on your ass to push you closer, kiss you harder, grind his swelling erection into the gap between your plush thighs.

the two of you can’t be closer, noses knocking against one another clumsily and breath becoming scarce as your lungs ache and burn for a fresh in-take of oxygen between drooly lip locks. it’s messy, you’re both messy — your relationship always has been. but in this very moment, you can’t find it in yourself to care, addicted to the weight of gojo’s tongue in your mouth and the way his smooth, glossy lips feel against your own. both of your chests heave, your bodies growing hotter and tenser each time you swirl your hips down onto him or he bucks up into you.

“baby,” satoru sighs airily, twitching underneath you — all restless and impatient. “you’re so pretty like this, on’top’a me,” his crystal blue eyes have darkened to a midnight blue, almost black with a list that makes his pupils blow wide. you’ve seen this change too many times to be unfamiliar with what satoru wants. that very thing being you. “smoke with me a little?” his plea barely covers up the low moan that escapes him as your hips jerk against him. his touch scorches through the all-too-tight denim hugging your waist, leaving burn marks at your tail bone. he’s desperate for this, desperate for you. 

how can you say no.

your face splits into an angelic, agreeable grin. just what satoru likes to see. “c’mon then, where’s your stash?” in reply, he lifts his hips higher from the bed — nudging the thick outline of his cock against your sensitive clothed pussy. 

“sorry.” he lies easily. “back pocket.” 

moving to dig around in said pocket, you pull out gojo’s tiny baggy of weed — noting the joints he’d probably rolled up prior to coming here. sometimes, you had the nagging thought that your man always loved you better when you were a little bit high. you gloss over the idea, however, reaching into your nightstand nearby for your sanrio lighter while you toss gojo the bag. he picks out a blunt for you to share and you trigger the flame.

you take the joint between your lips, plumped up from all the kissing you’ve been doing, and let satoru wrap a bulky arm around your middle — pinning you to his larger-than-yours frame. his chest is plush, warm, and you can feel your heartbeats beginning to sync up beneath your clothes. you hold the lighter to one end, bambi eyes reflecting the orange yellow flame that sets the wrapper alight and hum in content whilst you inhale. 

you hold. exhale. and when the smoke clears, gojo is looking up at you as if you hold the entire universe in your gaze.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty.” 

that sweet giggle of yours rings out into the night air. you take a hit before you press your mouth to satoru’s — breathing the smoke into his lungs. 

you’re spoiling him. he knows you don’t really like to smoke, but you’re always sweetest when he gets you a little fucked up. 

“so you’ve said, ‘toru.”

he swipes the blunt from your grip and takes a drag for himself, tapping the ashes out against your sheets as he picks up the salacious motions of his hips again. and like the obedient little thing you are, you grind against him, mewling into his milky skin that’s illuminated by the shy slither of moonlight that peeks on you both through your curtains. 

“i mean it, sweet thing,” another hit, his voice even huskier from the aromatic fumes — even as he gripes lowly into the shell of your ear. “fuck, you’re so perfect like this. grinding on my lap like a needy little girl, hm?” 

whining out for him, you let satoru stick the blunt back in your mouth and sit up — bucking down on his hard, heavy erection as if you’re riding his cock like you usually do. “satoru,” you purr while the weed begins to take residence over your brain, take its effect. you recognise that the supply is from sukuna, the older brother of a boy you knew from college. yuuji itadori, was it? you’d always found him cute but he had a girlfriend and gojo told you to stop worrying about him a long time ago. the very thought sparks something in the back of your mind — at war with giving into satoru’s touch and how it makes its way underneath your clothes to thumb at your pebbling nipples. “‘toru…when are you going to tell sugu about us?” 

the mention of your brother should be enough to kill the mood, but you’ve been away from gojo far too long. he’s already got his sights set on ruining you for some fun tonight, pushing his luck by slipping his fingers past your tight waistband in order to mess with your slick pussy folds against your panties. 

“do i need to?” he drawls, laughs a little, voice breaking through the thick barrier of ardour built up in his throat. “s’not that important. telling him. we’re having fun, right? things are good the way they are.” gojo sticks his tongue out in concentration, fumbling between layers of clothes for your cute little clit and grinning ear to ear when he finds it — watching you quiver and fail to hold yourself up above him as he presses down on the nub, hard. “what good would it do, telling him?”

you could think of a million reasons why, but all of them fail to rush to the forefront of your mind — blocked by desire and the lingering weed in your system. “i…i want to mean somethin’ to you,” comes your babyish voice, hurt and whiny through your pout. satoru takes the blunt from you, rubbing your cunt through your words as they catch in your throat. “wanna be serious with you. want something more. i-i’m a proper adult now… i deserve — oh fuck!” 

you don’t even know why you bring the fact up. that you’re an adult, that you’re grown now. because you’re still a naive little thing who wants so much more from someone older and more experienced. because you’re still suguru’s younger sister to satoru, not his girlfriend. just his forbidden plaything. 

satoru smiles wickedly again as you fail to express yourself, becoming a pliant sticky mess all over his fingers while their tips graze your clit over and over again in rough circles. “‘m sure you are, my big girl yeah?” he’s so cruel to you, talking down on you while he plays your sopping mound like a fiddle. pinching and pulling at your folds and your poor little clit. “you’re so close, aren’t you? think you might cum from a couple’a fingers ‘n a bit of weed…” 

heat brews under the surface of your skin, most hot at the centre of your face where you start to feel humiliated and embarrassed. even more so because you like it, when the silver haired man is mean to you like this. “satoru…t-that’s not what i meant—“ you try, gushing and crying. “s-satoru i’m g-gonna—!” 

knock, knock, knock.

“hey little one, i’m home!” 

the pair of you jump apart at the smooth sound of suguru’s calm and timbre voice. 

it’s like a shock to your system, like being doused with cold water or waking up from a hangover after one too many shots. with wild eyes you look from your half-hard boyfriend to the open window — immediately shoving up and pulling his hands from your pants. “g-get up!”  you seethe, teeth and tongue, all of your syllables rushed. 

“was that suguru?” gojo asks, voice elevated with panic while he puts the blunt out against your windowsill. 

you nod vigorously, using your shaky limbs to push satoru back out the way he came. “yes! now go!” 

“hey, little one? it’s me, suguru..”

he scrambles to climb back out the window and you lean over the edge to watch him go — accepting the chaste kiss he gives you on the way out. the second that gojo is out of view, you chuck the half-smoked joint into your trash can and kick the rest of sukuna’s supply underneath your bed to cover up the evidence.

“c-come in!” you finally squeak, putting on your best smile for your adoptive older brother. 

your bedroom door swings open, revealing a tired suguru with tousled clothes and sleepy dark eyes. he looks older, maturer, but he’s still the same brother you love and grew up with. “there’s my little princess,” he cheers, tying back the dark tresses of his (much) longer hair before he opens his arms wide to give you a hug. 

you quickly accept, nuzzling your cheek against suguru’s firm shoulder (also wiping your tears on him). “sugu! when did you get back?” 

“not too long ago. i tried calling, but you didn’t pick up.” his voice is laced with suspicion and you swear you hear him sniff the air from above your head — close to catching the traces of weed on you. 

“i was… unpacking!” stepping back, you stumble over to your toiletries that you’d begun to unpack earlier and eagerly (a little too eagerly) spritz some of your expensive perfume into the air. “s-sorry! i’m the thinking of wearing this scent to dinner on sunday…any thoughts?”

you swear you hear gojo groan from outside, no doubt listening in on your conversation with his best friend and your older brother — no doubt finding your excuse flimsily and unbelievable. suguru, despite it all, takes the bait or chooses not to bite any further — his eyes no longer narrowed and his face relaxed. 

“speaking of things to wear for sunday night…” he begins, digging deep into his left pocket for a small red velvet box. “i got you a little something, as…congrats for all of your hard work recently.” 

suguru reaches forward to take your hand in his, turning it over so that he can place the box in the centre of your palm. you glance up at your older brother hesitantly, but he only gives you a warm reassuring smile — gesturing for you to open it.

you do we told, the box creaking open at his hinges to reveal a real diamond necklace with a beautiful, dazzling sapphire pendant at its centre. just by looking it at it, you know that the sapphire and silver combination will contrast decadently against the deep, sun-kissed tones of your skin.

“o-oh sugu, you shouldn’t have!”

“but i did, think of it as my parting gift to you.” the older geto sibling explains kindly. “you’re going out into the world to do something special, to help people. you deserve to be spoiled before you get there.” his gentle hands close the box for you, setting it aside on your dresser before suguru links your fingers — staring down at you wistfully. “everything out there is dangerous. people will try to take advantage of you and your kindness. but like gem stone in hard shell rock, you must preserve that little shine of yours…” you let him brush at a dry tear mark on your cheek, your fingers slipping down to his wrist to hold them tight. “i will always be here to look out for you, no matter what. but i won’t always be able to be by your side.” 

the seriousness of the conversation overwhelms you with a weighty guilt. suguru has always looked after you and done his best to keep you away from any harm. you imagine that satoru would be right in how destroyed your brother would feel after finding out you ran into the arms of the biggest danger of all. 

his best friend. 

so you suck it up, mask your guilt and press a kiss to your brother’s cheek — hoping that he’ll forgive you if the truth ever surfaces. 

“i know, thank you sugu,” comes your simple, appreciative reply. “i’ll always have you, and satoru too.”

he laughs and kisses your forehead “that you will. but don’t get too close to him okay? he’s trouble. i wouldn’t want him to mess things up for you.” 

“i know, suguru.” 

the exchange is left at that, with suguru patting your shoulder as he bids you a goodnight. your entire body sags with relief once he’s gone, similar to that of a snake shedding its skin. you can’t keep lying to him like this but you don’t want to break his heart. maybe satoru was right. maybe you were wrong. either way, you feel conflicted and torn between two.

when you go to close the window, satoru is still waiting for you — safely on the ground below. his blue eyes beg to come back inside, to be with you, but you’ve danced with the devil too much tonight. gojo won’t take you seriously. he might ruin things for you, just like your brother said. 

“call me when you get home safe, okay?” you murmur to him in order to make sure you don’t get caught. 

you latch your window closed right after, not even bothering to wait for gojo’s reply. 

either you’ll keep sneaking around with him or you’ll eventually give him up, but for tonight — you decide that you’ll just shut the silver snake out.

“i’ve never known you to like the colour blue so much.” 

the day before your fancy and celebratory dinner — suguru geto decided that his spoiled little sister isn't quite spoiled enough. growing up, he’d bring you toys from his shitty part time job at the department store on weekends or food from the chef’s at satoru’s place after hanging out with that loser all day. 

in college, it would be magnets or posters or big, surprisingly well-made hoodies from the campus gift shop because suguru would always tell you that his little one would be going to university too — that you’d do him proud and achieve big things. you were destined for so much more and had every ounce of support in your corner. from your brother, your parents…there’s always been a pressure on your shoulder to make something of yourself, become someone worthy of their support. 

by the time suguru had graduated and landed his own job — the little gifts he’d gotten you became pricier and more luxurious. your brother had called them items of encouragement, a taste of what was to come once you made it out into the real world. not that he would actually ever let you spend a dime of your own, big brothers were supposed to be there for sweet little sisters like you to fall back on. he wanted you to know that he would always have you covered, have you spoiled with everything you’d ever wanted — mostly to keep your standards high, ensuring that you never settled for anything less than what your older sibling could provide you with. 

that’s how days like today first came about — you called it sibling bonding time. 

first on the agenda was breakfast at the humble little bakery your parents often treated you both to after a batch of good grades at school. it wasn’t too far from the house and you use the walk to catch up, bouncing excitedly by your brother’s side while he gushed to you about highly classified information from his line of work. there was always something to admire about suguru, how dedicated he was to keeping you safe and making a name for himself outside of the shelter of your home. 

in some ways, you wanted to be just like him. it could've been that you admired suguru too much or leaned on him even more. interdependency as some would call it. 

that didn’t matter to you though, your relationship with your brother has always been precious to you and that’s all that matters. 

the rest of your early morning was spent with a pampering session, manicures, and pedicures and makeup testing — even a trip to the hair stylist who happily braided your bountiful curls into your favourite look. 

next, was a late afternoon shopping spree. suguru drives you into the fanciest mall he can think of to spend the day. the elitist of the elite. designer stores were plotted at every corner, stocked to the brim with luxury goods that wouldn’t even put a dent in your brother’s salary nowadays. if you wanted it, you got it — without a word or question against you. suguru let you fill your basket with a purse and bag for the evening ahead, and right now, the last thing on your agenda would be the perfect dress to wear to your dinner.

that’s what had brought you to this very moment, the one where you completely blank on your brother because he’s noticed something different about you. 

something akin to a nuisance of a crush on gojo satoru.

blinking once, you turn on your heel to face suguru and snap out of your distant thoughts. “i-i’m sorry, what was that?”

the older, raven haired man smiles at you as if you’re being silly — as though there aren’t any thoughts up in that pretty little head of yours. “i said, you’ve grown awfully fond of the colour blue recently.” he keeps his voice soft and comforting while speaking to you, avoiding any accusatory tones that might set his sensitive younger sister off. “it’s not even your favourite colour.” geto adds, approaching you by the clothes rack in what seems to be your fifth designer fashion store. 

you may be spoilt but at least you have taste — the number of zeroes on the price tag was never an issue for your brother anyway.

he gestures down at the items folded over your crossed arms — the ones you wanted to take to the back and try on. heat flashes under the surface of your skin when you realise suguru is in fact right. there’s a plethora of fabric bundled in your arms with only one thing in common. 

they all share the shade of a baby powder blue. 

it’s the type of blue that reminds you of the sky on days where the weather is just right — when the sun is able to pierce through the veil of fluffy white clouds and shine down on you. the type of blue that hides behind lilac and orange when the sun rises at dawn. the type of blue that sometimes reminds you of clear winter skies after snowfall and drawing shapes in your condensed breath on the glass. 

it’s the type of blue akin to satoru gojo’s brilliant eyes — the ones that look as though they hold unseen stars or undiscovered galaxies, the secrets of the universe yet to be known by mankind. oh those eyes, they’re so dreamy that you could get lost in them for a milenia and never be bored. 

to anyone who knows about the two of you — it would make sense for blue to have become one of your favourite colours. it is the embodiment of satoru, everything down to loving him is blue, and bleak and beautiful all at once. 

yet, suguru could never know that. it would ruin everything. 

“i just…i just think it’s pretty!” internally, you feel yourself cringe and the weak excuse — threading your fingers through the dresses in your hold. “don’t you think the colour would like nice on me, sugu? if not, i can put them back—“

your older brother grabs at your wrist before you can even think to commit such an action — stopping you from putting anything back onto the clothes rack. “you’d look pretty in anything you wore, little one.” he lets out a nervous chuckle, moving to pet your head softly. “i just imagined you in something a little more—“

“blue. it’s perfect — isn’t it? it matches my pendant too…” spinning around to face your brother, you hold a beautiful cupcake styled tulle dress to suguru’s gaze, and dawn over its gemstone sweetheart necklace that has a twinkle bright enough to rival satoru’s eyes. you wonder how he’ll look at you once he sees it on you, contrasting perfectly with your warm complexion. a secret, not so innocent part of you hopes that satoru will just rip it off of you. the other, wishes you’d calm down and behave.

suguru offers you a wavering smile, before relenting. “if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” he hums, gesturing towards the fitting rooms. “how about you try it on, see how it looks?” 

nodding your head, you shove your discarded choices into his arms and disappear into a booth — excited to see how the article of clothing looks on you. you strip easily, kicking off your jeans while suguru wanders around impatiently outside. 

“so…is it a boy that you’re wearing this for?” comes his deep voice through the curtains, lifted in tone only by its teasing lilt. 

when you were younger, you would always gush to suguru about your crushes — whether he cared or not, your excited and love-struck musings always struck his ear. you remember being in his room while he studied or gamed, tucked into his side or braiding his luscious black hair while telling him all about how much you loved this one boy in your class. suguru would tell you to mind your heart and keep her safe, a boy who couldn’t buy you diamonds and make you laugh wasn’t the right boy for you.

you would hate to hear what he thinks about gojo then. a man who buys you diamonds, makes you laugh, fucks you good and breaks your heart all at once.

hugging your discarded t-shirt to your chest as if to protect the beating organ, you frown. “it isn’t! why would i dress pretty for some boy?”

“good. boys are dangerous,” clothing ruffles over the sound of suguru’s voice as he reminds you of the lesson he’s taught you many times over the years. trust no man, except for your brother. “i won’t always be here to keep an eye on you or keep you out of said danger. so just…focus on making a name for yourself. especially after you’ve worked so hard to graduate from uni.”

you scoff and grab the dress — debating whether or not you should step into it or pull it over your head. “i’m not a child anymore, sugu. i don’t need you to watch out for me… i’m old enough to make my own choices. i’m responsible too.” 

he watches your feet peek out from under the curtains as you mess with the dress and attempt to pull it on. geto’s senses jump to high alert listening to you struggle and shuffle to pull it over your head, resisting the urge to jump in and help you. “don’t pull it over your head when you’ve just gotten your hair done,” he grumbles in light annoyance. “step into it, little one.” 

“yeah, i got it!” comes your snappy voice in return while you readjust and try again. 

suguru leans against the nearest wall, crossing his arms over his chest — he slips into silence as you slip into your dress. “i know you do, you’re a smart girl.” you get the feeling he’s not talking about how you try it on anymore, and your stomach turns as you adjust the skirts. “but that doesn’t mean i don’t worry. once you lose your focus, everything comes crashing down. that’s what happened to satoru. i wouldn’t want you to end up like him.” 

again, your tummy lurches in the worst of ways at the mention of gojo and how much geto hates the idea of the two of you ever getting together. sure, satoru was childish and irresponsible — refuting the orders of the higher ups in his family… he could be disappointing at times too, with questionable loyalty. yet sometimes… sometimes satoru could be so good and stable, oftentimes reminding you of why you wanted to be with him in the first place. 

he is special to you, in so many ways that is beyond the web of human comprehension. you love satoru gojo so much that your lungs burn with the need for air whenever he’s not around for you to breathe in. 

the idea of not having him around often because of your brother is like oxygen deprivation itself.

“satoru isn’t that bad.” you counter, toying with the beading at your neckline while you inspect yourself in the mirror. he would love it on you. “don’t you think you’re being a little harsh on him? he is your best friend after all.” it takes your all not to bust out and tell your brother all about your relationship with said best friend, even if it kills him and ruins the rose tinted glass above his head.

pushing the curtains open you step out just as geto starts to scold you again. “satoru gojo is lazy and hardly competent, he wouldn’t be right for you and you know that— oh.”

he stops speaking when you step out to show him the dress, your eye bright and doe-like, almost pleading — while the fabric sticks to all the right curves, making you look stunning. making you appear more mature. “help me do the zip f’me, suguru? i can’t reach.” 

“come here, i’ve got you,” suguru whispers in quiet awe, turning you gently by the shoulders to do the honours of zipping you in at the low back of the dress. “you look perfect, give me a twirl, hm, little one?”

twirling as told, suguru watches proudly as your skirts flail about the place — it’s sparkle catching on the UV light up above. you’re the perfect angelic picture of his little sister…he doesn’t know how he’ll ever let you go. 

there’s still a pout on your lips undoubtedly from what he’s said about gojo and as much as suguru finds your defensiveness for him weird — he hates seeing you upset just as much. “hey, how about we go pay for your dress…” he calls your name and you tilt your head up just a touch, giving your brother your attention unwillingly. “and since we’re here at the shopping centre, we might as well get dinner. my treat? i’ll get you some of your favourites. perhaps boba and we’ll stop by the stuffed animal store on the way out—“ suguru trails off to see if you’ve taken his snare and got stuck in his trap, he knows you can’t resist being spoiled at the end of the day. 

you nod faster than your pretty little head can catch up. “sounds like a plan, sugu!” 

“i knew you’d say yes,” he snickers proudly, petting your head softly for the second time that late afternoon. then, geto carefully nudges you back into the changing room, patiently waiting for you to remove the dress so he can pay for it while you switch clothes. “i think you made a good choice today. with the dress,” he adds, drawing the curtains for you kindly. “who knows, maybe satoru will even take his head out of his ass to pay you a compliment, admire the colour. he’ll like it for sure.” 

you flinch behind the curtains when they close, trying to keep your voice even. “i-i can’t say i’m hoping for it!” to which suguru laughs heartily, accepting the dress as you chuck it out to him. 

but what you’re really hoping for, is for him to not connect the dots. 

to not find out about yourself and gojo until you’re ready for him too.

the first rule of a situationship, is to never answer the phone after the first ring. that's rule number one for satoru gojo.

it gives the girl the impression that you’re interested in something more than just fooling around, that you want more than the benefits of a relationship while sticking to the talking stage.

but gojo has never been one to follow the rules, not even ones he sets for himself…because when you call, he answers in a heartbeat — just to hear your sweet little voice relaying his name over your tongue and the way you giggle like a darling when he compliments you. 

satoru gojo likes you a lot more than he lets on, he misses you even more so. that’s why he answers on the first ring, practically kicking his feet in his king sized bed  — he hasn’t heard you say his name since the night you kicked him out, and for good reasons too. 

hiding his presence from suguru. 

“hi ‘toru.”

“hi gorgeous,” you can practically hear your lover’s smile through the crackling static over the line. “missed you,” gojo slurs lightly, of course, is high by no means other than sukuna’s supply of the good stuff — inhaling it leisurely through a nicely rolled joint while he listens to you call out for him. your voice is so inviting… so angelic… and if satoru shuts his pretty eyes and tries hard enough, he can just about imagine the way you’d sigh for him as his fingers slip right inside of your sweet little pussy—

“i almost told sugu about us today.” 

that makes satoru jump upright, choking on a deep inhale of cannabis tainted smoke. his lungs ache from trying to recover and the pain spreads to his toned thighs when he’s realised that he’s dropped the roll up in shock, the lit end burning through the grey sweatpants he wears. “fuck. shit… that hurts. idiot.” the silver haired man curses to himself, forgetting you’re still on the line.

“who me?” you simper a little on the sad side, seemingly shifting in your own bed.

satoru instantly picks up on the pouty twinge to your voice and if he hadn’t been burning to death (dramatic much?) he knows that his cock would have twitched to life between his legs at the dulcet sound. “fuck baby, no not you,” he says, words rushing from his mouth as he reassures you. “why would you tell him? did he figure us out?”

you hesitate with your next words. “w-well, um…not exactly…”

“come on baby, you can say it. s’just me, satoru,” gojo goads you with a condescending echo to each of his words, not putting too much pressure on your sweet and empty little head. “don’t think too much. just be good and tell me.” 

while he waits, the man fumbles his way out of bed and stands — somehow managing to tuck his splif between slightly chapped and pale pink lips. he tugs off his shirt, suddenly feeling too hot under the collar, and stalks his way over to his large, wide windows — looking down onto the bustling city below. 

it’s kind of funny, how noisy it is down there, creating almost as much of a ruckus as the racing thoughts in satoru’s brain. 

“i wanted to tell him…because suguru doesn’t think that you deserve me.” you finally say, submissively telling gojo what’s on your mind. it hurts like a bitch to hear, it stings at every unresolved trauma and open wound that he has — not because it’s a lie, but because gojo doesn’t want to accept that reality. 

a reality where he can’t have you, because he could never be someone who meets his best friend’s standards and expectations for you. 

be someone that you deserve. 

gojo exhales the smoke through his nose, letting it sting at his nostrils while he decays from the inside out. if this were any other drug he’d have smokers lungs by age twenty-seven. “well ain’t that the truth.” he mumbles, grim. 

“now satoru, why would you say that?” you sound like you’re about to cry.

“because, it’s not far off is it?” gojo really doesn’t mean to snap. after all, he is high, and this topic could have him spiralling into a really bad trip — but it’s not your fault that you love him, that you want him so bad you’d deny all of your brother’s wishes. that’s on him — he made you that way, and these are simply the consequences of his own action. “fuck… baby. sweetheart, you know you shouldn’t even be with me,” he starts, tucking his blunt between two fingers while running the same hand through his moonlight-kissed hair. “i’m way older than you, i’m hardly ever serious about you when i should be like you want…and hell, your brother sure as fuck doesn’t want me near you. you deserve better, and that’s the truth.” 

he hates saying all that shit to you, projecting his insecurities and inability to properly love someone onto the girl he loves…but gojo does it anyway, as if he can’t control the acid in his stomach — throwing it up everywhere or otherwise it’ll burn him from the inside out. 

“but i don’t want better…i want you.” comes your quiet sob, so tiny and pathetic. satoru resents himself for making you that way — pale white lashes fluttering shut and locking away his murky ocean blue eyes. he tries to picture you happier, instead of crying over the call like you are right now. 

“i want… i want you too.” 

“then…then let’s tell him! together! he’s my brother… and you’re his best best friend. he might understand, if you prove to him that this is what you want. that i’m what you want.” you're perkier when you speak again, and satoru (still high as a kite) wonders if he’d said that just to appease you or if he really meant it. 

a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts. 

except gojo isn’t drunk. 

he will admit, he’s pictured the day where you both come clean to the older geto sibling almost a million times. in his mind, satoru’s seen every reaction and emotion possible play out of his best friend’s face — he’s seen them in real life too. yet, the only prevalent expression on suguru geto’s face when anyone ever spoke of you in a nasty manner.. was red hot rage. 

suguru would become another man, one who wasn’t afraid of murder, whenever it came down to you. countless individuals over the years had tried and failed at winning your favour from suguru — as if you were a princess in a castle. each one of them would regret trying for the rest of their lives. 

and each time you remained none the wiser to how bad suguru really was and the lengths he’d go to keep you his innocent little sister. 

gojo didn’t want that for himself, to face the wrath of his best friend. 

but maybe he could try to withstand it, for you. 

the girl he might actually love, after all. 

“we can try…i’ll try for you.” he mutters quietly over the line after sometime. satoru sounds neither hopeful or hopeless, but either way it does the trick for you. you laugh for him, airily and bubbly, it makes the man smile around the blunt resting between his rows of perfect teeth. your happiness is enough to be his happiness. 

he wished he allowed himself to feel that way about you more. 

“and i for you, ‘toru. we’ll be together openly someday.” you gush. 

the two of you chat for a little while longer until you adorably fall asleep on gojo and his blunt finally ends…but by the end of it, he can’t help but get this sinking feeling. where anxiety fills the cavity in satoru’s chest and drowns his optimistic heart in worry — slowing down its steady beat.

things won’t be as happy as he wants them to be. 

and he doesn’t quite have the heart or guts to tell you that. 

satoru gojo has always been afraid of love. 

it’s not an emotion that comes easy to him — like the second nature of most human beings. there’s no innate need to love someone for satoru, there’s no urge to be tender or to hold someone in high regard because of the way he feels about them. love is not something that’s bound to his DNA or feeling he’s known since his very conception. or perhaps it was the environment in which he was raised, the way that his father was never home and his mother was always crying — her choked sobs only increasing in severity when she cast her gaze upon her only child. 

that white hair and those blue eyes reminded her way too much of the man who couldn’t love her back. 

perhaps that’s why he’s afraid to open up his heart, bordering up with layers of concrete and brick to protect it from the harsh reality of the world. the organ beats, it pumps blood around his body and keeps satoru alive — but it doesn’t carry an ounce of love. it’s as if he’s incapable. all he feels is resentment, towards his father and towards his mother — towards the people who did nothing but try to show him that he was worthy of warmth and intimacy. 

he hates them because he doesn’t deserve it. satoru is nothing but a cold husk of a human being, a shell long since abandoned by its owner or inhabitant. there’s nothing to care for behind the walls of human flesh and tissue, no open heart to hold between one’s fingers with the promise of keeping it safe. satoru gojo doesn’t love because he’s afraid and it makes him feel like he can’t. 

the people who love you always leave. to gojo, that’s a proven fact. his memories tied the emotion are never fond — his mother left him for a better life and better family with another man. his father left him for the company and late nights at work, a glass of brandy in his right hand. all satoru knew growing up was the cold, empty silence of his childhood home that should have been filled with happiness, laughter and warmth. 

the people who love you are supposed to come back. for gojo, no one ever did. no one cradled him when he cried, no one held his hand through the scariest moments of his life. no one came back for him. 

how could a man like that ever learn to love someone outside of himself? 

how could a man like him make anyone happy? 

satoru thinks that he would be a miserable addition to anyone’s life, a thick smog that hides the brightness from the world and blocks out any sunshine. no one around him deserves to be happy, it’s why he so selfishly and recklessly tears them apart in front of the media or acts rebellious to tarnish his family’s infamous reputation. his actions have no consequences, he hurts no one he loves because he loves no one. 

no one except for… 

“master satoru,” the matured voice of his personal driver interrupts the deep pool of thoughts gojo drowns in. “we may be slightly late for dinner with the getos. with your permission, perhaps i can make a detour? it’s not the safest route in town but it would get us there faster—“ 

no one except for you.

satoru sits up straight in the back seat of his expensive, sleek black car as if he’s been hit with the realisation that you exist. that you’re still here and still made to be loved. the man doesn’t believe in soulmates, or red strings of fate or happily ever after’s, yet — in the short two years that he’s been fooling around with you, satoru has somehow managed to fall deeply and irrevocably in love with you. 

by all means, it doesn’t show — hell, you probably don’t even know how satoru really feels about you. he’s terrible at being genuine and hides behind a porcelain mask that only shows you the worst parts of him, that the entire world takes pleasure in seeing…but it’s true. he loves you. against all odds, the very feeling has managed to take root in the white haired rich boy’s chest, like the smallest flower blooming in the harshest of tundras. there’s something satoru didn’t know, that love has resistance, and no matter how hard he tries to act like he doesn’t — it will always find a way to thrive.

satoru might love you so much it makes him physically sick — one look at you and he’s rendered weak in the knees and short of breath. you’ve got a smile full of sunshine that warms satoru even with the bone chilling air outside. your eyes are enticing, deep pools of chocolate and hazel notes that drag him in like a fish on a line. your lashes are always soft against his skin, long enough to rival his even though you comment about how much you adore his every time you’re together. 

you’ve got the man under a fucking spell and he’s not sure he ever wants it to be broken. at first, you were just something sweet to snack on, someone that gojo couldn’t have which only made him want you more. you’d be his pet — nothing more. he’d keep you at arms length until he was bored and could toss you away. however, over time, gojo’s want grew to love and even now, you’ve no clue how much you affect him, he regrets not showing that to you more.

he still treats you like you’re a child, a naive little thing because he’s terrified of opening up to you, frightened by the mere thought of you running for the high hills once you see what the man who loves you is really like. 

satoru takes to adjusting his tie as the car switches lanes into a less polluted route — avoiding the evening traffic so that he can get to the destination faster. for some reason, anxiety spikes gojo’s blood stream with nervous hormones clinging to each red cell. the car becomes too enclosed, too compacted and the dark night outside doesn’t help him much either — it’s as if he’s lost in the void of space trapped with his own feelings. 

his tongue darts out to wet the seal of his pink lips and his twitching fingers pull at the stupid necktie his PA had picked out for him tonight. there’s one thing that he’s forgetting, one thing that’s worse than loving you — a guilt that sneaks up on gojo when he’s truly alone with his riveting thoughts.

the man lets out a shuddering breath. “fuck. me.” he says quietly, the two words colourful on his tongue.

there’s suguru too.

and the betrayal he’ll feel when he finally realises that satoru gojo is fucking his little sister.

gojo loves getou. though it’s a different kind of love in comparison to what he wants to share with you. it’s brotherly. friendly. and it goes back years beyond the situationship the white haired man has trapped you in. it would absolutely kill your brother if he ever found out, ruining the supposedly unbreakable bond they’ve developed over the time that they’ve known each other. 

a flash of pain flashes across gojo’s chest as if he’s been slashed with a knife — he grips the car handle tight, his knuckles turning white with how forceful his grip is. you and suguru are all that he has. the only family who ever truly cared for him and treated him like their own. of course his selfish actions and self-centred mindset would find a way to come between you both. he would be sure to kill the delicate sibling bond you have, satoru is an asshole like that.

it’s why he can never tell suguru about the fooling around you’ve done over the last two years — he would lose his one and only best friend. in the same breath, he could lose you too. you’re a smart girl, you’ll learn to leave him eventually and spread your own wings with pride.

the both of you were better off without him. 

satoru was nothing but a chaotic storm that left nothing but wreck and destruction in its wake. it was an absolute guarantee that he would tear the two of you apart, create more than surface level crack in the crust of the world you two have created together. he’s just no good, nothing good ever comes of him. 

but the love he has for you, building in slow stacks between the gaps in his rib cage, is addictive — much like that buzz from weed or the stale taste of a cigarette on his tongue. he’ll never have enough of you, and that very fact is what makes satoru gojo the most vile human he’s ever known. 

he’d rather die than give you up. rather tear you apart from your brother than let you go.

the admission to himself makes the play boy’s stomach turn and twist wrongly, the air in his lungs turning bitter and clogging up his throat. gojo’s hand slams against the door of his car, fumbling to wind down the window and feel the cool bite of cold against his skin. 

“p-pull over,”  satoru whispers, more so to himself in the back of the vehicle than to anyone else. his nails dig into the rough skin on his palms, and the blood rushes through his ears — louder and louder. painfully so. 

the driver looks to his master in the rear view mirror — concern sketched upon his features. “but master satoru, we’re just a few minutes away—“ 

“i said, fucking pull over!” gojo damn near screams in reply, throwing a piercing blue gaze at his poor driver. his head throbs heavily with guilt so by the time the car comes to a screeching halt, satoru’s close to throwing up on the sidewalk. “s-shit.”

the bile tastes like soured guilt in his mouth — but nothing comes. he’s sure he looks like a fool, half hanging out of his mercedes, pale as the silvering moon with the indication that  he’s going to be sick. 

“satoru,” his driver speaks to him tenderly, like a loving father would to his child. a comfort gojo never had the luxury of. “it’s not too late to go back home, i can have one of the maids ring suguru to let him know you won’t be in attendance. you don’t look your best.” 

the white haired man’s ragged breaths as he stands hands on knees in the middle of the road accompany the late night ambience — rushing cars and sirens, heels clattering against concrete pavement and groups of people laughing away. the sounds ring loud in his ear, overloading gojo and his guilty conscience until there’s a warm hand on his shoulder. 

his driver, reassuring him once again. 

“it’s okay, satoru. just breathe.” 

the statement somehow brings him back to present day, along with a heavy breath of frosty air. his driver rubs his back in smooth circles until satoru is able to stand to his full height — less queasy looking than he was before. 

“i’d like to go,” he clears his throat, replacing his woozy expression with his signature bright eyed, sparkly-white toothy grin. “i made a promise, to the people i love.” 

with a firm nod and gentle smile, satoru’s driver gives his employer one last firm pat on the back before returning to his position behind the wheel — ready to make the rest of the commute to the restaurant. 

it takes a moment for satoru to slip back into the car — and during that time, he reflects. he may be selfish, he may be an asshole, he may be sick and twisted right down to the core. but at the centre of all that, is his compassionate love for you and he would do anything to prove it. 

even if it means losing it all, just to be with you in the way you’ve always wanted.

satoru gojo is not as brave as he thought. 

the rest of his car ride to the restaurant is uneventful — aside from the silver haired playboy’s random musings. the pep talk he gives to himself while tugging at the tight loop of his neck tie. everything will be okay.

it’s just dinner with you, and dinner with the getos. an event that he’s attended dozens of times over the years because suguru is his best friend and your parents love him. 

except this isn’t just dinner. 

this is make or break. 

should he choose to make things official with you, it would shatter the very foundation of his relationship with suguru. the same if satoru chooses to ignore what you’re asking of him. 

the nerves unload on satoru as he jogs up the smooth marbled steps at the forefront of the restaurant — hesitating when the concierge on duty holds open the mahogany framed and glass panelled door. he can’t bring himself to go inside and face the consequences of his own actions over the last two years. 

just as he spins on his heels to run away, chelsea boots clicking against with every step — the sky starts to rumble and unleashes its heavenly tears upon the land below. rain.

gojo’s car has long since vacated the fancy premises — leaving him with no true escape home. he could just call a cab, call his driver, but duty and respect for his family away from family, for you, roots him to his spot outside of the restaurant. 

he spends the next twenty minutes with a rolled up joint between his ever glossy, plush pink lips.

the weed does nothing to mollify gale force winds and torrential downpour set heavy over gojo’s mind. his entire body is tense with apprehension, spreading cold from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. the weather itself causes gojo’s fingers to go stiff as he inhales the addictive fumes, a burnt amber crowning the other end of his blunt.

“since when did you smoke, satoru?”

satoru coughs and the smoke goes down wrong, he looks up at his intruder with bleary eyes that soften once his gaze lands. “started two years ago,” he says to suguru as his smile turns wistful. “couldn’t find a real reason to quit.” 

the reality of his words are masked by the sound of heavy rain hitting the ground, the tops of cars and the restaurant’s outer steps. it’s you, that satoru can’t seem to quit. 

if he dares to stop, he’ll go mad with withdrawals and a nicotine patch won’t fix him. 

“you really should stop getting addicted to the things that are bad for you.” suguru scolds his best friend, sidling up beside him. 

like you, his sister? 

satoru doesn’t deserve the aura of his warmth as they stand with one another. “yeah? no shit.” 

the younger of the pair holds his hand out for the joint, which gojo passes easily. the city bustle fills up the silence between them — occupying every particle of air that buzzes with kinetic energy in that very same space. silences shared between gojo and geto were not uncommon, they were the type of friends who could communicate a million words to one another in a blink of an eye. but tonight’s soundlessness feels tense, thick with an uncomfortable awkwardness that neither of them know the source of. 

be that as it may, satoru has always been able to mask his true feelings from the world and so he turns to his old friend slyly, giving him a casual punch to the shoulder while they smoke their worries away. 

“what’s got you so wound up, suguru?” satoru asks, playing coy and covering up. 

beady, blackened and tired eyes settle on his taller frame — trying to read the small print that codes each and every one of satoru gojo’s actions and behaviours. to the untrained eye (or anyone who hadn’t been practically raised by his side) gojo’s being his normal and cocky, maybe even obnoxious, self. though, to suguru — a man who’s been beside gojo through it all… there’s something missing. 

a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

suguru plays along, moving his chess piece along the board of the game satoru is playing. he’ll figure it out eventually. 

letting out a puff of glacier grey fumes — the older geto sibling shrugs and taps the ashes onto the floor. narrowly missing gojo’s expensive patent boots.

“she’s grown up so fast,” he admits slowly, with a husky chuckle — probably from the smoke. “i’m scared she won’t need me anymore.” suguru’s voice is usually so full of endearment and pride when he speaks of you but this time, all dazzling and pure emotion seems to be lost on him. 

the very notion scares satoru. 

he swipes the splif back to relieve the queasy feeling stirring deep in his gut once again. “she can take care of herself.” gojo mutters, coolly.

“i know that.” suguru replies, smoothly and icily. “but if she doesn’t need me anymore, she won’t listen to me anymore. there’ll be no one to warn her of the people who’ll take advantage of that. her ability to care for herself. i set a high standard for her, i don’t want anyone to claim they can do a better job than me.”

your brother is protective above all things, he’d rather kill a man than let you get hurt. satoru finds the sentiment both admirable and terrifying all at once. 

“you’ve done enough, man, how about you let her go?”

suguru turns snarky in response, teeth bared like a wild animal protecting its young. “maybe you’ll never understand the fickle connections of love…but adopted or not she is my little sister.” he asserts, glaring daggers into satoru’s skull as he smokes with a hand covering his mouth nonchalantly. hiding the quiver of his lip that shows how much he cares about this. about possibly screwing your life up. “i’d rip the heavens apart for her if she asked, i love her that much. i often wonder if any person would do the same for her.”

little does suguru know…satoru would do the absolute same for you and more. he would kill, he would die, he would destroy all for you. until he was bloody and raw. anything it took for you to keep on smiling up at him like that, he would do. and suguru would never know, because he’d end the world if he knew it was satoru that had defiled you. 

satoru is such a coward. 

neither of the men most important in your life speak after that, though, they continue sharing the joint until it’s nothing but burt orange ashes and fumes laying across their minds. the concierge does butt in at some point, kindly (and with a tight lipped smile) pointing out that the restaurant is three michelin stars and that smoking isn’t preferred. 

satoru hates rules, so he spits on the steps and chucks the blunt to the floor — stomping it out.

suguru only chuckles at his best friend’s antics, smacking him upside the head as he jogs up to the grand entrance — gojo’s hands in his pockets, his once crisp tuxedo messy with burnt ash and rain water. gojo stops just shy at of the sleek, pearlescent moulded handles and throws his mop of silver hair back over his shoulder.

“are we doing this thing or what, suguru?”

they share a familiar, all knowing smile. 

“yeah, satoru. let’s do this.” 

without even knowing, that everything is about to change.

you’ve always been a little nervous, especially without a grounding presence beside you.

for many years… your brother, suguru, was that presence. he knew all the best ways to keep you calm — like that little tune he taught you to tap onto your desk during quiet exam hauls, or that method of breathing so your lungs were so full of air and you stopped holding it before public speaking. suguru always knew best. 

but nowadays, you don’t find yourself seeking serenity in him. as if you were at a crossroads, your head always turns in the direction of someone you love with almost every corner of your heart. that someone being satoru. he may use you, he may fuck you and fling you to the side when he’s done but he grounds you. even when he isn’t trying to. in the subtle way that he toys with the beads braided into the ends of your hair while you sleep over at his place, or grabs at your waist in public spaces so that you don’t get lost or bullied by paparazzi. in the way that gojo makes you breakfast after bruising you and breaking your back beyond belief the night before — just to make it up to you.

satoru cares, even if it doesn’t look like it, he does.

and it almost makes you sick to your stomach — the thought of you craving his attention to that level.

your dainty fingers and blush-tone acrylic nails toy with the heavy pendant draped around your neck — the one that suguru gifted you. he had told you it shines under every light at every angle possible and you’re sure with the crystal chandeliers above, it’s blinding. 

“stop that,” your mother scolds you warmly, in her own charming way of easing your nerves. “you’ll break that big expensive gift from your brother.” you cast a glance upwards from its fixation on the pearl white tablecloths and glinting silver table settings to focus on your parents. as per usual, your father is too engrossed in reading every detail of the menu to notice your discomfort and nerves, while your mother can’t seem to look away. reading you to filth, much like suguru does. 

her efforts do nothing to help calm you down. 

your hand shifts, taking to twirling the cutlery instead. she sighs, and you shrink in on yourself — trying to take up as little space as possible. “‘m sorry,” comes your hushed little bleat.

“never you mind.” she comments, giving you a once over before digging through her purse for a napkin — no doubt to dab at the corner of your mouth like a mother usually does. “i don’t know why you’re so skittish. your exams are over and you’ve graduated! tonight is about celebrating you! it’s just your brother, his friend, and us.” 

that’s just it. it’s your brother and his friend. neither of them are aware of what might go down tonight. 

you wished you hadn’t told satoru that you want his commitment — maybe then you wouldn’t be scared shitless in a tight dress at an upscale restaurant downtown. maybe then you wouldn’t be dreading satoru’s decision or suguru’s reaction to that decision. 

you only wished you weren’t so selfish, to crave love from more than one person in two completely different ways. 

the love from your brother should be enough, he’s only gone and done so much for you. 

but it isn’t. and that makes you feel sick. 

you want to be loved in the way that plays out in movies. where the guy chases the girl through an airport just to confess how much he needs her. or stands in the thunderous rain to tell her how sorry he is. 

you want that from satoru. deep down, you know he wants it too. 

the only thing that stands in your way is the affection that radiates so strongly off of your brother — like an umbrella protecting you from heaven’s downpours. 

it’s been almost twenty minutes since your brother left his seat at your side to retrieve satoru from…well, wherever he is — like a stray cat picked up by a caring and kind-hearted stranger. you don’t know how’ll act when you see them together, side by side but you do know that ever second ticks by has you angstier and angstier. 

the waiter has come by at least four times, asking if you’re ready to order, ready for drinks, ready to be served. “no,” you mumble politely on his fifth return — anxious to the point where your grip on your sterling silver fork has your knuckles turning white. “we’re waiting for two others, we’re waiting for—“

“there you two are! we were starting to think the wind had swept you up!” your mother coos as she always does whenever she sets her sights on her favourite two boys. she stands, immediately moving to wrap her arms around suguru’s taller, broad frame as if she hasn’t seen him in a millennia. “suguru! you had your poor family worried sick.” 

your father doesn’t look up from the menu and you’re sure that you look a frazzled mess — but all your brother does is offer up his signature, delightful closed-eye smile, squeezing your mother back in reply. “sorry, ma. i got caught up with looking for this one.” he says warmly, jabbing a thumb into satoru’s side. 

satoru hasn’t looked away from you since he’d arrived at the table. his gaze even follows you as you stand.

he can’t help it, you’re beautiful. 

the dress that you wear hugs every dip and curve of your body, the satin material of your corset and tulle of your skirt in a shade of baby blue to rival his eyes contrasting perfectly against your deep skin. you’ve done your hair in the way that he likes, curled the ends of your braids with loose ones framing the roundness of your youthful face. if you were the last thing satoru gojo ever saw, surrounded by angelic light, he would be happy. he would be content. 

for you, satoru looks like a god amongst mankind. even though his clothes are askew and lightly washed with rain, he’s still perfect to you. pearlescent droplets coat is luxurious white lashes as they flutter against his pale ivory cheeks. his air, all the same, is pushed back from his forehead — exposing those dreamy eyes to you. they hold so much love, interwoven between each greyish-navy fleck dotted against his pupils. love that is all saved up for you.

a bright and angelic grin breaks out across your hot chocolate fenty glossed lips — almost blinding to the regular man but the most beautiful thing to satoru. the waiter prompts you, asking if you’re ready to order once more, to which you respond without looking “yes, thank you.” in a breathy, wispy tone.

jumping between both yours and gojo’s line of sight, your mother pops the bubble that you’re both in. “satoru gojo! is that you?” she squeals with a fond tone. “why do you look so skinny? have you been eating properly?”

your lover squirms like a child being picked apart as your mother reaches up to pinch his cheeks. 

“leave the boy alone, dear, i’m sure he’s been eating just fine.” comes your dad’s uninterested quip. “satoru my boy, how have you been?” 

you sink back into your seat patiently while satoru greets your parents — the charm rolling off of him in radiating heat waves. “i’ve been eating ma, though i think you’d have a fit if you saw what i was eating,” he kisses your mother’s cheek softly while she laughs so hard you think she might pop, and sets a firm hand on your father’s shoulder. “i’m good old man, thanks for askin’! hope you’re cutting back on the liquor.” 

“oh son, you know i don’t do any of that anymore!”

satoru scoffs kittenishly, gesturing between your dad and himself. “yeah, and i’ve stopped being the family disappointment!”

your parents love satoru. you can tell by the way they helplessly fall for his bravado and charisma. he’s magnetising — it’s hard not to fall for satoru in all of the ways possible to mankind. if he wasn’t so afraid of taking you seriously, you can’t help but think that he’d fit right into your family unit of four. it would be perfect, he would be perfect…as your boyfriend. your man. always by your side without hiding in and calling for you from the shadows. 

if only you weren’t such a coward. 

if only he weren’t so afraid.

if only…

suguru clears his throat in faux annoyance, pushing his best friend down by his wide-spanning into an unoccupied seat at the round table so that he’ll stop making a scene — despite how cheery it is. “behave yourself satoru! at least until i order the drinks.” your brother laughs, ruffling the moonlight locs on gojo’s head. he turns to you, face so bright and full of love. “any preferences, little sister?”

“moscato!” you nod without hesitation. you like things on the sweeter side.

“i knew you’d say that,” suguru affirms, taking his leave from the table. “i’ll see if the staff have anything special for you in the back.”

if only suguru wasn’t your older brother. 

maybe then you wouldn’t feel such nauseating levels of guilt as gojo swaps chairs to be one closer to you. maybe then you wouldn’t have to keep your face plain and your body rigid as familiar, pale and slender fingers danced up the inner thigh of your dress — beneath the cupcake skirt, to settle comfortingly and dangerously on it’s apex. maybe then you wouldn’t have to try so hard to control yourself around satoru and especially in front of your parents — who have taken to digging through the fancy menu together while the buzz of the table dies down in suguru’s absence.

you’re so nervous that you fear someone might hear the loud thump of your heart against its cage and the blood rushing through your ears — you don’t even want to look at satoru because you know that with how close he is, you’ll fall apart the minute that you do.

but then he squeezes your thigh, in a tender and affectionate gesture — tracing a heart over the blistering hot patch of your beautiful brown skin just to calm you down. because satoru gojo knows you like no other man. better than anyone, better than your brother even.

“you look…” he starts, his usually husky voice barely above a whisper. the words coagulate in his throat — held back by tethers of spinelessness and debilitating fear. “you’re stunning, sweetheart.” gojo compliments you quietly, the sweet string of words nipping at your ears softly — his long, lavish lashes tickling at the crown of your head from how close he’s gotten by leaning down.

if you turn your head now, you might even kiss him and every fibre of your being prickles with anticipation — desperate to do so. “you’re not so bad yourself, satoru.” 

his laugh fills your lower tummy with warmth. your heart rate picks up too.

“i mean it,” gojo reiterates. he’s desperate for you to look at him, for you to touch him. instead you bury your nose in an à la cart menu that you’re not even truly reading because the circumstances don’t allow for kissing, and holding and touching. not until satoru grows a pair and tells suguru the truth about your relationship and his feelings for you. “i’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.”

you can feel the heat from his breath coast across the surface of your cheek like a condensed mist over the warmed layer of seawater. it caresses you softly, sending shivers down your spine. “you look rather handsome too, satoru.” you joke, poking the hungry bear in its den by tilting your head ever so slightly in his direction. 

he smiles like he always does right before he kisses you, slow and sexy, but the sweet moment is interrupted by the sound of heavy glass borderline slammed on the table — right into the crevice between yourself and gojo. 

you dart apart, hearts racing and mind frazzled, only to find that suguru has returned with the wine he requested specifically for you. his face is hard set when you look up at him, his obsidian eyes darkened with suspicion and fear strikes you in the chest — he knows something, he suspects even more.

“sugu what are you—!”

your older brother lifts his chin with narrowed, cat like eyes. “i want to make a toast.” he announces, slicing through your words with a butcher's knife so sharp it makes both you and gojo squirm uncontrollably. like children being scolded for breaking the rules.

both of your parents put down their menus, excited, happy to be with the children they raised (including gojo) — they mistake your brother’s interruption for enthusiasm to celebrate your achievements. 

“suguru, we’ve hardly ordered anything!” 

“it’s never too late to start the festivities, ma.” he responds with a sly tone and slips into gojo’s previously empty seat to open the bottle of pink moscato. the cork popping makes you jump skittishly, and gojo’s hand slips away from your thigh underneath the table. 

the loss of his touch reminds you that as long as your brother is around, you’ll never be anything more than a little secret to satoru.

liquid gold in the shade of dusted rose pink is passed around the table in crystal glasses — raised in honour of you. suguru says your name, the bulk of his voice full of pride.

“a toast to you, my little sister.” 

you smile, tight lipped but warm — the guilt rushing back you. 

but then gojo’s hand returns to the apex of your thigh, smoothing over the skin under your dress to calm you down once more.

“and everything that you have achieved. congrats on graduating, squirt.” satoru finishes suguru’s toast lovingly, approved by your parents who break out into a round of applause before flagging down a waiter to get the real celebrations underway. they tell you to order whatever you would like, but you take to downing the crisp, sweet flavours of your wine first.

you chug the beverage like it’s cheaply made beer from the college parties you’d been to — the ones satoru stopped you from going to, the ones that you avoided out of loyalty to him where you sought out the commitment he wasn’t ready to give you, a light buzz simmers over your brain, dulling down your high-alert senses and you hope that the alcohol makes you feel anything but present in the moment so that you miss the tense look that gojo and geto share beside you. 

suguru is politely seething and satoru is playing pretend — acting as if there’s nothing wrong or nothing between you. your lover swirls his wine around in his glass, the pink tinted elixir sloshing over its edges before he takes a casual slip, ignoring your brother’s obvious dissatisfaction with satoru’s little addition to his toast.

“satoru.”

you gulp and fixate your gaze on other happenings deeper into the restaurant. your parents make their order. satoru squeezes your thigh once more.

“suguru.” 

could this be it? the moment that gojo tells the truth and the moment that your eldest sibling accepts what you have with his best friend? you twitch in your seat as the confrontation brews and the thunder of their clashing personalities and morals begin to strike. all suguru has to do is ask if he suspects something, and all satoru has to do is confirm the truth. say that he loves you, that you’re his girlfriend while your brother accepts it and is happy for you. 

you wish. that would be an ideal world. 

“you’re in my seat, satoru,”  is what geto settles on, the crescendo of their confrontation falling flat — missing a key note. “you’re sitting next to my sister. i was supposed to sit there.”

“really?” all satoru does is grin, and if you looked close enough, you could see the mischief dancing between the navy flecks in his stunning eyes. 

the waiter comes to take yours, your brother’s and your lover’s orders (after tending to your parents for most of the interaction) — not giving suguru any time to protest his best friend’s faux confusion.

gojo takes to swirling his moscato once more — daring to look your brother in his eye over the rim of his crystal glass. 

“i hadn’t even noticed.” 

the rest of the actual dinner seems to go smoothly after that.

your boys tone down their bickering in favour for scaring down tiny Michelin star starters — micro herbs and all. they’re still so childish, even as they sit either side of you, picking from one another’s plates in the same way that they did back when you were kids. you find yourself relaxing as the night progresses too — maybe this isn’t so bad and things could work out between the three of you. suguru and satoru have been joined at the hip for as long as you can remember, a girl (one that they both knew), let alone suguru’s sister wouldn’t come between the bond that they had. 

by the time the main dishes are served, you have enough alcohol in your system to feel nothing but a pleasant buzz in place of the nerves that once contaminated your bloodstream. you had nothing to be worried about, everyone was getting along, laughing and smiling while your parents indulged the three of you in drunken repeats of famed moments from your childhood. 

you do your best to listen in, though the story about how suguru and satoru pulled out one of your wobbly teeth in third grade is one that you’ve heard too many times to count. it’s sweet though, that your parents are able to reminisce like this while you’re all together…especially since suguru works long hours so far from home and you’ll be off to a new city by the time the month ends. 

even just having satoru there makes the night feel complete. there’s so much love to go around. 

there would be even more love if suguru knew about how you and satoru truly felt for one another. 

you’re only sucked back into the bustling conversation when geto pinches your side — jutting his head in the direction of your mother so that you can give your attention to her next story. “oh honey!” she coos and you cringe, chugging back your latest glass of wine in order to prepare yourself for whatever embarrassment is about to come next. “do you remember when your poor brother threw his white laundry in with those cute red undies you brought — suguru was wearing pink for months!” 

the whole table bursts into obnoxious laughter, and you sink down into your seat. 

“mom! oh my god!” 

“i remember that,” your brother comments casually, gaze slinking over to his best friend in amusement. “satoru wouldn’t let me hear the end of it, told me i looked like a barbie doll. what were you even doing with underwear like that anyways.” 

“sugu, not you too!”

“now i remember the pink shirts but… the underwear? i would have loved to see the culprit.” safely says with a voice as sultry as it is silky smooth — sending a jolt of electricity down your spine until it fizzles out at your tailbone. he gets scolded by your parents (more so by mom) and earns himself a harmless glare from geto who’s been loosened up by alcohol but from you — you’re furiously humiliated. 

under the table, you lift a foot to stamp down hard on his own with your heel, but gojo is quick to react — instead dragging his foot up the length of your calf, inciting you to join him in an enticing game of footsie.

you slam your hands down on the table in surprise causing everyone to look your way before you sheepishly wave them off. “stop it, gojo.” you snarl through the cage of your gritted teeth. 

he clicks his tongue, delighted by how flustered you are. “i’m not doing anything, pretty girl,” he purrs shallowly into your ear. “c’mon now, pay attention to the story.” 

“it was a frilly little thing, far too inappropriate for someone her age.” your dad chimes in and gojo nods — lifting his foot higher and higher until you’re shuddering all over. you don’t even think to stop him. 

“mom, dad. please stop before i end it all.” you struggle to place your words in the correct order, distracted by gojo’s touch. you place your hands under your thighs, keen on controlling your squirming as they squish together ever so slightly. you just know that satoru is enjoying this and if you looked at him you’d see satisfaction evident all over his stupidly handsome face. he likes knowing how much of an effect he has on you, that it’s easy to make you writhe all for him. 

“sorry sweetheart, but they really were cute! i know you were just trying out new things. starting to act mature for your age.” 

satoru chimes in again, leaning in a little closer so that his breath just tickles the shell of your ear. “bet they looked even cuter on her.” 

squeaking in embarrassment, you kick your chair back until it screeches loudly across the floor in a weak attempt to put some distance between yourself and the man who’s practically torturing you. of course, your escape plan doesn’t work, because satoru keeps a strong grip on the bottom of your seat — dragging it forward, back under the table, and closer to him, that same hand now resting on the wooden frame beneath your locked knees. 

coughing to cut up the tension growing between the two of you, suguru cuts in. “not as cute as her diaper phase!” from there, everyone is distracted by gushing over even more embarrassing childhood memories of you as a baby. obviously, leading to some tears from your parents’ end — you’ve grown so much, come so far. it’s only natural that they’d be emotional on a night like this, one meant to celebrate your achievements.

what isn’t natural, is the fact that you’re three seconds away from jumping satoru gojo’s bones right in front of them. 

god, he drives you fucking insane. just from messing with you under expensive linen tablecloths too — his thumbs brush over your knees, your feet tangled together and if he leans over you anymore you might just turn your head and kiss him. 

you fight that urge to do so by grasping at the cool silver pendant around your neck — tapping your acrylic jelly nails against the fat sapphire gem at its centre. the jewellery feels like ice against the temperate surface of your skin, a dirty need starting to bubble and brew beneath it hotly. one that can only be satisfied by satoru gojo. 

the heat spreads to the back of your neck and under the collar of your dress, even warming the chain that hangs loosely around it. it could just be the alcohol, but you know it’s something more. it’s an itch you can’t scratch on your own and a fire you can’t put out without help. suddenly the metal of your pendent is warm to the touch and slippery between your fingers whilst you continue to play with it in newfound sweaty hands. 

a subtle gasp slips past your chocolate glossed lips when the chain snaps somewhere and the rest of the metal slides between your buttery fingers, your pendant gathers at your bosom before dropping to the floor with a clatter. feeling around your neck for your precious gift, you let out a louder whine upon realising where it’s gone. suguru spares you a moment of his attention, concern drawn against the gentle slopes of his features. 

“you okay, little one?” 

“y-yeah,” you exhale slowly, trying to calm the anxiety that fires across your neurons. “i think i um… i dropped my necklace under the table.” 

an award winning beam slots itself perfectly on your brother’s lips as he chuckles under his breath. “you’re so clumsy, need my help?”

“just keep mom and dad distracted for me? it’s just under the table, i’ll be back for their next story before anyone notices.” you attempt to joke in order to appease him, you don’t need suguru to get a closer look at how wildly turned on you are nor the fact that gojo is sitting comfortably with his hand between your knees — inches away from where you need him most, where he’s been so many times behind your brother’s back. 

not to mention the fact that you’re still fucking playing footsie.

suguru shrugs and drops the subject, tuning back into your father’s rendition of your first skatepark experience. the one where you’d tried to copy satoru and suguru and attempted a trick on your chunky bratz scooter and went flying off the ramp. ouch.

you dip beneath the table cloth like you’re diving back under the surface of water, fishing around for your lost and precious pirate’s treasure. you can’t tell if satoru’s moved his hand, you don’t feel it slyly ghosting over the insides of your thighs while you lean forward and search for your necklace… not that it should matter, it’d be far from appropriate to have his long, slender fingers brushing up against your panties from under your skirts. it wouldn’t be right for that to escalate, for said fingers to push past your entrance and brush up against the spot satoru knows is guaranteed to make you scream. it would be immoral for you to even think about him sliding his cock into your wet, needy cunt too. somewhere secret, somewhere—

oh!

you giggle with triumph when your fingertips graze the cold metal decor of your necklace… however, when you move to grab it, you touch something else. something warmer. you touch him. 

with baited breath, you let your bambi eyes carefully trail up to gojo’s face — drinking in the hazy look that he gives you, the swirl of desire taking a flame in his brilliant, cerulean eyes. just by being under his gaze you feel as though you’re drowning and burning alive all at once. satoru is the one who moves first, taking your smaller hand in his large one before he turns it over — palm facing the sky and places your sapphire pendant inside of it. 

then, one by one, he closes your fingers around your brother’s gift and then brings your closed fist up to his plush lips, pressing a wet kiss to your knuckles as you gasp. “quiet, baby. wouldn’t want anyone to know what you’re up to down here…” 

his words die off, licking his lips slowly, stare predatory while it trails all over your body. “but ‘toru,” you mewl enticingly, keeping your tones hushed under the table. the sweet, dulcet sound makes his eyes flutter shut and body quiver with a wave of hunger, his sexual appetite for you growing by a tenth fold . “i need you.” you never make this easy for him. if someone were to take a peek beneath the table cloth, they would see the tension brewing between you both and put two and two together. 

you’d be discovered before having the chance to tell everyone yourself. 

time is ticking, your guests might start to grow suspicious if you don’t make a move and goad satoru into solving the ache between your thighs. so you jump the gun, grabbing his collar and tug him forward for a sly, sloppy yet quick kiss. “i won’t say it again after this, ‘toru,” comes your cheeky pant. “i need you.”

satoru chokes.

with that, you withdraw from your scared little bubble below the table and stand straight up — a dazzling and guiltless gin on display for your entire family to see. “i’m going to the bathroom,” you explain sweetly. “need to fix my pendant ‘n powder my nose. i’ll be back.” 

your family stops chattering briefly to acknowledge your wish, but as you leave — suguru stands too and grabs your wrist. “need me to help? i know the clasp can be finicky. i should have gotten you something easier to use—“

god bless suguru, your loveable brother, ever the cockblock. 

“that’s alright man, i’ve got her covered,” satoru suddenly appears behind you, the sweltering heat of his heaving chest singeing through the fabric of your dress. he places a hand on the small of your back, grinning with a charming spark to his eyes — deliberately masking “you should keep an eye on your parents, you know how they get when they’ve had too much to drink.” 

now, it’s not that geto doesn’t trust his best friend… after all, gojo has been a constant presence in your life ever since the three of you were kids. it’s just that sometimes, a feeling of unease stirs within suguru at the mere thought of you being alone together — it’s like one of those gut feelings you get before something goes terribly wrong. 

yet, as usual, satoru is right. if no one keeps an eye on geto’s parents, who knows what trouble they’ll get into on their own. 

“alright, fine. just don’t take too long, there’s only so many stories they can tell before dessert.” suguru reminds you plainly, as if not to assume the worst. he gives you both an approving nod, before letting you go. “and satoru, wait outside for her?” 

the white haired man snickers, a languid and jeering smirk slowly tugging on the corners of his mouth. “you got it, suguru!” 

he even adds a salute for effect, allowing you to lead him away from the table and towards your gateway of sin.

the uneasy feeling in suguru’s stomach intensifies as he watches you both walk further and further away. 

they say that a mirror is the window to your soul, reflecting how you truly feel on the inside. 

the girl staring back at you in the squeaky clean glass looks nothing like the little girl suguru helped to raise. her soul is impure, blackened by sin and the dark desire for human contact — the salacious dance and ritual between scorching hot bodies and saliva tainted tongues. she laughs at you over rushing tap water from the bathroom sink and calls to you like a siren’s song, inviting you to give into her — let her take the lead on the temptations plaguing your mind. 

why did you even suggest this? 

you’d been bold, hinted to satoru that you wanted him to devour you, ruin you in the bathroom of the restaurant your loving, kind older brother had picked especially to celebrate you. you knew better than this, you wanted better than this. you no longer wanted to be just a quick fuck to satoru gojo. 

you wanted to be his girlfriend. 

that’s what you’d asked him to do tonight. to make you his in front of everyone who loved you. but here you were, slutting yourself out for him like you always do. 

over the water pouring down the drain, you pick up on the sound of knocking at the bathroom door — prompting you to twist the tap and cut off the flow of water. unlike the flow of lustful hormones that shoot through your bloodstream and straight to your clit.

a new kind of excitement blossoms in your chest once you turn around to unlock the door — suguru would hate to see you so thrilled at the concept of doing something so wrong. you return to your position in front of the bathroom sink before your lover enters, toying with the silver chain on your pendant again — ignoring the burning feeling you get as it weighs down your palm.

the burn of underlying guilt.

“i can help with that.”

satoru purrs seductively as he enters the bathroom, gesturing to your pendant. you don’t turn to look at him but keep your eyes trained in his movements in the mirror. even when he isn’t touching you, you feel like you can’t breathe. his presence overshadows your own, shrinking you down into a tiny toy that sings oh so pretty for him whenever he wants.

you hear the lock click shut behind you. anticipation hums through the air like an electric current.

“the clasp is a little tricky,” comes your dreamy sigh, high pitched and needy — earning you a choked groan from your lover. “i can’t do it on my own, not without help.”

the next time gojo speaks, he’s right behind you — chest pressed to your back, arms either side of your hips and large hands on the bathroom counter, his head practically nestled into the junction between your shoulder and your neck. wisps of snowfall like hair tickle at your bare skin while warm breath causes goosebumps to rise across its surface. 

“then let me fix it for you,” satoru suggests enticingly — keeping up this little act, pretending to be raunchy strangers, while your fingers brush against one another and he takes the jewellery from you. you straighten your back, hold your breath and nod cautiously as he brings it up to your neck from behind. your eyes catch each other’s in the mirror, his darkened with devoir all while he offers you a enthralling, toothy smirk. “relax, pretty girl. i don’t bite…”

except he does. if satoru is a hunter, a lion, then you are nothing but a sacrificial lamb that serves to be his prey. if he really wanted you, he could take your dainty neck between his vicious jaws and snap it — you wouldn’t even mind…because you’d let satoru do anything to you so long as it meant having all his focus be on you. 

“lift your chin for me.” he commands you huskily, nipping at the shell of your ear. “good girl.” satoru continues to drawl, extending the ‘o’ sound in his words when you follow his instructions obediently — tilting your head back so that he can adjust your necklace to sit perfectly in place. “such a good girl f’me.” 

when his fingers fix the clasp and touch teasingly at the nape of your neck — you find yourself instinctively pushing back against gojo’s lap, the curve of your fleshy ass sweeping over the slight tent beginning to form in his expensive designer slacks. slacks that you know you’re going to destroy before the night meets its end. 

“t-there we go,” gojo doesn’t dare step back after finishing up with your necklace, enjoying the sight of you slightly bent over the counter as you grind your hips back on him painfully slow — testing the waters. “fuck lil’ lady…what’s this all about, hm? tryna thank me for doin’ such a good job, helpin’ you out?” his hands slip over your own as they rest by the sink, lacing your fingers together while satoru puts some weight on you — looming over you as he starts to rut forward and meet you in the middle of this raunchy bump and grind. “s-shit…keep…keep throwin’ it back on me like that.”

“we don’t…we don’t have long, satoru. hah, fuck!” you sigh breathlessly, rocking back and forth on your man eagerly and clenching around nothing when his erection catches on your budding clit. satoru’s lips ascend on your neck with careful thought, using their plumpness to shift the strap of your dress to the side and reveal more of you to his greedy, deep blue eyes. they’re wet on your skin, perhaps he’s been licking them in anticipation, hot at the very tip of your cervical spine — but he can’t leave marks, not unless he wants your brother to see.

satoru trembles behind you, lazily dragging his tongue to the sweet spot just behind your ear — leaving a shimmering trail of possession across your skin. “i know baby, i know,” he says almost instantly, delayed by tasting you on his tongue. suddenly, you feel a wetness against your cunt that isn’t your own — you’re already so wet that the seat of your panties are practically glued to your fonts, but this… this is satoru. his dick dribbles pathetically with precum, gearing up to fuck. to breed. satoru grows angstier by the second, one hand letting go of yours to manhandle you back onto his stiff hard on, his breath much heavier against you than before. “but it feels so good doesn’t it? just wanna keep…my cock…nestled against you like this.” 

pride flutters through all four chambers of your heart simply because you know that you’re the only one who can get satoru gojo to act like such a slut. he’s so desperate for your pussy it doesn’t even matter how he takes it, just as long as it’s his. 

only you get to reduce gojo to a needy mess, soft pink fanning across his nose and cheeks as he humps you from behind like a wet, mangy dog in rut. he circles his hips, pushing them forward so that his throbbing length meets your sticky, fat panty clad folds in a constant motion — his needy moans like music to your ears. 

“i wanna fuck you,” you huff impatiently, using your strength to push gojo away from you just long enough to turn around. he follows your lead, hiking you up to sit on the bathroom counter before you wrap your legs around his tiny waist and squeeze him close. “gonna fuck me, ‘toru? or do i have to — fuck…do it myself.”

now that you’re facing each other, you can see just how wrecked the man is. his eyelids grow heavy, long and lavish white lashes weighed down by mirth. gojo pants, his tongue doused with spit lolled over his bottom lip with a hankering urge to kiss you. “jeez,” he simpers in awe, impressed with how controlling you’re being this time around — squeezing your hips to control the flow of you grinding back and forth on him. “at least kiss a guy first.” 

grinning, your fingers surge upwards from the counter and into the depths of white rooted hair. you tug gojo down to meet you halfway and before he can even register it — your lips are roughly slotted together, bruisingly close and your tongue laps tracks into the hot cavern of his mouth. the kiss quickly turns sloppy, needy, spit is easily exchanged between synchronised moving lips while your noses become neighbours and your lungs burn from how desperately they need oxygen.

you don’t want it, you think. you don’t need it, you say to yourself — hardly pulling away from gojo as you both suck in a much needed breath. you’re back on one another in a heartbeat, drowning in one another while his practised hands traverse up the curves and dips of your body. they settle at your throat, a thumb gently pushing against its centre just to test you. a dark chuckle reverberates in satoru’s chest when you whine, back arching up to meet him and your eyes growing misty.

“how’s that for a kiss?” you whine against his wet mouth, yanking at gojo’s roots again. the action earns you a grunt in response — blissful, low and predatory. his hips jump up too, tucking his swelling cock into the snug pocket of your puffy folds.

“think i want another,” he muses out loud, the chocolaty octaves of satoru’s voice making you shudder — liquid gold beginning to gather between your ravaged pussy lips. using his grip on your throat, the silver haired man pulls you closer — his perfect white teeth sinking into the delicious swell of your bottom lip before he tugs it away from you salaciously. it’s barely enough to quell the spark of hunger spreading throughout all four limbs of his body, hardly calming down the blood that rushes to his achingly hard dick as he rubs it against your increasingly soaked mound.

when your lips find each other again, they’re swollen, cherry red and raw — smacking against one another loudly over the sound of rustling clothes while you buck into one another. everything is so hot and heavy, you’re so wet and so sticky for satoru and your little rendezvous has barely begun. the way he sucks on your tongue, let’s you push it down his throat while his clothed seedy tip nudges your clit over and over again has you bouncing off the walls in your mind. you can’t think without thinking of all the ways to fuck satoru gojo. 

he’s on your mind all the time and you’re not sure if you want that to change. 

“can…oh man—can feel how wet you are through your fuckin’ clothes…” satoru hums in astonishment, releasing you from the prison of his lip lock with pretty pink swollen lips, allowing his head to drop to your shoulder in favour for sucking on it to pacify himself. he keeps his tip on your pleasure bud, revelling in the way you keenly pulse at the sensation. “oh fuck…so sticky.”  

your pussy flutters at his observation, even more so with how cute satoru sounds when he’s so needy for you. “satoru…” you mewl, stroking back tufts of his sweaty pale hair — though it hardly distracts him from feverishly fucking you over layers of fabric. “wanna suck you off, gojo. can i? wanna have you in my mouth.” 

satoru pauses, his breathing uneven and pulls away from his safe spot in your neck. “fuck…really? now?” 

you nod, tiny hands forcing their way between your heated bodies to toy with his belt, unbuckling it with practised ease. “right now.” 

“okay…fuck, okay.” satoru steps back and uses a grip on your hips to help you down onto your feet, watching with pride as you slowly descend to your knees in front of him. “oh baby. you’re so dirty. such a dirty little girl, mmm?” he grins, a little twisted. “show me how pretty you look on your knees for me.” 

you sit back on your haunches as satoru adjusts himself to lean back on the counter — looking up at him with sweet shiny eyes which occasionally shoot down to his throbbing hard cock as he manspreads in place. the sight makes your mouth water and 

“you’re staring, baby. go ahead and open your present.” he tilts his head with an air of condescension about him — teasing and taunting you through a faux pout, making you simper out for satoru. “come on now, what happened to my brave little girl? you wanted to suck me off so bad, where’s all that big talk now, huh?” satoru continues to leer down at you, his eyes darkening malignantly — the sapphire shine within them dimming with a raging storm cloud as if to block out the sun. “open that cute little mouth, lemme see it. don’t disappoint.” he cups your cheek, entire body bristling with joy and underlying pleasure when you keen into satoru’s touch like a good girl.

obediently, your lips part and mouth falls open — revealing ropes of saliva that tie your tongue to the roof of your mouth. it does something to satoru, it’s like a power trip to have you on your knees for him. you’ve got love in your eyes taking the form of heart-shaped pupils, as you admire him like he’s your god. and you want that god’s cock stuffed into your waiting, drooling mouth. 

you shouldn’t adore satoru, treat him as if he’s your lifeline. he’s the whole reason your family might fall apart, he keeps you hidden as if you’re a treasure only he is worthy of seeing. he doesn’t show you off, he chooses to use you for his own gain, he chooses you when there’s no one else left to turn to. your relationship with satoru has never been stable, but even now when he’s hanging above you — rosy cheeked and starry eyed about to fuck you in some bathroom, you still want him. you still love him. 

“don’t get lost in that pretty little head of yours baby,” gojo leans forward and brushes his thumb under the well of your wet lips and over your Cupid’s bow — smudging what's left of your gloss. “‘m gonna need you to think for a little while. only ‘bout me ‘n my cock. yeah?” his free hand that once had been abandoned on the countertop takes yours — guiding it over the bulge in his crisp dress pants, hissing when you start to rub at it on your own, your mouth still wide open for him. “you’re so pretty. feel that? you make me so hard that it hurts.”

you find yourself dazed and enchanted — panting, chest heaving as your hunger for him grows. “feel it, want you, ‘toru.” satoru thinks you’re so cute, cupcake dress poofing up against the cold floor as your tiny hand paws at him back and forth, back and forth and the little smile you give him when he pulsates beneath your talented little fingertips would be nearly enough to make him explode. 

“of course you do, baby. you want your reward.” gojo relents, giving in to you. he swoops down to give you one last kiss, barely ghosting his lips over your swollen ones to keep you on the edge — craving just a little bit more. he dangles the static pleasure of a kiss that you get over your brain in front of you like a carrot in front of a horse. he knows that if he keeps you that way, you’ll stay desperately in love with him, malleable into the perfect girl for him. 

it’s selfish and both of you know that.

you rub harder and harder at the outline of satoru’s shaft and scoot closer to rest your chubby cheek on his firm thigh. he sees the way your own squeeze together from under your dress, probably in an attempt to keep your arousal at bay while your hole slicks itself up — but he can smell you, sweet and potent like a flower in bloom. if he were to pull you up to his height and take you now, satoru is sure your panties would be soiled, ass cheeks and pussy lips coated in a layer of your opaque, honey-like arousal while it oozes directly from you.

that’s just how you are, a candied little mess for satoru gojo. it’s almost a fact and the very notion should be humiliating for you, should be shameful to you. if your brother were to ever find out how weak your resolve is when it comes to satoru, how you fall to your knees so easily for him  — then you might never be able to look him in the eye again. 

but isn’t that what you want? 

to have suguru know just how badly you’d fallen for his best friend? 

how you might fail to live without him? 

all night all you’ve been thinking about is satoru telling your brother the truth — but here you are, locked in a bathroom ready to worship this man while you hide from your entire family. from reality. 

because you’re happiest in this bubble with gojo and you’re sure he is too — he can have you in all the ways he’s ever wanted and you’d let him do it all to you too. yet again, you remain entirely unaware that from gojo’s point of view, you’re more than a pretty girl about to suck his pretty cock. you’re everything to him.

“come on baby, stop playin’ with me. baby please.” satoru whines petulantly into the sex tainted air that fizzles with suspense. his skin buzzes with every touch you give and a wicked chuckle resonates deep within his chest when you scoot closer on your knees — dragging the tip of your tongue over his dick print hesitantly. though the sound is cut short when you give his hard-on a tentative squeeze to text the waters, opaque and runny white smearing against the inside of satoru’s underwear. 

you adore how much he trembles, gripping your shoulder to steady himself since knows that you don’t like the idea of your head being pushed down on. even if it’s torture for him to be so patient — he’d never do anything you didn’t like. 

but it really is killing him, and you’re fully aware. he deserves to be punished like this, after everything he’s put you through — it doesn’t mean you’re not suffering yourself. circling your hips into the cold bathroom floor to get some friction yourself, beyond turned on at the sight of a breathless satoru gojo above you. 

“say that again.” you moan.

gojo’s head drops and he lets out a shaky breath as if he’s about to cry. “w-what?” 

“beg me again, then i’ll suck your cock.” you sneer up at your silver haired lover evilly just as your mouth meets his sticky clothed cockhead, the spit and heat from your mouth seeping through the layers of fabric in your way. “i wanna hear you moan for me, ‘toru. like you love me.” you press, switching to taking the man’s zipper between the rows of your teeth. 

satoru gojo has never been a stickler for the rules, whatever he does is usually for his own personal gain…but when you command him like that, he can’t help but to blindly stumble after you, hanging onto your every sugar-coated word. “fucking hell, please baby. need to feel your mouth on me…fuck, your tongue,” gojo rambles on weakly. “please, please, want it so bad i might fucking die.” he does some of the work for you, shedding his belt and causing it’s buckle to clink satisfyingly against your ears. 

satoru’s eagerness sends a shockwave of pleasure straight to your clit. your patience seems to be wearing thinner than his, for you jump forward like a cat on the prowl and peel back the remaining layers of satoru’s clothes without mercy for any of the fabrics. his gasps and muttered pleas coax you into the dark, addictive enigma that is satoru gojo — clouding your mind whilst setting your body on fire with hell flames.

you kiss at satoru’s slender hips the more his pants and boxers come down, twirling your tongue into the tufts of silver hair that form his happy trail too. a soft, honeysuckle chuckle from you resounds in the bathroom’s echoing chamber when you finally reveal enough of gojo’s cock for it to spring free — twitching as it’s exposed to fresh air. satoru is longer where he might lack thickness, though he’s chubby enough to keep you plugged full of his cum usually. his balls are plump and pink, heavy with a load that’s just waiting to be spent on you — evidence of his arousal taking the form of opaque pearls set at the tip of his dick.

speaking of, gojo’s cockhead burns bright red and shines as if it’s glossed and sticky like your lips — blue pulsating veins spiral around his flushed shaft, rivalling the shade of his eyes as he observes your next moves. you’re sure to make your touch tender as you take his entire length between your fingers, smoothing the supple pad of your thumb over his sensitive tip and rubbing the precum into it sweetly.

he smells so good, the musky scent of satoru’s cock and his arousal act like the fumes of a drug you know all too well — it takes over your consciousness and stream of thought, controlling your actions from then on. you feel everything all at once, your tongue writhing in place at the bottom of your mouth, satoru’s thighs trembling lightly and his cock throbbing while blood rushes through it. a haughty moan scratches at the ridges in his throat when you finally grip him properly — soft little hands dwarfed by his sheer length, palm brushing over the flushed forked veins that separate at the base. “j-jesus, beautiful,” satoru hisses, lips between his sharp white teeth. “you gotta give a little…drivin’ me insane with these little touches. please just suck it…please i’m beggin’ you—“ 

the air in his lungs grows thin like that at the peak of a mountain when you finally give in, dragging your lips over the cream gathering at his mushroomed cockhead before kitten-licking through its seedy slit in order to tease him a little more. opening up your mouth, you prepare to swallow satoru down, just as you have done many times before. you know everything he likes, what makes him tick, what has him cumming in seconds…however, just as your warm breath coasts along his shaft — he pulls back from your hold. 

“wait,” he says through a shudder. “you wanna smoke?” satoru pulls a joint from his crumpled pocket, licking his lips as he searches for its partner in crime — a lighter.

you frown, choosing to palm him instead of taking him into your mouth just yet. his cock jumps at the simple movement, leaking milky white against your knuckles, tainting your skin. “we’ll get into trouble, ‘toru.” you state like it’s obvious, speaking over the slick sound of your hand gently pumping satoru. your movements are aided by just how wet his cock is, fingers slipping and sliding up and down his girth whilst being guided by the thick globs of precum beading at his tip.

“s-since when did you care about the rules? you’re fucking me here, aren’t you?” his breathing falters as he shakily attempts to set the end of his joint alight. you don’t dare stop pleasuring your brother's best friend, even if there’s a nagging voice at the back of your head telling you that this is bad, that it’s all too much. “help me out for a sec, beautiful? hold this in your mouth while i light it.” satoru’s voice drops an octave as he shoves the splif between your arousal glossed lips (replacing the fenty that once spread their shine across them)  — he stares you down through his long, white lashes as he flicks the lighter at the end, setting fire to the rizzler. “thank you, little one.” 

the pet name makes your skin crawl and the weed in your mouth only amplifies that voice in your head. you should quit while you still can, you might be able to cope with the withdrawals then, and spend the rest of your life making it up to suguru for leading him astray. little one. the nickname he’d so fondly called you quickly becomes something you hate. it’s meaning changed easily by none other than satoru gojo. 

his power over you is still so strong despite his cock being at the mercy of your feather light grip and plush lips. once you set a steady rhythm to jerking gojo off and the joint burns dangerously close to your nose, he takes it from you and lovingly pats your cheek — placing it between his own lips before blowing a ring of smoke into the humid air.

satoru’s head collapses back against the mirror, his moonshine hair perfectly tousled despite being out of place. his locks stick to the icy surface of the glass, brought on by the cold sweat from your temperate mouth. the pair of you share a harmonious tune of wet whimpers and gargled gripes when you take your lover down your throat, sinking down on him until your nose nudges the prickliness of his happy trail. 

you flex your tongue, letting it swirl around satoru’s girth from the base to the tip. “o-oh fuck, baby!” he exclaims through a hybrid sound, a cross mix between a raspy chuckle and high pitched moan. shakily; satoru takes a puff of his joint as if to calm himself down. he looks down at you with a lustful, love laden gaze, dropping a hand to the top of your head — careful not to push on it as you work your mouth down on him. “don’t worry… ‘m not gonna fuck your mouth. know you don’t like that, just wanna…touch you.” it nearly kills him as well, the way you look up, with shiny eyes and full cheeks. “god, you take it so well, huh?”

of course, satoru had been the one to teach you how to suck dick back when you first started messing around two years ago. he’d coaxed you through it, teaching you step by step so you could get him off just how he liked. he made it so that you wouldn’t ever want to please a man the same way you pleased him — rewiring all the nerves in your brain to make sure it was only gojo that you wanted to deep throat. 

so you nod diligently in reply, swallowing down on gojo and letting out a gentle hum that causes dopamine to crackle along the insides of his skull.  hollowing your cheeks, your throat contracts around his thick length until you feel his bulbous tip dragging over your uvula — testing your own talented mouth. he’s so glad that he taught you how to do that, you down on your knees, entrapping him in the searing heat of your hellfire mouth. if suguru could see you now, he’d only be able to picture the spawn of the devil and it’s cruel how you don’t even care. after everything he’s done for you. 

your eyes flutter shut at the heaviness of satoru’s dick on your tongue, forcing you to taste the viscous precum that oozes down your throat in slow waves. the flavour is just as addictive as the scent of weed tangling with sex in the air — you don’t see yourself going to rehab either. 

eventually, you decide to pull off of satoru with a lewd pop, filling your lungs with the oxygen they so dearly missed. you find yourself light headed for deep-throating him for that long but you also find it to be completely worth it — especially because of the look of pride satoru gives you. “such a pretty little cockslut,” he sucks his teeth, petting your head and brushing his hand over the square partings of your braids. “you look so happy sucking on my cock, baby. didn’t think you were gonna come up for air.”

in place of your mouth, your palm starts to stroke satoru at a steady pace — slickening up the centre of your hand. he’s so big between your hands you can only imagine how he’ll feel stretching you out later tonight, causing drool to pool in your mouth like a hot flash flood as you catch your breath. vivid azure eyes flutter at the salacious mix of pain and pleasure when you give satoru’s shaft a teasing squeeze, using your other hand to give the same treatment to his plump, sore balls.

somehow, he manages to continue on muttering taunting you. “cause i’m the only thing you need, right? who needs air to breathe when you have me feeding my cock into that hot, wet open mouth.” he drags a thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down as he looms over you — breathing a cloud of cannabis smoke into you. shot-gunning you while you continue to jerk him off, it tastes of him and the alcohol in his breath and the weed on his tongue. he looks so good above you like this, hooded eyes and rose tinted cheeks. satoru is the perfect picture of god’s work and you’d be foolish to pretend that the sight of him didn’t make your cunt throb and a familiar feeling begin to stem in the pit of your stomach. “good fucking girl.”

he thrusts shallowly through your closed fist matching his rhythm to the tune in which you flick your wrist. you waste no time in working up a pace fast enough to have your lover melting like putty in your hands — literally. you miss his cock in your mouth, how heavy it makes your tongue feel and paw at his spit slicked erection like a puppy begging for treats. 

“when you t-touch me like that…” satoru drawls, notes of praise layered over his whiny voice makes your own juices gather at the crotch of your panties, makes your head spin but that might just be the weed. “i could fucking cum, baby.”

sweat beads in large, fat droplets at gojo’s hairline, darkening the bright colour of his hair. the liquid soaks through his white shirt too, showcasing how fucked out he truly is. he thrusts again, and again, and again, chasing the high your hand gives his creamy aching cock. “then let me make you cum,” you giggle, dropping your head slightly to make out with the sloppy tip of satoru’s dick, lapping happily at whatever he gives you. “let me taste you.” 

a dirty laugh rings in the buzzing air and gojo throws the burly arm that holds his joint over his wet face, wiping it clean of all the sweat. in the next moment, he cups the youthful roundness to your pretty face — calloused fingertips digging into your baby fat cheeks and sun-kissed skin. “that’s cute, but i’m not quite done with you yet, gorgeous.” still hunched over you, gojo finds the milky trail his cock has left over the seam of your lips and kisses you — dangerously slow. he simpers at the taste of himself on your lips, tangling with the plastic-like taste from the remainders of your gloss. he licks the sweat from your Cupid’s bow as well. 

he sucks the precum from your tongue and licks harsh stripes into your mouth — reaching further back to cup the back of your head, keeping you pressed against him. the both of you moan like idiots into one another’s mouths, drinking down the song of blissful laments and greedy gripes. the kiss seems to last forever, going on and on until you wince at the slight burn of satoru’s joint against your cheek, but you never stop jerking him off — slick and dewy sounds of skin meeting skin providing the adlibs to your nasty, sex song. 

only then does satoru let you go, though, his hips continue to dart forward and ram into your closed fist — they contradict with his words. while gojo wants so much more, they chase his innate desire to cum. paint your pretty face or your talented tongue. their rhythm is assaulting and aberrant. 

“but you’re so close…” you tempt him with your silky voice, dipping your head and bobbing it once more to encompass his lengthy girth into your heated mouth again. dopamine sparks like explosions across the synapses in his brain when he witnesses your cheek bulge from the force of taking his tip in, his slit rubbing deliciously against the soft epithelium there. gojo doesn’t know how he’ll survive after tonight, when you force him to confess to your family and everything blows up in his face. 

oh how he’ll miss your cute little mouth sucking down his cock like your life depends on it.

“you’re right, shit…you’re right, princess,” satoru pants avidly, taking another drag of the joint nestled between his shaky fingers — he throws his head back as the grey smoke hits the fresh hair, tainting it with the scents and flavours from the kiss he’d given to your sinful mouth. “i think i might…ohhhh ohhh. i really wanna—“ he throws his head back and you can tell that your lover is really trying to stave off his orgasm to make this last forever. 

you still in surprise when he jams a boot between your soaked thighs from underneath your dress. “‘toru!” comes your little gasp, grinding down on the cold leather if his shoe instinctively. he used the toe of his chelsea boot to pull back the hood of your clit, pressing down on the swollen bud to stimulate you. w-what are you doing?”

“g-gotta make you cum before i do,” he offers as a weak explanation all while spreading your puffy pussy lips apart. 

you lavishly run your tongue through the opening of satoru’s cockhead, moaning at the taste and texture but continuing to hump his foot happily. “s’a bit late for that, baby.” you say with a sultry voice, low and sexy. “you can just eat me out afterwards.” 

“do we even…? o-oh, okay. ‘m there… i-i’m close,” he trips and stumbles through his words, losing control of his taut hips that batter your poor, dripping fist while you spit down onto him. the frothy mix slides down and catches on the prominent veins spiralling around his dick to the base. which you give a squeeze. “do we even have time for that?” gojo asks, struggling to breathe through the smoke from his joint.

“i guess you’ll just have to hurry up ‘n cum for me. be quick, and we’ll see.” you glance up at him, so debauched yet so innocent. like a pretty flower tended to and cared for (by suguru) except you have prickly, threatening thorns. 

gojo’s release starts to sneak up on him, senses heightened by the recreational drug coursing through the healthy blood in his veins. “y-you’re so bad. h-how the fuck did i get involved with you?” he laughs loud and menacingly, whilst looking completely and utterly deranged. gojo doesn’t let up on stimulating your pussy, humming around the spliff tucked between his perfect lips when you gush in response to him. dirty, depraved little girl. “g’na cum. g’na cum! let me cum. fuck, where do you want it?” 

“i can swallow, satoru. give it to me.” your mouth and wrist begin to hurt — but you find it all worth it to have satoru collapse above you, lose to the snap of the thin thread of his sanity. he grabs ahold of his own dick, taking over from you, and smiles brilliantly when you stick out your tongue just for him. it rolls over your pretty lower lip, cherry red from your ministrations and slightly swollen from it all. 

one. two. three. 

he taps his soiled cockhead against the slobbery palette of your tongue — feeding you the last stream of his precum right before his big release. you press a hand to gojo’s tummy, feeling it fight and contact against your touch. he can’t hold back anymore, everything is too hot and too tight and too much. the roll up of weed between his teeth is gone, his beautiful eyes are hidden away from the world and before either of you know it — his high is hitting him like a tonne of bricks. 

just like that, gojo loses the steady stream of his hips and his orgasm rips through him, warm and viscous seed floods your mouth — even seeping out at the corner of your bruised lips. it spurts copiously from his ravaged cock, painting your throat a shade of white too. 

“h-holy shit!” satoru cries out loudly, tears springing to his eyes and gathering in his lashes. you don’t stop pumping at his dick until he’s done cumming, catching any misfires of his arousal with your tongue. you swallow in satisfaction and take to leaving small kisses against his tummy and hip bones until he stops trembling and returns to earth from the bright, silver moon that blessed his hair. 

he quickly abandons his joint.

even though his legs are shaky and he can hardly breathe, static ringing loudly in his ears — satoru finds the strength within himself to pick you up from the floor and manhandles you against the bathroom door. a streak of excitement courses through you while you set your palms flat on the surface, allowing satoru to squish your left cheek against it too. 

you’re barely able to turn your head back to look at him, a shy and coy smile spreading across your lips when you catch a glimpse of the dark expression coasting over satoru’s handsome features. “oh? what’s gotten into you?”

“you think i’m just gonna let you make me cum like that, and i’m not gonna get you off?” he answers your question with a question, growling out the syllables of each word impatiently. “i wish i could just rip this damn dress off’a you. it’s such a shame we have to go out there and say hi to your family afterwards.” using his foot, gojo kicks your ankles apart so that you’re nice and spread open for him — he inhales nastily while pushing your skirts up to sit at your hips, breathing in the scent of your gooey cunt as it cries for him. cries to be filled up by him. if asked, he could recognise the sweet aroma from your sex like a bloodhound chasing after a target. he’s got you committed to memory, he loves you that much.

the tulle of your dress rivals the colour of his eyes even when darkened with debauchery — it turns him on to know you wear his colour so proudly even in front of suguru. his hands shake as he messes with the fabric and you can just tell he’s fighting off the urge to tear it away from your body. if only you had the time. if only you were the only two people in the world. 

without suguru, he could love up on you for hours with no issues. without suguru, you could perhaps be together without having to hide. without suguru — well, you hate yourself for even thinking that way. he’s your brother… and you need him. but clearly not as much as you need satoru to fill you up with something — tongue, fingers, cock. you’d take it all right now. take all of him. 

you’re distracted by the feel of your lover’s searing lips against your naked shoulders, swooping down to place kisses on them tenderly. they’re more fluid, softer as satoru’s fingertips trickle over your breasts and pinch your pebbling nipples from over the bust of your dress. they cascade down to your waist next and suddenly your dress feels all too tight around your hips. your panties too sticky between your folds. you want them both off, and fast. 

“s-satoru,” you murmur needily, arching your back into his broad chest — shivering at the roughness of his shirt on your skin. “satoru, please.” you add, hissing when his curious fingers delve beneath your skirts to press into the seam of your underwear, getting a feel for your wetness and how ready you are for him.

he shifts his fingers upwards, working them up to massage your clit in warm and rough circles — distracting you from giving gojo a proper answer so he can play with you a little more. “hmm?” comes gojo’s lazy reply. his head drops to your neck again and his tongue leaves a snails trail of saliva over the path of kisses he’s left on your skin “what’s the matter, baby? what do you need?” he mumbles in a lower octave right into your ear, tufts of white hair tickle your skin, only causing goosebumps to rise across it in a ripple effect.  

pouting, your hips rise enough for him to possibly stick his hands down your panties to touch you properly — but satoru chooses to be mean, moving up to rub your tummy teasingly. “for you to… mph, please.” 

“come on now little one. what is it that you’re after?” he scolds you playfully, toying with the little ribbon on the scalloped edge of your panties. you hate that him teasing you only serves to make you hush and turn you on more, a small trickle of your arousal running down your inner thigh. “use your words, be my good little girl,” pinging your waistband against your stomach, satoru adds to the seed of desire growing there — helping it to grow and nurturing it. “my fingers? my tongue?” 

“t-tongue!” you squeal at the painful sting, not in pain — because you like it when gojo hurts you a little bit. it’s like a punishment for betraying your older brother. 

“thank you for telling me, baby, your wish is my command.” at first, satoru doesn’t make a move to eat you out — instead, forces his hand deep into your panties to touch your clit, nice and raw. the silver haired man grins at the way you clench around nothing as he circles your tight little entrance and squirt small dribbles of your juices for him. “fuck, you’re so fucking wet for me, even now. even after sucking my cock and grinding on my shoe. if only suguru could see how nasty you are right now.” he could, at any moment geto could knock on that door and see you dripping on his best friend’s hand. the sentiment shouldn’t make you more aroused, you should make you feel horrified. 

but as gojo dips a finger into your greedy little pussy, you realise that you’re just as depraved as him and that in the moment — you really don’t care. 

because all you feel is ecstasy. 

pushing back onto the sole finger squirming about against your squishy insides, you decide that you’ll deal with geto and the consequences of fucking his best friend later — rather, choosing to focus on how satoru immediately finds your g-spot because he knows your gummy, rippling walls like the backs of his masterful hands. the same hands and digits that skilfully trace the letters of his name into your pulsating clit.

“mmph… oh fuck. f-fuck you!” reaching between your soiled thighs and underneath a plethora of tulle, you grip gojo’s wrist to keep him in place, locked between your legs with his fingers stuffed in your cunt.

“fuck me, baby?” he coos to you in a patronising tone. “oh, sweetheart. i’m about to fuck you. gonna make you cum so hard. make you see stars…no, galaxies.” satoru pulls his finger out and nudges your sticky thighs apart again just to make sure that he has the space, enough room to cup the entirety of your sopping mound from over the fabric. so hot and filthy and sappy for him. satoru laments in satisfaction, yanking your panties down in one fail swoop and watching with perverted cobalt eyes as strings of your slick tie your honeyed sex to the material. 

sniffling, you turn your head back as far as it’ll go to stare down your boyfriend with big, wet eyes and a blubbering voice. “please... i can’t wait anymore…” you hiccup like a petulant child who had their favourite toy stolen. pleading for something, anything to alleviate the unbearable yearning twisting in your gut.

your lover tsks in response, slowly descending to his knees behind you while his fingers coated in your succulent nectar grasp and knead at your fleshy ass — streaking it with clear marks. “okay, okay…poor baby.” gojo says airly in an attempt to console you like a mother would her crying infant. “you’re so needy, pretty girl. if anyone walking by could hear you, they’d think i weren’t fucking you right.” that’s far from true and the both of you know it, satoru is the only one who could appease you, take care of all your sexual needs — outside of that…you’re not so sure. you’re then reminded that suguru wouldn’t want satoru taking care of you ever. it makes your stomach flip with a confusing mix of lust and guilt. 

“you want it that bad, don’t ya? you wanna feel good.” the man purrs from behind you, salacious voice a breath’s width away from your cunt while he licks a trail up your inner thigh. the vibrations reverberate through your skin, dancing right up to your swollen, unattended clit. “promise i’ll make you feel so, so good.” you’re almost embarrassed at how much you throb against gojo’s lips when he shoves his face into your pussy from behind, nudging his nose over your pleasure bud in circles until you open up for him like a flower in bloom. 

you grind back against him passionately, rubbing your luscious and drenched folds all over his handsome face in an attempt to tame the itch of bliss that spreads through each and every one of your limbs. you’re tempting him but your sweet little whimpers and circling hips hardly coax satoru away from what he’s planning. his tongue doesn’t fuck it’s way past your quivering entrance like he’d said, but instead is replaced by a heavy hand smacking down hard on your pussy. 

“satoru!” you cry out in an awful mix of delight and shock, sounding a little unhinged. “y-you promised!”

“yeah, yeah. i know… couldn’t help it. i just love it when you cry for me.” juices run down his forearm as if he’s bitten into a ripened peach and satoru gets the perfect view of your juicy ass jiggling for him too. he amorously slurps up the trail, leaning forward with an appetite to eat you out for real this time and nestled his tongue between your twitching, titillating folds. 

he repeats the process again and again and again, smacking your poor pussy until you really are crying — chest heaving while you sob from both ends, tears ruining your perfect baby blue eyeshadow for the night. not having gojo’s mouth on you is like hell on earth, being spanked until you’re raw is torture too, especially when you’ve been holding back an orgasm for at least fifteen minutes. nevertheless, it all feels so fucking heavenly. 

you search for a vice, something you can ground yourself with and settle for scraping your nails along the doors. satoru chuckles, tapping your sticky ass lovingly and even going as far as to kiss you there. “alright, i’ve had my fun and i’m done messing with you baby,” he hums sweetly, “lean back for me, put it on me baby. let your man eat you out.” 

wrapping a strong arm around your middle, gojo pulls you back onto his awaiting, eager mouth. the first thing he does is slot his mouth against the entirety of your soaked slit, moaning loud and tugging at your heartstrings while the vibrations send you spiralling. the very tip of his tongue slips past your entrance with slight resistance from how thick it is, wriggling about in order to search for that special spot that makes you see stars. he press kisses, wet and sloppy, miscalculated, between your swollen folds and slurps up whatever you leak as if you’re drooling valuable liquid gold. 

not a drop can be or will be wasted on satoru gojo. 

keenly, your hips canter back onto gojo’s face — your plush ass cheeks jiggle with each thrust onto his tongue as though you’re reverse riding his cock. it fills you up just as nice too, warm and slippery against ecstasy inducing pinpoints along the ridges of your sluice walls. he can’t help but whine loudly at every roll of your pussy over his face, you taste so fucking good and he’ll drink you in as though you’re a tall glass of water. between sucks and slurps, your lover kitten licks at your core animalistically — lascivious sounds from between your thighs topping off the air in the bathroom.

your cute little clit, prominent and hard because of blood rush and it’s burning desire, is next on satoru’s bucket list. the sharpness of his teeth latch onto it, rolling it between their two sets roughly until you’re clawing at your own throat for air — trying your hardest not to scream and frighten the poor passers by. you’ve become such a mess and it pleases the white haired man, to see you gushing like a fruitful stream straight into his thirsty mouth, down his chin and cheeks — even over his bobbing adam’s apple.

your hands leave a track of sweat as they slip down the door you’re plastered on and your chest rises and falls rapidly while you’re tongue fucked by your boyfriend. there’s no room to breathe or to cope, satoru’s tongue pinned to your clit like a moth to candle flame — drawing rough shapes on your clit before sweeping downwards just beneath your clenching hole to catch what oozes from it before it can hit the ground. oh, if only you could see him, his bright blue eyes just as watery and lovesick as your own and his face pink with a sun-burn type of blush from how hot he is for you.

if you tried hard enough, to listen in over the sounds of your wet pussy being sucked on for dear life as well as satoru’s content gripes and laments — you can just about make out the vehement and delectable noises of him avariciously jerking off his pre-cum flowing cock while he prepares it to fuck you later on.

“y-yeah…oh my god, satoru. satoru don’t stop!” the words feel tacky in your mouth as you try to get them out, communicate to gojo how good he makes you feel. he likes it when you’re vocal with him, and you the same, it makes you both feel heard and happy to know that you’re pleasing your partner. though, it’s a little difficult for you, when you’re so dizzy you don’t know what’s up or down  and you can’t help but to cream around the base of gojo’s tongue while it twists against your lush and gushy inner walls.  

briefly, your brother’s best friend pulls away from your cunt — remaining connected to you by a rope of clear elixir leaked from your tight hole. “wouldn’t dream of it, pretty girl. god… i just wanna fuck you up. make you scream a little more…” he snarls like a beast, his big hands roughly grabbing your ass as he spreads them — watching the webs of arousal form while he peels each cheek away from one another. “fucking hell… you’re drenched. but we can’t be too loud, don’t want someone to hear.” there’s a higher pitched lilt to gojo’s sacchariferous mithers as he delves back under your skirts, bobbing his entire head to drag his tongue between your fat pussy folds. 

jolting at the sensation, which provides a welcome distraction from the fact that your family…your brother, are waiting obviously just metres away, your hips begin to chase the high you’ve been holding back for what seems like hours now. viciously, you ride satoru’s tongue like it’s a perfectly plump cock made to plug you full. “uhuh, oh…fuck yeah. ride it for me, pretty girl, ride my t-tongue. m-make yourself feel good. fuck my face…please, please, please.” gojo begs you, even though most of his speech is muffled and you’re the one at his mercy. 

shame should be running through you, not hunger for gojo, you shouldn’t want to drive your hips down onto his face so hard that his nose prods your clit over and over again. you’re so dirty, filthy and nasty for doing this…here of all places. but you can’t help the way gojo fucks you nor the way gojo feels. you don’t think you want to give that up for your brother. even if it costs you.

you can’t imagine a life without hearing satoru’s needy groans between your legs, the ones that set fireworks off at your tailbone — where all of that unreleased pleasure builds up. 

“you’re gonna cum…” he sighs dreamily. “want you to cum for me. let it go, let it all out f’me.” gojo adds and from then on — his mouth stays married to your needy cunt, focused on working you right to the edge and pushing you over. he licks you up and down, anchors you to his face with that same arm snaking its way around your waist again — mostly to hold you up because you’re so shaky from the ecstasy in your veins that you can’t do it on your own.  

the whole ordeal is sickening and beautiful all at the same time — no one knows your body like satoru does. no other man has any idea how to please you in the way that he does. they don’t know that you like it when he flicks his tongue against your sluice and sweet sex with an open mouth just so you can hear him eat you out. they have no idea about how sensitive you are when you’re close, that brushing up against your g-spot with the tip of gojo’s tongue is enough to have you spewing a fresh wave of your essence from your pathetic hole.

the delirium and rapture that mounts within you, like bricks stacked in bricks, becomes too much for you to bear — some of your release already starting to trickle out of you in clear streams. “‘m cumming, ‘toru!” you warn him in a high pitched squeal before it’s too late, white noise filling your ears as you succumb to a powerful orgasm. 

satoru gojo thinks that if he died right here, right now, he would be happy — he wouldn’t even care. what, with the way you gush into his mouth like tidal waves of a wild tsunami, guilt flushed out of your system by tonnes of arousal. you clamp down on his tongue and practically suffocate the man, humping weakly at gojo’s face until your entire body is limp and you have absolutely nothing left to give. 

once you’ve made it through the aftershocks of your high, satoru slowly retreats from between your thighs and makes his way to your body, spinning you around and capturing your lips in a delicately placed kiss before your brain has the sense to wake up. the night should end here, you should push him away and fix yourself up in a good enough state to return to suguru and the rest of your family to enjoy dinner…stop the guilt from bubbling up. 

but satoru has always had a way about charming you. 

“we’re not finished yet…” he whispers to you passionately, his own hips pinning you to the bathroom door so you can feel his second erection rub against your tummy. “there’s more of you to ruin.” he continued to lament, his lips stained with your arousal grazing your own before he licks into your mouth so you can taste what he tastes too. automatically, your body bows into his — ready to have what he’s got waiting for you. 

perhaps your mind is still lagging, because you feel it before you see it — the tacky love taps of your lover’s cock against your stimulated sex, the lewd squelch that comes from gojo’s cockhead poised and ready to jut forward past your fluttering entrance. “i want you so fucking badly, i gotta… need to be inside you…” he moves to hike your thigh up against his slender hips — preparing to bottom out inside of you, but you stop him just before then with your nails digging into his sweat laden dress shirt. 

“can i ride you?” you ask him hazily.

“what?” gojo bleats, confused and enamoured all at once.

swallowing thickly, you repeat your words — leisurely rolling your hips back and forth in a premature pussy job. being sure to rub yourself back and forth against the length of satoru. “can i ride you?” 

“fuck me,” he sniggers breathlessly and says your name. “aren’t you just full of surprises tonight? you can do whatever you want to me, baby. i can take it.” 

with his permission, you undo the last of gojo’s buttons and smooth over the expanse of his place flesh, thumb at his budding pink nipples and then, form a necklace around his unmarred throat with your hands. he coughs and splutters in surprise but allows you to walk him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the toilet and he topples onto its seat in a sitting position. 

your hand moves swiftly to cup gojo’s jaw as you look above him and stand between his thighs that instantly manspread to make room for his pretty little baby between them. one of your perfectly manicured nails drags down his bottom lip, then becomes a finger that delves deep into the heat of his mouth. “you’re… you’re beautiful,” he gargles around the digit, staring deep into your soulful brown eyes. “and i adore you.”  it’s true. you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen even if your braids are askew and your dress is ruffled and your makeup is almost entirely gone. 

even when you have satoru gojo in a choke hold like this you’re still stunning to him. not one thing could tarnish such rare beauty that you posses. if the end of his life came in this moment, he wouldn’t even mind. he wonders if you’re aware of that fact or still believe the little voice in your mind telling you that he’s just using you.

gojo was bad with words, he knows that. he often got timings wrong and said things at the wrong time (like now when he tries to tell you that he loves you but in his own words, hence ‘adore’) but he always means them. he can tell that you’re getting in your head right now, standing above him — trying to decipher if he’s telling the truth. if he wanted you, you wished he’d say he wanted you. explicitly. 

he wished that he could tell you explicitly, but he’s so fucked up in the head that he struggles. 

so instead, satoru takes your hand in his (the one in his mouth) and moves it far back enough so that he can kiss your knuckles sweetly. a gesture to prove his truth to you. one to prove how much he loves you. 

the hard expression on your face softens and you drop to satoru’s lap — straddling him so that his girth presses directly against your juicy cunt like before and your thighs are either side of his. “then make love to me,” you goad him, circling your hips and chasing the delicious burn of his dick pressing into you — a feeling that you miss all the time but can never get used to. “love me like you mean it.” 

it’s not long before satoru is at your neck again, leaving a trail of gentle kisses along its plaines. “i can do that. i can give that to you. do you think you’ll be able to take it?” he questions lightly, a large hand splaying across your back — prepared to guide your movements.

“y-yeah… ‘m ready.” you exhale carefully, your mind pleasantly fuzzy as gojo grabs onto your ass and encourages you to raise your hips for him. the other hand now holds onto his dripping dick to position it at your entrance — he runs it through your soaked folds a couple times and dips in and out of your hole. you make such a cute little noise when satoru starts to push into you, sucking him in so well and clenching around the circumference of his bulbous tip as if to trap him inside before you’ve managed to sink down on him. it continues like that for a little while, satoru holding you up by your ass or your thighs while he patiently waits for you to take him the rest of the way. 

he fucks you gently with the tip at first, getting you used to the delicious stretch to your pussy — despite the resistance he meets from how tight you are.

“there you go baby…you can take over now. sink down on me when you’re able to, kay?” satoru peppers your face in amusement while he watches you try to stabilise your breathing. there’s a long way to go and you’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm. “hm, you’re so fuckin’ cute.” he muses, nipping at your cheek without any real bite.

“s-shut up,” you state through a pout, controlling your tears which only make your love snort affectionately. crescent moons from your nails take their shape in satoru’s milky shoulders, leaving pink indents in place as you slide further down his cock, taking inch by inch until you’re comfortably nestled at his balls. “satoru…why’s there so much of you?” in reality, you’re not actually complaining  — content with your ribbed walls kissing the prominent veins on his shaft. you clench around him experimentally, sending a ripple of desire through the man at your mercy and finally let him bottom out inside of you as your juices run down him. 

he does nothing but smile lazily up at you, taking your wrists and coordinating them to rest on his chest for you to use as more comfortable leverage. as much as you like the way he’s pressed up against your insides — you find the strength to peel your hips away from satoru’s clothed thighs and thrust back down with a resounding, wet slap that echoes throughout the restaurant bathroom. 

it should be criminal, maybe even illegal, how warm, tight and wet you are — as if you’re a virgin who’s never been fucked before. he splutters and stammers as his overstimulated cockhead nudges against your silken walls and they quiver around him feverishly. he could charge you with a life sentence, keeping him jailed in your pretty pussy for life. “i know i said i’d let you ride me but god,” he whispers, trailing his fingers up the front of your dress. just as ice cold and ringed fingers circle your areolas from over the fabric, satoru thrusts up into you — driven insane by lust and desire, his eyes disappear onto the dark night of his skull. “cant help it… i wanna make you feel good. wanna fuck you.” 

there’s no time for you to respond, no chance to wrack your brain for a witty comeback because you’re too busy focusing on trying to keep yourself seated in gojo’s lap. your eyes become misty and satoru’s voice becomes murky, breaths of exertion coasting over your lips and your skin as he sets a constant, almost bullying, pace to his slender hips as they barrage into your sex. it’s hard enough to pull squelching sounds from your messy pussy, and enough for the sound of his breeder’s balls to reverberate between your working bodies.

in this position, satoru is able to hit deep — churn your gummy insides up and hit every pleasure spot your tiny fingers can’t reach. you’re a slumped and helpless mess in his lap, pathetic, since you were the one who wanted to be on top in the first place. but neither of you mind it, satoru likes being able to take care of you like this, watch every contortion of your angelic face and twitch of your lips and flutter of your lashes as he pounds into you from below. 

“that’s it… that’s it pretty girl,” he coos to you so softly, glancing up at you with massive silvery-blue eyes holding pure fixation for you. “you want it so bad, letting me have you like this. i love it, i love yo—” he cuts himself off with a deep growl and reaches around the meat at your waist, your soft tummy as well as your plentiful skirts to graze your clit as arousal pearls over it — each brush at the swelling nub is calculated and catered exactly how you like, especially after falling into sheets with him so many times over the last two years. his touch treads softly on your body while he takes it slow, passionately ruining your insides. 

you hiccup and a light sparks behind the sapphire frame of your lover’s eyes. he repeats the action, only this time pinching your clit before he carefully pulls you close and angles his hips into your g-spot a little more — worshipping your body like a queen on her throne. “listen to that baby, your pussy sounds so pretty taking all of me.” gojo punctuates his words with deep, purposeful movements that have his achingly hot cock repeatedly jamming against that one particular spot. “you need it like this, need me to always take the lead, hm? you act like you’re such a big girl, but really you’re just my needy little one.” 

satoru feeds you a mix of praise and light condescending remarks, keeping you under his spell just like always has. as if he were a pied piper using his darling moans to draw you in. he keeps you pacified like a baby with languid thrusts and sloppy kisses all over — barely giving you a moment to think independently. the hand wrapped around your waist keeps you anchored to gojo, teaching you dance in a sensual sticky grind that only lovers know how to do.

dropping your forehead to rest against his, you let out a blissful whimper. “s’not fair, you always… ah f-fuck! you always take control from me,” you’re supposed to be the one using satoru. using him to take your mind off of suguru while you remind the man of all the reasons he should love you openly and publicly. but, like always, you fall victim to the touch which causes you to blossom above satoru and the candied voice he uses that make sweet nectar pour from your abused little hole.

“it’s cause you adore me,” gojo tells you in a rough voice. states it like it’s fact written in a history book for lovers. you can’t and don’t have time to deny him — managing a weak whine of annoyance when his lips attach to the cliffs of your collar bones. his tongue rolls saliva over the area where he can’t leave a physical mark, knowing that the white hot sensation will stick with you all night — making it just as good as any other forbidden hickey or stolen love bite. “you love me, don’t you?” 

“g-god yes!” neither of you have any idea what exactly it is you’re saying yes to — whether it be the way he pounds at your puffy, swollen mound or saying that you love him, it doesn’t really matter. you’re both too far gone. you finally start to grind down on him again, using all of your strength to push past your overstimulation and match satoru’s toe-curling stream of thrusts, syncing up your cantering hips. every stroke of his cock within the depths of your silken, pulsating cunt earns you a muffled whine from him. 

a fresh red tint begins to glow under the surface of your lover’s pale skin, the blood coursing through his veins and coagulating at his cheeks is dotted with love and lust hormones just like your own. the fact that he’s barely able to pull out of your selfish pussy means that there’s a shine to his polyester clad thighs from your juices — the glisten barely catching under the artificial light in the bathroom. 

everything overwhelms you, you feel like you’re drowning. fat beads of precum between your sore thighs begin to form because you’re clenching down on gojo so hard, his cock even fights it’s way to pull out of your addictive heat. you can’t let him go, your body won’t let him go, dragging him into the routine of crazy intense and creamy sex — bulbous and purpling cockhead consistently digging into your g-spot. everything is so wrong but it feels so right — it doesn’t make any sense but you feel so nice. 

“yanno…” satoru slurs over the heavy weight of saliva spreading through his mouth while he runs it. “‘m so fucking lucky… to be the only man who gets to see you like this. whining so sweetly, legs all shaky, pussy so fucking wet.” appreciatively, his cruel cerulean gaze drops to where his milky cock disappears into your fat pussy and his digits move from your clit to spread your netherlips apart, putting the glaze of your essence that coats his rock hard girth on display. 

gojo truly is so very lucky, to be the only man with the pleasure of jackhammering into you to his hearts content. he’s so lucky that there isn’t anyone else you want aside from him, that all you want his for him to be better for you. he really should work on that. especially if he wants to be the only one who lives and breathes you for the rest of forever. on the contrary, you hate that he only sees your worth to him while fucking you — it makes bitterness simmer underneath the absolute depraved ecstasy you feel. 

but you’re not giving satoru gojo up. not in this lifetime. 

taking advantage of your hands planted firmly against gojo’s broad chest — you peel your sweaty thighs away from gojo’s trembling ones, his cock being tugged away from the snugness of your oozing, sopping mound. an incredulous gasp lays wet on the seam of the silver haired man’s lips. he misses you. he wants you so bad and there’s no greater relief than when you slam back down onto his cock, hips cantering down so fast that he easily hits your womb. the force makes you both drool and you throw yourself forward to capture gojo in a messianic kiss between two lovers. 

euphoria chillingly slips into your veins while you rock yourself against gojo feverishly, both of your chests heaving erratically from your love making. “you…you talk too much,” you mumble into his mouth, tongue rolling over his as if to swipe the words from his tongue. if he says anymore you won’t last any longer. you lick the salt from his lips, an obsessive glint in your eye — because satoru gojo is all that you want. “talk way too much…just love me, just fuck me.” 

satoru wants to love you, it’s like he’s genetically coded to. he can’t imagine being this in love with anyone else aside from you — but there’s a selfish mental block on his mind that stops him from giving you the commitment you need. right now, in this moment, he’ll give you the pieces of himself that he can. he’ll make love to you, he’ll make you see stars and galaxies, he’ll do whatever he can to make you happy right here, right now. 

sweat from the exertion of rutting into you pins his silvering locks to his forehead — it drips down the side of gojo’s face which you lovingly lick. your lover wraps both of his arms around your waist and pulls you in so that you nestle on his chest — giving you the leverage you need to pound yourself on curve of his cock, seeping viscous honey down his shaft. the scene is obscene, but there’s love and adoration buzzing between your tangled limbs. 

hearts sprinkle themselves amongst the flecks in your eyes as you look up at gojo and your pupils dilate at the chorus of skin slapping on skin, the pap pap pap of your swollen mound while your lover buries himself deep in your warmth — pulling unholy sounds from your angelic body. the toilet he sits on creaks beneath the force of your ministrations, threatening to break just like you might on top of your lover. 

“i’d do anything for you, a-anything you wanted,” gojo counters, quivering beneath you with his hair sticking to your sweltering skin. it’s true, he’d rip stars from the sky and skyscrapers to the ground. his heart chases after your every desire. between frenzied bucks and mismatched smooches, the man swipes his fingertips over your pulsating clit — rubbing fat droplets of creamy precum into your folds and the sensitive nub. the whole time, he keeps you stuffed full of his cock, hardly pulling out each time you lift and drop yourself on his dick. 

mewling like a pornstar, your hands shoot upwards and wring themselves in moonlight hair — a tell tale sign that you’re getting closer and closer to reaching cloud nine. “y-yeah? then make me cum, l-let me make a mess on your cock. please.” you plead, the back and forth of your cunt over gojo’s lap tampering with your system by sending orgasmic shockwaves through you. 

“i gotcha, anything for you, beautiful. s-shit!” using his free hand, gojo grabs at the fat of your ass and pulls you up and down on his girth — giving him the room to pummel your pussy hard and fast. “you squeeze me real tight when i act all desperate for you.” 

“a-aren’t you? o-oh ‘toru, right there!” you exclaim and ask all at once in one high pitched moan, failing to press for an answer while gojo bullies his way through your walls and right up to your womb. your clit smears over his hipbone, painting him with tube dulcet juices. 

gojo builds up momentum inside of you, dragging his seedy tip along your ravaged walls from how deep he’s able to get inside of you. “i am… only god knows that i am. fuck, i wanna be yours, want this to last forever,” white starts to froth at the base of his dick, streaking all over your soiled folds as your cunt squirts copious amounts of essence each time his balls clap against you. “think i’m gonna fuckin’ cum, might be inside.” 

“satoru please…” your hips stutter above his, choking out gojo’s cock for fear life in an attempt to get him to fill you up to the brim with his seed. you tear up and he barely lets you off his twitching erection. 

“i know baby, i fucking know — i’m right there with you. hold onto me. my fucking baby.” with the last of his energy, satoru assaults your pussy with a barrage of desperate thrusts, jerking you about in his lap. that’s all either of you need before you’re thrown over the edge, rendering you limp, cum soaked messes in one another’s arms. the ropes in your lower tummy, that have been burning this entire time, finally begins to unravel.

the world around you blurs, your brain fucking lags and you actually fucking squirt. a scream rips through you and burns at the edges of your voice, following through your uncontrollable shakes. clear streams of arousal shoot from your sloppy, dirty cunt and pool in satoru’s dress pants — soaking him to the bone. 

“that’s it baby, give it to me. all of it, make a mess — want it all over me.” satoru goads hoarsely, losing control of his thrusts until they become uncoordinated and lackadaisical. “a-ah! oh! holy shit, mmm ‘m cumming baby. f-for you…” the aftershocks of your high and little twitches from your heavenly hole trigger the white haired man’s orgasm. right before his release, his hand reaches up from toying with your sex to grab at your sapphire pendant — using the chain to yank you up into a sensual lip lock that seals his fate, practically pulling it off of you while you make out through his high.

hot, sticky and thick ropes of white seed spill into you — there’s even so much of it that it overflows from your tiny entrance and oozes against your raw mound. you’re still cumming, forcing satoru out of you while he continues to flood your womb — what doesn’t make it is left to smear over your thighs and poofy dress, glazing you in viscous cum. 

still releasing in spurts, satoru carefully pulls out of you and leans back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall so that you slump against his chest — relaxed. warm content simmers in the air between your maze of limbs and you leak against one another sweetly. 

“so much for fixing your necklace,” satoru jests over the static itching at your brain while you come down from your earth-shattering high.

you offer him up a dopey smile, all of the tension from earlier on in the night melting away when you look at him. “we’ll have to hide it from suguru, so he doesn’t notice. we’ve been gone for a while too.” no matter what gojo puts you through, it’s always worth it for the way he makes you feel after sex. 

warm, cherished and cared for. 

just like suguru would want you to be. 

“well, whose fault is that, little one?” a chaste kiss is pressed against your hairline as satoru helps you to sit up in his lap — drawing back slightly to give you a once over and mirroring the way you grin at him with a toothy smirk. “little miss ‘we don’t have time.’ — i’ll have to fix your make up, can’t have you walking back out there like i’ve just rocked your shit.” 

despite his crude words, satoru’s gesture makes your chest bristle with happiness. “you’re an idiot, satoru gojo.” 

“an idiot that you adore. an idiot who you like way too much,”  he fires back childishly. “c’mere, let me get rid of the mess i made of you.” 

you do, like him too much, a little too much for your own good. 

it’s twisted, the mere fact that satoru has such a hold on your heart that you can’t seem to escape no matter how hard you try— and it only worsens when he’s good to you like this. so good with the way he helps you clean up, tends to your ruffled dress, redoes your smudged makeup and jokes with you while he dries his sex stained pants under the hand drier before you go back out to meet your family. 

you’re a love sick fool when it comes to him. 

and you have no idea how much that’s going to change. 

suguru geto was not an idiot. 

his numerous academic accolades are enough evidence of that. in highschol he graduated with a GPA of 4.0% which only escalated by the time he got to college — which was like a breeze to him.  by the time he’d finished his four year degree, there was an industry opportunity waiting for geto on the other side of all of his hard work and efforts. 

it pleased him to know that people thought highly of his skills, appreciated the knit and grit and blood, sweat and tears he put into his work. he had a passion for seeking the truth, discovering the reasons and meanings for people’s actions — it was suguru’s calling. that’s why he became a criminal defence lawyer. 

why do people do what they do? why do people lie? why do people run and hide? 

with all of suguru geto’s smarts and analytical skills — his ability it to think critically, you would think he’d have it all figured out by now. 

suguru geto was not stupid.

so why is it that he can’t figure out what’s wrong with you? why you’ve been so skittish and why this entire night? he knows you, his baby sister, like you were his own flesh and blood. like you were the back of his slightly calloused and hard working hand. you may have been adopted, you may not share the same DNA but suguru has lived with you and been raised with you long enough to know how your genetic code reacts to certain pressures and scenarios and situations.

you’re his little sister for christ’s sake. 

as you make your way back to your family’s designated table, weaving between pedigree bred children and their families, waiters and waitresses working tired on their feet — he notices how the tension you’d been experiencing the whole night has suddenly dissipated from your body as if it were never there. your shoulders have dropped, your movements flow as loosely as your baby blue cupcake dress does, your eyes are bright and full of an energy suguru has only seen once in someone else. 

another soul he’s grown up with. 

the very idea makes him feel ill, the food on his plate suddenly becoming unappealing and bitter against the insides of his mouth. you’re not… you would never… 

“hi,” you greet the table tentatively, the corners of your cocoa painted lips quirking up into a small smile. “did i miss anything?” 

suguru forgoes answering you to ask his own question. “where have you been?” 

the chatter at your table dies down only just as your parents register your presence with the group once more — joining in on your conversation with your brother like a car merging lanes. 

“oh! i was just in the bathroom… you know, girl stuff. powdering my nose.” you offer up as an excuse, twirling the end of your curled braids between your gentle fingers. a habit your brother knows you’ve picked up when you’re shy, yet, content. “you know how it goes.” 

his dark eyes sweep over your face. suguru doesn’t know much about make-up, just that you like doing it. he had been the one to get you your first eyeshadow palette in your teen years but that’s as far as he goes. everything seems to be in place, perfect, you’re beautiful as you always have been.

but there’s a slight smudge to your lip combo that bleeds just past the curve of your cupid’s bow — out of place enough for geto to notice. the colour is different too. black instead of brown, as if you’ve mixed up the lipsticks in a rush.

suguru tries not to dwell. he really does. dropping the topic and retreating to his dinner plate while you idly chat to your parents about your new job but something in his gut stirs — he remembers something. 

gojo is nowhere to be seen and your pendent is missing.

you can’t. you’d never…

as if on cue, the moonlight man returns to the party, loudly pulling out his seat and taking his place next to you once again. gojo’s hair is a mess, much messier than it was before… as if someone had roughed it up with desperate fingers. your chocolaty lip colour is smeared along his neck in deconstructed lip prints as if he’d tried to wash them away, dotted along the collar of his crisp white shirt too. the contrast of the colours make it blatantly obvious what’s been going on too. the silver chain of your necklace hangs freely from his pocket.

“did i miss anything?” he asks casually, despite how not-put-together he looks — much less in comparison to you, who’d returned to dinner first. 

it makes geto’s skin itch and crawl, the similarity between your words and gojo’s. he can’t even think to reply, yet the words come tumbling out before he can stop them.

“wouldn’t you like to know,” suguru snaps callously. “where have you been?”

“wanted to see if the little miss made it back to the table alright.” gojo lies smoothly, resting a large hand on your shoulder. geto notes the way he strokes your neck with his thumb. “you know how she is, clueless without suguru, right?” 

your parents and gojo burst out into charmed laughter, adding to the bustle and ambience of the restaurant. suguru’s face only sours as your father chime’s in next. “this one probably raised her better than i did. he was so excited to have a little sister, wouldn’t go anywhere without her.” it’s the alcohol that causes your father to blurt out the embarrassing memory — it’s sweet and cherished, but does nothing to help ease your brother’s boiling fury as he’s patted on the back by his dad.

pet like a dog getting a treat.

a reward for taking care of you all these years.

“yeah, raised her to be smart and proper. that’s why she’s a graduate and not mooching off of us anymore.” geto seethes from your left.

from your right, satoru reaches for his crystal glass for a drink — only to realise that it’s empty. he next reaches for the bottle of moscato ordered for the table, and pours some for himself until it levels out at the rim of his glass. “ouch suguru, way to hit a man where it hurts,” your ‘boyfriend’ whines petulantly, sipping the surface of his drink. “you know i work for dad now, you’d be so proud. still making money, not mooching off of his.” 

you fiddle with your cutlery, the silverware awkwardly clattering against your plate while you finish off the steak you’d ordered. then, your mother breaks the tension.

“does anybody want to order dessert?”

satoru is quick to jump on her distraction train — enthusiastically nodding his head with silver locks flying about the place. “oh you know me, ma. i love a sweet lil’ thing, got a huge sweet tooth.” satoru chirps excitedly — as chipper as can be.

“that you do dear boy, pick out anything you’d like.” your dad says in turn.

the silver haired stray at your table pretends to ponder before clapping his hands together — causing both you and geto to jerk at the sound. 

“daifuku!” 

“oh, that’s been a recent favourite of our little girl’s, hasn't it darling?” mum gushes proudly. “reminds me so much of her.”

the anxiety in the back of your mind spikes to an all time high as your dragged into the conversation once more — suguru hot on your trail, close to uncovering it all. you shrink under the burning gazes of everyone at the table — your lover, your parents and your brother. satoru, of course, takes amusement in knowing you crave his favourite sweet even when you’re apart. geto is less than impressed. 

you nod and gojo lets out a laugh that sets your soul alight and sends a shiver down your spine. “that’s right, our girl is just the sweetest little thing.” he praises you, resting his cheek on a closed fist, gojo’s elbow sitting comfortably on the table while he stares over at you dreamily.

suguru geto was not a fool.

he could see right through the happenings before his very eyes. the way you looked up at satoru, your expression docile and pure, dark eyes glimmering and brimming with so much idolisation and worship for satoru, it was a look suguru had seen many times before. it was a look previously saved only for him — from little sister to older brother. 

you stare up at gojo like he holds all of the world’s secrets, like he could keep you safe from any and all types of harm, like you love him.

“i’ll have what he’s having,” geto hears you murmuring airily, but there’s static ringing in his ears and red flashing before his eyes — he’s that pissed off at his sudden realisation. 

it’s only when his gaze flits to his best friend, his one and only, satoru gojo that the dam breaks and all of suguru’s emotions and epiphanies from the night come bursting out in shades of white hot fury. because satoru matches your expression, his blue ocean eyes drown you in love and he looks as though he’s won the fucking lottery. hazily and smugly grinning at you while the table discusses desserts.

the final puzzle piece that suguru has been looking for clicks into place. 

it all hits him like a truck.

“oh you slick motherfucker…” suguru growls slowly, his words fighting through their prison of his gritted pearly white teeth. the syllables and their sound contrast heavily with the abrupt way in which your darker haired sibling stands from his chair — almost sending it flying to the floor as he slams a fist down onto the table. his other hand points accusingly towards your lover, and everyone’s attention falls on him. 

“suguru what are you—?”

“you fucked her. didn’t you?”

expressions of incredulousness morph on the faces of your dinner guests ( yourself included ), shocked by geto’s bellowing voice and stone cold glare. not to mention the callousness of his words. he knows. and it’s like you’ve been doused in a bucket of ice water. he knows what you and satoru have been up to, the smoke has cleared and you can no longer hide from him. 

“suguru geto, mind your manners!” one of your parents snaps, but you can’t quite place the voice — every sound in the restaurant blurs into one and your head swims with a dangerous mix of panic and alcohol. he knows. your mind screams, the pink and squishy organ dully thumping against it’s calcium cage — your skull. 

“fuck manners,” he barks, suguru’s mouth beginning to froth like a dog rabid with rabies. his face hardens as if it’s been set in stone, while a storm clouds geto’s previously welcoming eyes. “answer my question, satoru.”

innocently, yet with an air of confidence and patronisation, gojo tilts his head to the side like that of a puppy — his bright white teeth put on display as he smiles slow and softly as if to diffuse the situation with his charm. “i don’t know what you’re talking about—“

“bullshit!” suguru fires back, his wrath beginning to boil over the edge like the restaurant’s signature slow cooked stew. he begins to roll up the white sleeves of his dress shirt — as if he’s preparing for a fight. one with his best friend. once the material is snug around the bulge in his bicep, your brother slams his hands down on the table once again, causing heads to turn and cutlery to clatter about the place. “that’s fucking bullshit satoru and you know it. i can see it on you. i can smell it on you.”

in all your years of living with the geto family, becoming a part of it and finding your sense of belonging with them — you’ve never seen your brother this angry, let alone see such red hot rage directed at someone he cares about. someone you care about too. 

“sugu,” you whimper and stand, trying to direct his attention away from your lover boy. “suguru it’s okay. it’s not what it looks like—!” 

another slam of his hands on the table slices through your meek words — causing you to jump out of your skin. 

swirling black eyes hideous with anger and upset switch their attention to you — tearing you apart underneath their judgemental gaze. suguru has never looked at you like that. he’s always been so good to you, never been mad at you without cause or at least let you seen so. that was until today.

“i wasn’t fucking talking to you. sit down and keep quiet. let your big brother handle this.” geto spits, the pain of his worded venom shooting painfully to your heart — causing tears to sting at your waterline. 

“don’t fucking talk to her like that.” satoru keeps his voice low, in a tone you’ve only ever heard him use with the guys hitting on you at college. it’s dark and threatening, but most of all, protective. protective over you. you never thought it would be thrown at suguru. he stands up too while you sink back down, catching a glimpse of your parents’ worried stares from across the table.

onlookers in the restaurant are no different. 

“so, you think you can speak for her now? since when did you two get so close, hm? did you two fuck? did i hit a sore spot, gojo? ” a rich, sarcastic laugh reverberates from geto’s vocal chords. the whole scenario is…entertaining to him. his best friend, his brother of all people, fucking with his little sister — knowing how it would make him feel. 

there’s a beat of silence across the dinner table, consisting of nothing but death glares and heaving chests.

but then all of a sudden, satoru leans forward with his palms pressed flat against the table’s surface — a sick smile twisting on his ever-soft and glossy pink lips as he jeers back at the younger male, taunting suguru. 

“oh i’ve been hitting her spots alright.”

you feel like you’ve been doused in cold once again, the blood that had been flushing to your face, now freezing in your veins. the fact that satoru would reveal intimate details of your love or sex life to the light of day (let alone your older brother) should make you fall ill. yet, in some sick and twisted way it makes butterflies flap their dainty wings in your lower tummy. 

because he’s admitting it, that he wants to be with you, to suguru’s face. 

“we’ve been closer than you could have ever imagined, suguru. nice and close, she outta have been swallowing me down.” satoru doubles down, because once he starts running his mouth, he can never stop. 

stopping them both now would be futile. but your parents are watching, other guests and staff are watching. it’s humiliating. having the two men you care about most go at each other like this. “satoru!” you squeal, desperate.

“oh you nasty motherfucker. so you did sleep with my sister.” geto growls before turning to you, furious. “how long? and don’t you dare lie to me.” 

“s-sugu, please. not here.” you start with a trembling voice, tears slipping down your cheeks freely while you look between the two men. 

“i said how long!” 

the way your brother raises his voice at you causes you to flinch back into your shell and for satoru to push his way between you both protectively. he would never let you get hurt, he had promised you that. even if he had done so himself. he wasn’t about to let suguru wound you too. 

“y’got cotton between your ears or something, suguru?” satoru makes himself tall and intimidating, towering over suguru. it was something that worked with everyone, scared them off from the person that was his and the one that he loved — you. but suguru wasn’t buying that act. “i said. stop. fucking. talking to her like that.” each of his menacing words are punctuated by a shove to your brother’s chest, each one taking a swing at your heart. you hate to see them hurting each other, you hate being in the middle of it all. suguru takes it all, as if he’s numb from the news, staggering back into another family’s table — causing their glasses and dishes to collide and clatter about until it stops and gojo grabs at the collar of geto’s shirt. “if you’re gonna be mad and yell at someone, be mad at me.” 

satoru adjusts his grip on your brother, but his blue eyes beg for him to let it go. for you to all go home and figure this out somewhere else. 

suguru just can’t. his mind can’t wrap around the idea that you’ve been leaning on someone else this whole time — using someone else. sleeping with his best friend all this time. it’s not in his nature to be violent, geto has been perfect all his life and never veered from the correct path. he would never hit anyone. he’s never felt the urge to put his hands on someone, unlike satoru. but in that moment, looking at his best friend and feeling the blood pour from the open wound in his chest. 

exasperated by the stab wound to the back, from both you and satoru.

“you’re right,” the words taste like acid on suguru’s tongue as he grasps at gojo’s own collar with his green hand. never in a million years did he picture himself hating someone he loved with his whole heart. it physically pains him to even think about resenting you. it makes his vision shake and bleed with a dark red, he feels so irrevocably angry that he might hurt someone.  “it’s you i should be pissed with.”

geto moves without thinking, every fibre of his being reverting back to man’s natural instinct as his fist connects harshly with the underside of gojo’s chin. the taller of the two stumbles back in shock — thick and temperate scarlet coating his pearly white teeth from where he’s bitten down on his tongue along with the force. satoru barely has time to react not before suguru is on him again; landing another punch square in his face — accompanied by a sickening crack.

your brother grabs at your lover, shaking him by the lapels of his now bloodied suit and you scream loud enough to lower the temperature of the dining hall and fill it with chills because suguru has always told you to look away from violence. and this time you couldn’t.

you couldn’t bare to look away from those beautiful blue eyes as they took a hit for you. 

satoru sways backwards and forwards, clearly stunned at the force behind his best friend’s fists. he damn near collapses into the table behind him, causing the onlookers to yelp and cry out at his injured state. he’s got a busted lip, bruised cheeks and nose and he’s still the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

“fuck, suguru!” gojo’s voice wobbles, he sounds wounded. both inside and out. “what the fuck?” eventually, he grounds himself, tongue darting out to lick the patch of crimson at the corner of his lip. he swipes his bloody nose on the back of his hand too — steeling his already hard, azure eyes. 

“you deserved it. pulling this shit with my sister? are you fucking insane? you could have had anyone else—“ suguru cracks his knuckles, shaking them out. 

you feel as though you’re in the middle of a battle — one for your honour. words that leave battle scars are thrown from both gojo and geto on each side, swords of male ego clash at the centre and you’re nothing but a defenceless damsel in distress. what could you possibly do against the both of them? you think to throw yourself in between the two men as gojo stalks his way over to your brother in three scarily short strides…but your mother quickly wraps her arms around your shoulders and hugs you to her chest — keeping you away from the fight. 

your father takes a stance in front of you both — he would interfere, but he’s not as young and as agile as he used to be. he’d get his teeth knocked in if he did. 

“stop it! p-please! satoru don’t—!” you screech and wail to him over the commotion of the gathering crowds. he ignores your calls, acting on his free will as satoru’s throws his own punch — another scream tears through the chamber of your chest just from witnessing suguru’s head snap to the side from its power. “suguru!”

“fuck. you, gojo.” your brother slurs, wiping his own bleeding nose on the sleeve of his white shirt.

“fuck you right back, geto.” 

you did this. you caused this. if you had just heeded your brother’s advice, he wouldn’t be losing a friend. you wouldn’t be losing someone you loved. you should have stayed away, you should have—

“i should have never trusted you!” comes your brother’s vicious snarl, somehow managing to squirm free of satoru’s grip and using the last of his strength to push the silver haired male to the smooth marble.

satoru doesn’t move, just barely managing to protect his head from the fall. he’s still bleeding, light headed but powered by his desire to protect you. kill for you. “i know! but we couldn’t help it! it just happened!” 

suguru turns to you. “did he take advantage of you? ever? how long has this been a thing?”

“n-no! never! s-satoru would never!” you gulp back a choked sob, hoping to put an end to the madness. stop the shattered glass and the people staring and the punches being thrown. you’re a terrible liar, geto knows that. he can see right through your thinly veiled lies — satoru isn’t the type to just want someone. it comes with a price, the pieces of your heart worth more than gold to your brother. of course… at first it had been that way, satoru took what he wanted. but nowadays it feels different. feels like more. 

“t-two years. it was…it was all me. i-im the one who said i liked him first. i always have.” you continue slowly, hoping for the smallest twinkle of mercy in geto’s eyes. “please sugu…please. this… this is enough. just leave him alone. i’ll never talk to him again just…stop.” 

throughout your whole speech, tears and all, suguru remains towering over your boyfriend with both of their chests heaving, both of their shirts ripped and bloody. you think, for a moment, he might leave it at that — suguru will take your hand, lead you out of the restaurant and that’ll be it. satoru will be spared and you’ll have sacrificed your feelings for him to save their friendship. 

however, the tears that drip down the apples if your cheeks and streak through your makeup aren’t enough. they’re not enough to provide a barrier to gojo’s selfishness — even at his lowest, quite literally (lying weakly underneath suguru), he still thinks he can have it all. both you and his friend. 

“t-that shit’s not true. she was a game to me at first—“ he begins to say, causing hurt to flash across your chest and for you to fall to your knees despite being in your mother’s unsteady grip. 

he doesn’t get to finish for geto takes the opportunity to straddle gojo — unleashing hit after hit on him like a meteor shower of pain. you don’t think he’ll stop until his knuckles are split.

“suguru! s-stop it!” you cry. 

people scream just like you but don’t interfere. you don’t even care that they’re staring, you don’t care what they think, all you care about are their well-being. 

to your relief, satoru finds an interval — latching onto his ‘ex’ best friend’s wrists with the last of his energy, effectively stopping him from landing anymore punches. “c-christ suguru, let me fucking finish,” satoru gargles on the blood pooling in his perfect, chatty mouth — using his grasp on suguru to push him into sitting on the floor too. “maybe if you did, you wouldn’t have missed this part,” the older of the two, gojo, spits the nasty mix of spit and blood at the younger’s feet — using a second to regain his breath. he spares a second to look at you, shaking on your knees desperate to touch him and see if he’s okay. you don’t know. you still don’t know just how much satoru gojo is willing to sacrifice for you. you have no idea how much he loves you. so he says it. profoundly and loudly. 

“… missed the part where i fell in love with her. hard and fast. couldn’t even tell i was falling.”

geto slumps back on his knees, dropping his bruised and cut up knuckles between them with defeat. your entire body sags in relief, until you’re a mess of crumpled clothes, bones and tears. 

he’s never told you that before. that he loves you. 

“god, satoru…fuck!” suguru exclaims, clearly exasperated. his rage has simmered to a stop,  with only angst and anguish filling the air in his lungs. he’s realised now what this means. he’ll never look at you or the satoru the same. the two people he loves most on this god forsaken earth. “she’s my little sister!”

he sounds like he’s about to cry.

“i know.” 

“you watched her grow up! we grew up together!”

“i know.” 

“you’re five years older than her!” 

“i know, goddamn it!” satoru finally breaks the loop, his voice heavy with pain and exhaustion. “but i love her and i can’t help that. neither of us can.”

in the moment of silence that passes, where the audience calms down and suguru steps away from a bloody and beaten satoru — you rush to his side, sliding across the marble floor in your pretty dress to help your lover sit up properly. suguru looks down at you in desolation, his brows creased in the centre of his forehead unhappily. the expression makes you hug gojo’s head to your shoulder tightly in your own protective stance — crimson bleeding across blue fabric like ink in water, forming a hollow shade of purple.

“she’s my little sister…” geto repeats solemnly, as if he’s watching your child-like innocence fade away in real time. he’s been looking out for you for so long that he’s failed to see what an adult you’ve become. it doesn’t make the betrayal hurt any less, though. “she’s…she’s still a kid.” he adds, swallowing the lump in his throat. “and now you’re fucking her?”

satoru shakes his head, easing himself from your grip as though to show you that he’s strong. strong enough for the both of you. “it’s not like that, and she’s not a kid anymore. she’s twenty two, suguru! she doesn’t need you watching over her like some fucking hawk anymore. she can fuck me or whoever the fuck she wants.” 

and even though satoru is right — you hate that they both talk about you as if you’re not even there or autonomous enough to defend yourself. 

“but you know better.” geto goes on, his own defence becoming weaker and weaker — disintegrating like paper in water. 

“we both do!” finally finding your voice, you stand up from your position on the floor cradling satoru and move to stand in front of your brother — grabbing his hands with pleading doe eyes and tears on your cheeks. “w-we’re both adults who made the mistake of getting involved with each other behind your back. but we don’t have to fight this out like children…please just give us a chance, sugu. talk to him. talk to me. y-your little sister…”

geto sags again, he looks tired, but accepts your affection without a trace of doubt or hatred. he thumbs the backs of your hands, dark obsidian eyes gazing into your soul like a galaxy of black holes. your deep chocolatey eyes are met with a stare full of trust and admiration — something familiar, something that fills you with temporary relief.

you like to think that you know suguru geto. 

he’s the smartest and most rational man you’ve ever met. your brother has always been kind and tender, takes the time to really listen to people and think things through step by step. he never acts on instinct or brashness. those are all things you know about him. 

you like to think that your older sibling knows you too. 

that he would look at you and see your truth, how much you care for gojo and how you didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. 

clearly, neither of you know each other as well as you once thought. 

he sees gojo from over your shoulder, and the same sense of white hot betrayal washes over the dark haired man like an acid bath. he rips his hands away from yours as if he’s touched molten lava and you’ve scalded the palms of his hands in which he used to love you, care for you and raise you. 

a pained sound gargles in your throat as geto pulls away from you — his own mature, handsome face, equally as distraught. “i can’t,” he mumbles quietly. “not right now. i’m sorry.” his warmth is gone before you know it and he’s grabbing his belongings from your dinner table, bowing in apology to guests and staff and your parents. 

“suguru!” you gasp, tears stinging at your eyes once again. “suguru wait!”

geto presses his thick, black leather wallet to your mother’s chest as he passes your parents, his suit coat half slung over his shoulder. “use the black card to cover the bill for dinner and pay for the meals of the families who’s tables we destroyed. i’ll take care of any damages too — the owner was a client of mine.” he tells her softly, kissing her forehead. 

“suguru— your sister!”

he doesn’t turn back as he pushes his way through the crowd in order to reach the exit. “she’s old enough to look after herself, right?”

“suguru please.” 

you will yourself to chase after him, every cell in your body screaming at you to move while your heart and mind long for you to stay by satoru’s side. 

you’re conflicted, you don’t know who to choose. 

and maybe it’s satoru’s selfishness, maybe he’s the one to blame for the rift in yours and suguru’s relationship — because when he succumbs to the bleeding and the injuries, and someone aside from you screams for an ambulance, you can’t bring yourself to leave him. 

like a bird in a cage, you’re trapped by satoru’s love.

or perhaps he was just taking advantage of your weak little heart like always. 

being at home is supposed to bring you comfort, there’s nothing like it. 

your home is like a safe, full of precious memories locked away with a key that only you possess. if you push through the door you’re met with a gust of nostalgia — the sounds of childlike laughter as undertones to scolding parental voices. as you drift down the halls there’s works of art made with crayola ink on the walls, and sometimes there’s tears in that one little spot at the top of your stairs. 

spices from your favourite home cooked meal burning on the stove top usually waft throughout the place, calming you down and filling you with warmth. you can’t remember a time where the smells and aromatics of your home have failed to bring you back down to earth. they trigger waves of fondness and flashbulb memories of your father teaching you and suguru as siblings how to cook whenever your mother fell ill.

your home not only hosts heartfelt conversations between four people who love each other, but it speaks too. it would creak and groan and squeak with every step you took deeper inside, with each time you ran through it while being chased by your brother. 

every single one of these moments, these sounds and scents they’re all part of a precious network that make up the foundation of your home. plaster made of love and bricks born from happiness, all glued together by layers of forgiveness in the form of concrete. it’s a house full of happiness, your home is. made by your parents, suguru and you. 

but right now you feel as if the roof of your home has caved in.

you’ve been sitting outside of suguru’s bedroom for hours now. your pretty dress soaked in blood and your face in your own tears. you can hear him on the other side of the door — he’s talking to someone, no doubt looking for last minute flights or begging for one of his client’s private jets. and you’re terrified because if he leaves like this you might never speak to one another again. 

you don’t want that, you can’t have that.  

you wonder where he might go — if it’ll be some place you always planned to visit together when you were old enough. a trip abroad was something geto had promised you if you graduated. now here you were. graduated but without your big brother by your side. Paris, London, New York — all places you were meant to explore with your eldest sibling by your side. 

though at this very moment, he was all the way on the other side of a door he had no intention of opening.

it’s like the entire world has collapsed and caved in on you — there’s a hole starting to form in your heart that only suguru can fill and until today, as he begins to pull away from you, you hadn’t realised how much space in your life he had occupied. you leaned heavily on your brother, he shielded you from experiences like this time and time again, and all you could do in return is fuck his best friend. 

some grateful little sister you are.

your face burns with a fresh set of tears, hot at the centre and underneath the fat of your eye bags. you’re so dependent on him, you wonder how you’ll cope when you move cities and start a real life outside of the shelter your brother had worked so hard to build for you. the very idea makes your insides twist and stomach turn. you’re not even sure if geto will want to keep in touch with you once either of you are gone.

leaning against his door, you paw at your wet face — hoping and praying that he’ll hear you out. that he won’t leave you, because without suguru you have no one. 

wait… that’s not true.

there’s still satoru. if he even wants you after all of this. if you even want him.

why is it that he chose this way to confess his love for you? why is it that he dragged you away from a family dinner to fuck you instead of just being honest? why was satoru so selfish? 

he hurt you over and over again — left mental scars on you and treated them like open wounds, adding salt and citrus and whatever would sting just to make sure you kept on needing him and only him. he hurt you to make sure you loved him back and you’re sure he had no idea. there’s an underlying guilt coursing through the blood in your system — guilt in letting satoru take all of the blame for falling out with suguru. especially when he defended you against your brother’s switch up and acidic, toxic words. especially when he’s posted up in a hospital bed for his battle wounds — split lip, possible concussion, bruised eye sockets. 

your white haired lover had tried to be brave for you when you’d left him at the hospital to come home and change. there was terror evident in each dark blue fleck in his baby blue eyes, anxiety wrapping around his heart at the idea of you just leaving him there. he thought you would be leaving him forever.

fuck. gojo was good to you, in so many bad ways. you wished that you’d never met him, that you’d never fallen for him either. 

before your mind is fully able to slip away to your lover boy, the door to suguru’s bedroom clicks open softly — forcing you to scoot away from him so that he has room to step out. neither of you move — frozen in time like marble statues carved millennia ago. you look a mess and suguru looks like a clean slate. where your dress is blood and snot stained, your makeup smeared and eyes puffy — your older brother has been washed free of tonight’s grime, his cuts are plastered over and his knuckles bandaged. not a single dark, obsidian tendril of his hair is out of place either — perfectly tied back into his signature bun.

most importantly, there’s not a trace of bitterness on his face — almost as if the events of tonight never even happened. 

as if you never ruined his friendship with gojo or ruined his perception of you — his little sister. 

yet, there’s a glum sort of gleam to his dark eyes, he’s tired — he’s been thinking too hard, going through every step over and over again trying to piece together what he missed. why would you hide this from him? you hate how lost suguru looks. that you did this to him too.

he doesn’t want to fight, not with you. not after satoru.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, shifting to sit on your knees in front of him — as if you’re about to bow for geto’s forgiveness. “i should have never… i didn’t mean to—“ you pick at stray pieces of skin by the bed of your nails, flailing for words as you slip under the surface of your painstaking emotions. “i’m…i’m…”

geto crouches down to your height, using one hand to wipe the tears from your big bambi eyes and another to tilt your chin up towards him gently. “sorry.” he finishes for you, flashing you his classic, loving smile. “it’s okay…just give me time.” 

you nod shortly, your features twitching as you fight back the urge to cry again. 

the older male clicks his tongue and shakes his head, the pad of his thumb swiping under your eyes gently. “oh no, none of that, don’t cry for me.” as always, suguru comforts you and tends to you like a flower in need of nurture. “i’m sorry too, little one.” 

“a-are you leaving?” 

“for a little while.”

your face crumples once again. “suguru—“ comes your childish huff as he stands — but before the elder geto can get very far, you latch onto his wrist in one last clingy attempt. 

suguru shakes his head one more time, more vigorously as if he’s trying to get rid of his own tears — knowing that if he lets you continue and beg him to stay, he won’t have the chance he needs to heal.  “i can’t. i need time,” your brother says firmly, almost as if he’s scolding you. “you can’t expect me to get over it just like that. it’s not fair.”

you’re fully aware of that, selfishly choosing to ignore the fact — just like satoru would. life isn’t fair, so you suppose this is life’s own way of punishing you for hurting your brother and causing him grief. 

“sugu, please don’t go.” 

“give me a few weeks, a few months even, and i’ll come back. i promise.” he sighs in response, practically begging you at this point. it kills him to leave his younger sibling just as much as it kills you to see him go. however, every time suguru lays his eyes upon you, all he feels is betrayal and loss. all he can see is his best friend’s hands ruining you. corrupting you. it almost makes suguru resent you, for taking a bite of an apple from the snake he’d warned you about. hating you is the last thing suguru wants. “i can do that for you because you’re my little sister. because i love you and deep down, you’re everything to me. but i just need to get over this first.” 

it’s because you’re his little sister that he’s even able to look at you. if you were anyone else, if you were satoru, dinner would have been it. 

“‘m sorry,” you whimper for the millionth time, in defeat, weakly allowing suguru to help you onto your feet. every fibre of your being tingles with the need to hug him, soothe him in the ways he would do for you — though you know better. that’s not what he needs right now. geto needs you to let him go.

“i know,” geto hums sadly. he tucks your braids behind your ear, thumbing your cheek affectionately “you should go to bed, it’s getting late.” 

he presses a lingering kiss into the baby hairs on the crown of your head as he softly grips your arms — using them to rotate you both until his back is to the door and yours is to the looming hallway. 

“goodnight,” you sniff meaningfully. a nostalgic feeling rushes over you, a sense of déjà vu — reminding you of the time when suguru first left for college. 

suguru smiles again, disappearing into his room with a whispered. “goodnight, little one.” 

and with that, he’s gone. 

you only hope that he’ll make good on his promise, forgive you and come back. 

because as the saying goes — if you love someone let them go. 

and if they come back to you, then they’re yours.  

after a hot shower, you find yourself taking heed of suguru’s advice and retreat back to the confines of your bedroom. 

childlike walls covered in ugly green no longer make you laugh or provide you with an uplifting and evocative solace. instead, you feel more cold and alone, desperate to leave this life behind and move on to bigger and better things. 

things that suguru had helped you to achieve.

while the scalding hot water had washed away any bloody stains from the night, any tears left on your cheeks — it did nothing to get rid of the slimy, gross feeling that you couldn’t seem to reach. it spread underneath the surface of your skin like wildfire through a forest, over each crack and crevice in your mind, slipped through the gaps in your rib cage to target your lungs like a respiratory attack. it was the shame, the guilt and the grief for someone you’d lost who was still alive. all three emotions plagued you. 

once safely behind your own bedroom door, shutting out your feelings about the night (after only half of them had swirled down the drain), you rest against its wooden frame — watching the droplets that were clinging to your supple skin drop to the ground as if they were the tears you didn’t feel like crying anymore. 

the towel around your exhausted frame drops to your ankles as you lethargically search your dresser for your favourite cocoa butter moisturiser. you work in silence, soothing the night’s wounds as you prepare for bed like your bother had said. you slip on a set of pyjamas, tie your braids back with silk scrunchies and just as you hit the lights — there’s a knock at your window.

you don’t move, waiting to see if it’s your imagination or your mind playing tricks on you again. 

but then, there’s another dull thud and you whip around from your dresser to meet a pair of clear-sky blue eyes that catch light under the shining moon does enough to illuminate every curve and slope to his dainty features. gojo looks a little compared to when you left him in the hospital — whatever fluids they’ve given him have helped with the hollow, purple-ish dark circles under his eyes. a few cuts still litter the angelic curve to satoru’s face, 

clutching the centre of your chest from under your sweatshirt (in an attempt to calm your beating heart) — you rush towards the source of the noise, tugging the latches of your window open. “satoru,” you breathe, your entire body going lax once you realise who it is.

“hey you,” he grins, holding onto the upper body panel of the window while he waits for your permission to come in. even though your room is dark, painted with tendrils of pitch black, the silvering moon does enough to highlight each cut or slash across his pretty face. “missed you.” 

slowly, you reach out to touch him. a single fingertip slides across gojo’s sharp jaw, so sharp that it could cut diamonds, before you angle his head from side to side — inspecting the injuries that hardly do anything to dampen his beauty.

“can i come inside?” gojo asks cautiously. “it’s kinda cold out here.” 

blinking, you snap out of your reverie and shift backwards on your bed to make space for satoru to come through. he crawls into your room quietly like he’s done many times before, sneaking over to see you during your breaks from university, and shuts the window behind him.

the both of you stand still in the dark, hardly able to see each other, hardly able to tell what the other is thinking. satoru wonders if you hate him, if this is it for you and he. should he touch you? would you let him?

and as for you, you’re stuck between a rock and hard place. your body, as always, calls for gojo — yearns to be near him as if you haven’t seen one another in a millennia. you know that he’s right there, you can hear his shallow and ragged breathing (probably from climbing up to your window) just centimetres away. he’s done so much to hurt you, ruin you… and yet you can’t seem to resist him or stay away from him when you know that you should. 

“i figured you’d want this back, that’s why i came.” gojo mumbles, dangling the chain of your necklace in front of you. you reach out to take it and your boyfriend lets go, but the jewellery hits the ground and you ignore it’s metallic clatter.

“satoru gojo…” you whimper, instead, taking a step forward into the void — your hands touch on his tiny waist before travelling upwards over his creased button up shirt to settle at the silver haired man’s broad shoulders. he groans low at the feeling of your nails raking across them from over the fabric, reaching higher to scratch at his scalp through the baby hairs on his neck. even though satoru remains stiff and hesitant at first, it’s an intimate moment, you’re hardly able to see each other while being pressed so close together — desperate and longing. gojo finally relaxes and grabs the fat at your waist, pulling your hips flush against his own. 

you stand on your tiptoes and use your grip on his hair to tug gojo down to your height — your lips a breath’s width away from each other. he’s so close that you can feel his breath coast along the seams of your lips. 

“what have you done to me?” you finish, whispering.

god, satoru wishes that he knew. he has no idea himself, the kind of power and hold that he has over you. “i don’t fucking know,” he finds himself saying, meeting you the rest of the way as he leans down to capture your mouth in a messy, searing hot kiss. “i don’t wanna know. just let me kiss you.” 

“mhm,” you all but whine in reply, wrapping your arms around satoru’s neck as he feverishly licks into the hot, wet cavern of your mouth. he feeds you his moans, one by one, pouring his apologies and unspoken words past your lips and into your soul. gojo can’t speak with your tongue in his mouth, he’s spent all night plagued by thoughts of you — wondering if he’d done the right thing by telling suguru, if he should have kept his mouth shut and his hands off you. if he should have done it properly.

he fucks everything up — especially the things that he loves. gojo wouldn’t be surprised if you were done with his bullshit now. he’d make the most of what you’re willing to give him for the moment. 

your lips grow sticky with the layers of spit swapped between you and you can taste him on you. in your mouth, on your tongue. he tastes like cold peppermint and wisps of pink wine. he feels like heaven under your fingers, his hair soft like the feathers of god’s favourite angel. you inhale the hint of his aftershave from his clothes, let it drift over your mind as well. he’s toxic, bad for your lungs like a vape or the chemicals from something else addictive. perhaps you’re smelling gasoline, the kind that satoru uses to start a fire in your lower belly. 

you shouldn’t be doing this, not again, not here, not with suguru across the hall about to leave you. but you can’t help it, satoru’s become your everything and you feel that you might not be able to live without him too. “satoru,” your arm shoots to wrap around his neck, hardly allowing the man to pull away from you and breathe. your movements are so fast that gojo stumbles and holds you tighter to catch his balance. though it might be because he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “satoru, satoru, satoru please…”

you’ve no idea what you’re even begging for, just chanting his name between bruising kisses, his tongue sloppily gliding over yours while he fights to pull away from your intoxicating lip locks. “don’t beg, baby,” he grunts hot and heavy, dragging a thumb over your swollen lips. “god, please don’t fuckin’ beg. you have no idea what it does to me.” 

“but i need you,” closing your lips around the tip of his thumb, you suck gently and it causes satoru to grow weak in the knees — dizzy from the sensation. “and i love you…”

“fuck, i—“ gojo swallows thickly, watching you like a hawk as you suck on him salaciously. “i’m right here…love you too. now jump for me, baby.” comes his loving command, pulling the digit from the prison of your hot mouth. if he could, he’d take a life sentence to stay between your lips. 

following gojo’s lead, you leap upwards into his hold — allowing satoru to grope at your fleshy ass as he hoists you up. a pathetic bleat escapes his saliva laden lips when your thighs wrap securely around his waist, pussy slotting against satoru’s crotch while he carries you to sit on your dresser. 

after setting you down, satoru places a palm on the mirror above your head, steadying himself as lust and love for you and only you overwhelms him until he’s nothing but a shaky mess. a man that could be brought to his knees with just one look from you. his head drops to your neck, breath balmy against the surface of your skin, long white lashes tickling you there too. 

he grows enchanted by your steady pulse, pulled in my each of your little whimpers. a mop of silver hair descends upon your flesh, the taste buds on satoru’s pink, eager tongue mapping out your taste to commit to memory. he wants to remember your flavour forever — treating this as if it’s the last time he’ll ever touch you. 

“you…you asked me what it is that i’ve done to you. ‘n i told you that i… fuck, that i didn’t know,” gojo pants, a rosy blush spreading across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. one “but i can tell you exactly what it is that you do to me...” your lover looks down at you like a man drunk or high, facing an addiction he won’t be able to quit. it does something to you, drags crazed sex hormones from your brain right down to your pulsating clit. 

the temperature in the room rises, boiling and bubbling — the particles in the air teaming with so much desire, buzzing around with an equal amount of kinetic energy. “you’ve ruined me,” he mumbles wistfully, a man charmed. gojo leaves a wet trail over your pulse point, slowly sinking his teeth into the area. there’s a gentleness to the way that he leaves his mark on you — panting like a wet dog as he does so. “you make me want to take care of you. you’ve got me so fucked up that i can’t tell what’s up or down….” he moans into the sweltering ambience of the room.

satoru forces himself against you and you gasp, head hitting the mirror because you can feel how hard he is against the crotch of your night shorts. “i want to be your everything,” his selfish tendencies seep through into his actions, love bites gojo works against your neck become more prominent and harsher — as if to get his point across or through your head. he wants you to know how much he wants you. “just like i know that i’m yours.” 

it’s true. he is. 

the very phrase make your hips buck up into his, a wave of slick pooling between your folds as they catch on the print of gojo’s dick. “f-fuck…” the tail end of your words end in a lost whine, too turned on by gojo’s desperation for you. only you. 

“i love you,” he whispers, voice silky smooth while continuing to ravish your neck and collar bones with shades of deep purple and blue. gojo’s large hands sneak down to your waistband to pull your shorts off and on instinct, you do the same — a nagging craving for more of him taking over you once again. “like no one before. dunno why i didn’t say it earlier, don’t know why i didn’t wanna show you off.” 

satoru tugs your panties to one side, wedging them behind your swollen pussy lips and exposing your quivering mound to the night air. even though the room is dark, he can still see the glisten of your arousal and whines wildly from deep within his chest at the sight — urging you to yank down his boxers too. 

circling your hips up to meet his, the both of you hiss in unison as your leaky, sopping sexes come into contact for the second time that night. it feels right. just having the length of gojo’s heavy shaft nestled between your sticky folds — it’s natural, as if you’re made for one another despite fate not wanting you to be together. his tip spurts early traces of precum against your slit in another form of marking, hot and creamy against you while the scent of sex begins to waft through the air. 

it’ll never matter how much you try to resist satoru, for as long as he’s around, you’ll fall into this twisted little routine — a repeat offence of betraying your brother. your nails come up to dig crescent moons into his milky toned and strong arms, gritting your teeth at the pleasure beginning to wash over and drown you. “s-shit baby—“ gojo mewls through a pout, finally giving up on biting and sucking at your neck to rest his sweaty forehead against your own. “just wanna be good to you…wanna be enough for you. p-promise i’ll give my everything just t’be the one takin’ care of you.” 

satoru slurs his words but the very promise sounds like a dream for you. it’ll be everything you’ve ever wanted out of the man, all you’ve ever asked for in all these two years of fucking around. to be equals, to be his partner for the world to see. although, a tiny seed of doubt begins to sprout in the back of your mind — you’re not even sure if it’s true, if satoru’s just making empty promises to get you like this, to manipulate you into staying after messing everything up with your brother. 

could he take care of you like suguru did? could you trust him to do that? 

your jaw goes slack as gojo drags his hips back and forth, back and forth, the pretty blue veins wrapped around his cock running over your clit — stimulating you into a weakened stupor. milky droplets of pre glaze the length of your dripping cunt, satoru rubbing it in the more he grinds into you. 

the dance of your bodies is toxic and never ending, the way you rock into each other in perfect harmony causing your dresser to delicately thud against your bedroom walls. “d-do you promise, ‘toru?” you gasp, biting down on your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, as though to stop yourself from crying out loud from the electric current of pleasure he gives you. “y-you have to promise me.” 

silvery white brows knit together in the centre of satoru’s forehead, making him look pathetic. his hand forces it’s way between both of your tight and tangled limbs to grab hold of his bright red an, bulbous cockhead and circle it against your pulsating clit — dragging it up and down until it grazes your hole.

he damn near chokes on a glob of spit when you unconsciously clench around him — a loud simper bubbling up on the edge of his pretty pink lips. you’re quick to lean forward, practically slamming a hand over satoru’s eager mouth to keep him quiet. 

“p-promise me.” you repeat wetly, panting out the syllables as his dick slots perfectly against your wetness — both of you move with vigour and hushed whimpers and moans, satoru chasing after your soused sex like a hungry animal. you feel like you’re going fucking insane beneath him, watching as his tie to sanity starts to dissolve into thin air just from the way your pissy drips all over him with treacle-like juices.

no one on this earth could make satoru gojo give this up. give you up. not your parents, not his, not your brother. he’d rather die than let another person have you in the way that he does right now, where you rut your hips into his in one fluid motion. even if his heart breaks and his muscles ache — he can’t…he won’t stop giving you his all, won’t stop making you see fucking stars. 

a pressure begins to build just above your pelvis — brought forth by gojo bullying your pleasure nub with his sopping dick. it’s obvious how close you’re getting, your puckered hole gushing all over him and clenching on nothing. but it’s not like the man above you is in a better state — you’ve wrecked gojo, sent the man to high heavens and brought him back down to earth all at once. you’ve shown satoru that he’s worthy of being loved, that he’s capable of doing the same. the realisation only adds to the intensity of your sinful movements underneath the watchful eye of the moon. 

tears spring to his brilliant blue eyes, another clamorous sob breaking free from your hands over his mouth — making you clasp him tighter. everything is so intense and emotional, pleasure mounting like bricks for both of you. you’re shaky in one another’s hold, sticky against each other while your arousals lube everything up and make the whole ordeal wetter. it really does feel like a crescendo, the highest point of an orchestra’s song — where your bodies are the instruments played by one another. 

“satoru,” you repeat his name, warning him, begging him to focus through the thick fog of love, lust and desire clouding his brain. 

“i-i—“ gojo chokes down his feelings, slamming his other hand on the dresser behind you to trap you in underneath him — his hips never let up, however, roughly snapping into yours. “i promise. i promise, baby — always will, fuckin’ swear it.” he mumbles under his breath against the palm of your hand. 

and that’s all either of you need to hear for the dam to break. 

gojo’s rhythm falters, his hips stuttering as he succumbs to you and he hits his high. he lets out a cry of your name so genuine it pulls at your heart strings and you slip under the surface of ecstasy’s ocean — letting it fill your lungs as you cum too. you screw your eyes shut with the white light that blinds you through your orgasm — afraid of what may lie on the other side of this world-ending sensation. you don’t want the reality that awaits you. you don’t want to have to wake up from this little dream you’ve created with satoru. 

speaking of, the white haired man collapses over you in a fit of shakes and shivers — ropes of his white seed coating your aching mound. there’s so much for it, all caused by and for you. he doesn’t stop rutting into you, even though it’s sensitive, but wraps his arms around your head just to comfort you through it. hugging you to him while you both come down. 

he’s good to you, so good in this moment, but you have no idea if this will translate past tonight. 

“can i fuck you?” he asks through ragged breathing. “just a little bit, won’t be long. just wanna make you feel good again, you’re so pretty when you’re moaning and feeling so fucking good on my cock.” 

you wince with overstimulation as satoru starts to rub his shaft against you all over again, working it up to another ripe and pulsating erection just for you. earlier, you had wished the night would last a little longer, so you could love him a little harder and here satoru gojo was — making all but one of your dreams come true. “h-hurry,” you whinge into his shoulder, your teeth sinking into the milky flesh as though to keep yourself quiet. “don’t make me wait.”

“never baby, you’re too pretty for me to be patient,” in one fail swoop, satoru nudges his tip inside of you — instantly filling you to the brim with sticky, sloppy cock and drawing a needy gasp from you. “yanno, you’re so cute when you take my dick, such a beautiful baby. no one compares to you.” 

you know that he might just be running his mouth to fuck you sweet again, telling you all of the things you want to hear — but you can’t help but want gojo closer and wrap your legs around his waist, using the heels of your feet to push him closer to the point where his cum-covered cockhead is brushing against your womb.

with fluttering eyelashes, your mouth falls into an ‘o’ shape and a silent mewl escapes you — it doesn’t take long for your partner to fall into the perfect pace, fuelled by his desire to make you both cum again and his need to chase the stinging, delicious pain he gets from chasing overstimulation. “d-did you get tighter baby? you’re fuckin’ choking me out here,” satoru grunts against your sweaty hairline, ramming his hips into your clenching cunt that practically squirts a crude mix of your remaining orgasms. “you gonna milk me? make me fill you up again?”

“y-yes! please satoru…don’t stop!” you whine in harmony with his moans as they rise in pitch — higher and higher until they’re whistle tone, scratching tigers marks down his muscled back. the touch drives gojo insane, activating something primal in him to the point where you once again have to cover his mouth with wet kisses. if he didn’t love you, then the simple gesture wouldn’t cause him lose his tether to the real world fucking you like this. 

if it was only a touch, why did it ruin him?

juices and thick waves of cum that had once coated your throbbing cunt now slosh over your dresser that dully thuds against your bedroom wall — over and over again the faster gojo’s hips pound into yours. the sound of skin on skin overwhelms all of your senses, you’re stimulated beyond belief and you’re crying from multiple places…it’s almost too much for your poor ravaged body to handle. 

“i’ll n-never stop…fuuuck baby, as long as i’ve got you. ‘m never stoppin’…never stoppin’… n-never—“ your man chants, crying into your mouth and the hot lustful buzzing hair between you when grab his ass so that he can fuck you deeper. the slit at his cockhead is overloaded with viscous precum, smearing it along your inner and gushing ribbed walls — claiming your insides for the second time that night. 

your hips run from the pleasure that you crave and that satoru gives to you — cross eyed and panting from above you like a wet dog. there’s no need for him to run from you though, you won’t let him, not when he needs to be loved by you. someone who cares for satoru gojo despite all of his mistakes.  

a creamy ring begins to form at the base of satoru’s swelling cock, all white and frothy from where he’s been churning your guts up lovingly — pounding his earlier orgasm inside of you as if to make it stick. your clit grinds against his smooth pelvis, dragging you by the ankle to another world-altering orgasm and his balls slap wetly against the curve of your fleshy ass. 

satoru adjusts your body against the dresser so that the curve of your spine rests on the table and he’s able to hike your legs over his shoulders so he can bully that one special spot only he can reach. your knees meet your chest, breasts bouncing beneath them from the force of the white haired man’s chest. “g-god, you’re…you’re fucking me too good,” you gargle, hands in his sweaty mass of silver hair as you tug gojo implausibly closer. “i wanna cum…are you there? c-can i cum, ‘toru?”

pressing his forehead to yours, satoru nods feverishly. “right behind you, baby. where do you want it?” there’s a fluid roll to your man’s hips, his cock dipping in and out of your fluttering entrance so fast and so good that you’re sure you’re about to lose consciousness. “how about inside? how ‘bout you lemme leave somethin’ with you?” clear, thick strings tie your clenching pussy to satoru’s cum glazed shaft — glistening under the night’s natural light. you can’t wait for there to be more of him inside you. “touch your clit for me baby, make yourself cum on my dick.” 

you do as your told, fumbling between your salt-licked entangled limbs for the little nub between your swollen folds. immediately pressing down on it, you find yourself tightening around gojo while he grinds harshly against your g-spot and moans breathily against your Cupid’s bow since your foreheads are still pressed together. 

“s-sa…satoru! ‘m…i’m cumming!” one look at him, completely destroyed by you, is all it takes to send you flying to cloud nine — your stomach lurches and your eyes roll back into the dark depths of your skull as you cum one more time for your lover. clear streams of your essence squirt steadily from your cunt, bathing satoru in your orgasm while you succumb to overstimulation. 

his tummy and thighs are doused in your precious liquid as you quietly scream his name — all of these senses serve to trigger his own orgasm. “c’mon, that’s it little one. give it to me, i gotcha. want it all over me,” gojo smirks against your lips, peppering them with soft kisses while he wrecks and bullies your insides in an attempt to cum himself. “oooh, fuck. i love you, i love you, i love you.”

just like he promised, satoru gives you another hot load — failing to stop fucking you through either of your highs. he loses control of his hips, allowing them to languidly and uncoordinatedly rut into you — pushing his seed further up your silken walls until your cunt is covered in a layer of white. there’s so much of it that white drips his balls and inner thighs, as well as down to your puckered asshole. maybe it’s a little crude if him, but satoru’s lengthy fingers gather what you leak and smears it against your lips — kissing you there, sucking your mixed flavours from your eager mouth.

it’s only while you calm down from your orgasms that things start to change…drastically. 

even as satoru kisses your hairline and whispers praises against it, rocking you back and forth as you twitch with the aftershocks of your orgasm — the fear comes rushing back. 

the post-orgasmic clarity hits.

the tears start flowing once more and you realise that you’re so, so tired of it all.

yellow and artificial light from down the hall seeps through the gap underneath your door, accompanied by footsteps. you’ve no doubt that someone in your home is awake, maybe your mum going for her late night glass of water, your dad for the loo or maybe even suguru. for his flight. the light is glaring and illuminates your room — highlighting the night’s mistake. satoru. 

when the footsteps recede and the light dims down, you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding — your silent tears blooming into quiet hiccups that you have no control over. “h-hey,” he cups your face, wiping at your eyes just like your brother had done before shutting you out. “hey pretty girl, what’s the matter? did i hurt you? was that too much—?”

slicing through gojo’s words, you find the strength to speak even if it hurts to reveal the truth. it’s like ripping off a bandaid, “how do i know that you really mean all this? that you’re going to keep your promise, ‘toru?”

“w-what?” 

“i can’t do this!” you snap as loudly as your voice will allow you to. you don’t want to wake anyone else up nor get caught by your brother with your pants down for the man who betrayed his trust. not to mention, nearly getting him to hate you. “you promised to take care of me. just like suguru would, while we were basically having sex — how am i supposed to trust that?” it sounds crazy coming from your mouth, doubting satoru even after the intimate moments that you’ve just shared. however, you’ve been around this block with him too many times, you know the signs off by heart, you’ve memorised the cracks in his resolve as if they’re those in the pavement. the ones people tell you not to step on to avoid bad luck. 

you feel unlucky, you feel played and naive. you saw all the warnings and wilfully ignored them because you liked the way satoru loved before he knew the weight of the word. “how am i supposed to trust you?” you add, voice wavering.

satoru can’t seem to find an excuse — maybe because his brain is too fucked out or maybe because he’s shocked that you’re not just blindly trusting him anymore. he always thought things would be easy with you, that this nightmare would be over quick… and you’d take him back just like that. perhaps the dinner was your wake up call. “i don’t… i don’t know, i just…” he selfishly expects you to believe him. “you know me. you love me and i love you, can’t that be enough?” 

“you’ve never given me enough, satoru! it’s only now that you’re realising you want me as more than just your… your plaything! when i’m all you have left and suguru is gone with the wind!” you want to push him away but satoru is rooted in front of you, his presence sturdy unlike before. “you say that you love me, and i think i believe it…but it’s so hard to trust you. to not think that this is just an impulse.” 

“i’d wanna be with you even if suguru stayed, i always do. it kills me to be away from you!” satoru fires back, scrambling for something…anything that’ll make you see just how badly he means it when he says he loves you and wants you. that it’s not because he’s afraid of being alone. “i fucked this up, with you and with suguru. but i’ve known for a long time that i’ve wanted you, needed you to be mine and more than just a fling!” 

you look away, face twisting with pain. “i…i don’t believe that.” 

“then let me prove it,” the words rush right out of gojo’s mouth, faster than his brain can catch up — his anxiety spiking at the thought of you abandoning what you have together. abandoning him. “move in with me, come with me. i’ll get us a place in the city where your new job is, i’ll get my dad to transfer me to a closer branch of Gojo Corp… just let me show you how much i want to make this work — even if it means losing suguru.” 

satoru grabs your chin and tilts your gaze back over to him — but you can’t even look him in the eye. 

instead, your face burns, hot as your vision swims with another wave of tears. “i need your honesty, satoru. no more empty promises, no more false hopes.” he can see it in you now, how exhausted you are with the game of cat and mouse you’ve been playing all this time. you just want to be loved without constraint and satoru comes with so much baggage he’ll only weigh you down when you try to fly from the nest. it wouldn’t be fair. “i need you to choose. would you really give it all up for me? your reputation, your lifestyle, your best friend?” 

satoru’s wants to be selfish, desperately so. it’s all he’s ever known. taking and taking until his partner at the time is nothing but a husk of the person they once were. the difference this time is that he actually loves you, cares for you and would kill for you. he’s already taken so much from your youthful bright eyes. 

he would hate to take your spark too.

so satoru gojo decides to weigh up his options. 

either lose it all and keep you as his or lose you while the wounds he’s inflicted on everyone else heal. 

if you love someone, then let them go. if they come back to you, they’re yours. 

“then… then i’m sorry. for not being more honest. you’re right in every sense of the word…i can’t give this up,” gojo says simply, watching the light and hope in your eyes die out. “i think it’s best if we end it here and i let you go.” 

so reddit, AITA? 

UPDATE - AITA (27M) FOR FUCKING MY BEST FRIEND'S (26M) LITTLE SISTER (22F)? hey reddit. long time no see, i got a lot of attention on this post and undoubtedly you all decided that i was the asshole. i’ve done some work on myself and now i see that i was 100% in the wrong. i’ll spare you the boring details, because i know that’s not what you’re here for. i didn't want to leave anyone hanging, so here’s a quick update on where the three of us are at, one year later. i’ll start by saying — we broke up. i made the call so now she’s seeing someone else, and it’s serious. 

in another lifetime, satoru would have chosen to be with you. 

he’s certain that in another wonderfully weird and wacky universe — nothing would have stopped you from being that happy couple you wanted to be so badly. suguru might have even accepted your relationship, or maybe he would have died and his final wish would have been for the white haired man to make you happy. 

that is something satoru will never know. the idea comforts him whenever he’s left alone with his thoughts for a little too long.

however, this isn’t another lifetime. this isn’t a different universe. this is the reality where satoru gojo had broken up with you right after your graduation. 

he did it so that he wouldn’t come off as selfish — so that you had a chance to fix things with his ex best friend (and your brother) before it was too late. it was the least he could do after taking advantage of you, corrupting you against all of suguru’s wishes — but that didn’t make gojo any better of a man nor a knight in shining armour. he was still a shifty guy. 

still selfish, though, the decision was made with satoru still in mind. 

the night he’d broken up with you obviously ended in tears. to you, it was the end of your life — losing your first love, and you couldn’t even be blamed. you were only twenty two, your reaction was justified. suguru had been right in that sense, you were innocent and your heart needed to be protected, satoru had definitely taken advantage of that. 

you were kind enough to let your then ex stay the night — as long as he was back in the hospital and gone by the morning. satoru never knew what transpired the next day, as you were quick to block him on everything, and you had every right. 

he made his choice and his bed, now he had to lie in it too.

geto did leave, gojo knows that much, having seen his best friend take up work at a law firm in the US. geto had since been low contact with him. as did the rest of your family. again, it was for the best — even if it did hurt and cause gojo to bury himself within his father’s company, working himself to the bone every day just as a distraction.

through the grapevine of CEOs and higher ups, satoru learns that you’ve followed in your brother’s footsteps and made your way over to the land of the free. the magazine you worked for, Heavenly Pact, was getting ready to start an american edition and word had travelled that you were going to be the head of their new office on that side of the pond. gojo was proud, excited for you — you were excelling in your career all on your own, he was glad that he hadn’t ruined that for you too.

being in the states from time to time, satoru often wondered if there would ever be a time where he ran into you. would you be happy to see him? would you even want to talk? what would he even say?

‘i’m sorry for fucking you for fun and fumbling the bag — almost destroying your relationship with your brother when i caught feelings’ wouldn’t exactly fly well with you, he was sure.

it didn’t end up mattering anyways, because when gojo does eventually bump into you during business hours — he almost doesn’t recognise you. he’s in New York for some big, fancy corporate meeting about mergers and acquisitions, whatever his father had put into the file gojo was skim reading on his phone at the last minute, right before making his way up to the conference room. 

the elevator taking him there stood about six floors shy of satoru’s destination and a young woman enters like a hurricane — bringing with her a whirlwind of paperwork and notebooks. “i-i’m sorry.” the young woman stutters from behind her pile of belongings, out of breath from seemingly running for the elevator. “could you press the button for my floor? i would do it myself, but…” 

there’s a strain in her voice that makes gojo chuckle to himself, reaching past her so that his fingertips brush over the cool and luminous buttons for each floor. “are you going up?” 

“down actually… you?” 

“up ‘m afraid, but headed to the top floor. so this elevator’s probably going to head straight down to wherever you need to be afterwards.” he offers up apologetically. he swears the tonation to her voice sounds familiar, it’s soft and sugarcoated notes stirring up a warm feeling in gojo’s tummy.

“that’s fine by me, i’m running ahead of schedule anyway. floor eleven for me, please.” 

gojo does as he’s told, pressing the button for the eleventh floor — he has to reach past the woman in order to do so. his vigilant blue eyes catch a glimpse of the fashion photography stacked in her arms amongst sketches and other designs while the scent of her perfume strikes a dizzying recognition within the white haired man. undertones of vanilla with subtle floral scents make gojo’s stomach turn and light bulb memories of those precious two years flash behind tired cerulean eyes. 

he knows you, he thinks, all too well.

he says your name under his breath as though he’s keeping a secret and you freeze — no longer sorting through the papers flying about the place. when you look up and your eyes meet, you feel like the world has stopped spinning and that it’s just the two of you, frozen in time.

“satoru,” you breathe and quite plainly, as if you’re holding back any emotion you feel towards your ex…but then you smile, and it’s so vibrant satoru feels like he might go blind. not a trace of resentment in those big, beautiful brown eyes. “it’s been a while.” 

you’ve changed a lot in only a year. while your face still holds its youthful innocence, except your eyes reflect growth and maturity — perhaps a little bit of exhaustion from how hard you’ve been working on your new job. you’re still as beautiful as the day gojo left you, but perhaps even more so. your light  glows instead of dulls, most likely because you’re free. he’s no longer holding you back with a jail sentence of his selfishness. you’ve been able to live your life properly, just as someone your age should. 

it would be wrong for him to interfere with your newfound happiness.

turning on his heel, satoru faces forward and avoids your gaze — continually repeating the mantra ‘she’d be better off without you.’ to stop himself from reaching out and touching you like he so desperately wants to. he misses you, that much is a fact, but that doesn’t mean he no longer craves to be with you, breathe you in, be by our side.

satoru had let you go three-hundred and sixty-five days ago with the hopes of you coming back to him.  

maybe this was it.

you don’t take kindly to being ignored, leaning forward with your papers and files tucked securely against your chest in order to garner his attention. satoru adjusts his dress shirt, plays with his cuffs, inspects his surroundings — anything to avoid you and make a fool out of himself. or worse, mess everything up for you. his therapist had called his previous and past behaviours a self-destructive tornado — destroying everything in its path without regard.

he couldn’t go back to that.

“gojo, don’t pretend like i don’t exist,” you pout in annoyance — reminding your ex all too much of the times you spent together at your dorms. “i see you and you see me. we’re adults, surely you can handle a conversation.” it’s your teasing tone that finally makes gojo cave, sparing you a starry, blue eyed glance. 

he can’t help the cocky chuckle that escapes him, almost slipping back into his old and familiar ways with you. “you wanna talk to me that bad, huh? did you miss me or somethin’?” it’s a condescending and patronising thing to say — almost as if he’s treating you like a child. 

that makes you stand up right, heat rising to your cheeks at the familiar feeling — you’re not mad though. “i see you’re still as full of yourself as ever.” 

it’s satoru’s turn to pout this time, shifting his focus to a corner of the rising elevator . “h-hey! i’m working on it!” you’ve never seen him so nervous, not in your entire life of knowing him…but you suppose a lot can change in a year. you’re sure he’s different, just like you are. “yanno…therapy ‘n stuff. it helps. helped.” 

“oh yeah?” you hum curiously, knowing that he’s making reference to your break up, losing suguru. you don’t dare to press further, though. “me too.” the pair of you fall silent for a moment, sitting with the unaddressed awkwardness, the tension and unresolved feelings. “how…how are you? how’s things?” 

he’s surprised that you’ve even asked, let alone want to talk to him after everything he’d put you through. it’s weird but also clear that you’d been working on healing too — what’s a conversation between two adults then? “good,” satoru starts, though he’s being far from honest. he misses you. “i’ve been working to finally take over dad’s company. old man’s retiring, so i thought i’d play my part and be responsible for once.” 

you grin warmly at the news. “it sounds like you’re doing well, toru.” he nearly jumps at the familiar nickname, choosing not to respond. “not that you asked, but i’m kind of in the same boat? they’re putting me at a deputy manager’s position for my magazine’s new branch. i’m excited.”

“i’ve heard,” the words rush from satoru’s mouth before he can stop them, feeling sheepish as you raise a brow at him. “not that i’ve been stalking you or anything! you hear things when you’re at the top!” 

“yeah, sure.” you tease, enjoying watching gojo squirm.

a question he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask sits on the tip of his tongue and satoru pushes it around in his mouth hesitantly. “how…how’s suguru?”

you perk up, tentatively choosing what to say next. “o-oh…he’s good? we’re…our relationship is better now. it took a lot of work, but he’s healthy and happy. i… i think he misses you sometimes but, he’s still not ready yet.” 

gojo nods once and chooses not to press about his ex best friend further. “and how are you?” 

“m-me? i thought we’d just went over that—“

your ex turns to face you fully, a pleading look on his face that shocks you out of your casual stance. you can still see how much he adores you and cares for you, as if it never left his nature to want the best for you. 

“are you happy?” 

he asks the loaded question like it’s easy to answer and you do have to think about it. are you happy? you’ve been putting in the work to feel like that again, after breaking it off with satoru you were low. almost rock bottom. it was your first ever break up and it hit hard — not to mention you didn’t have your older brother to fall back on at the time. you knew it was time to stop depending on others, it was time to grow your own spine. you took to therapy, you learned your triggers and icks and red flags. it took time and patience with yourself, but here you were, a year later and a little happier than when you saw satoru last. 

“yeah,” you confirm with a shy nod, taking interest in your feet while you hide your smile. “i’m happy. with myself, my work and my partner—“ 

partner? 

“—you’re dating someone?” gojo quips as the elevator dings for the floor just before his. 

“ahh yes! it’s still new but… he makes me happy. yuuta okkotsu, you might have seen him around? i hear his family’s company and yours have done some work together.” you seem bashful as you talk about yuuta, someone you met through work, someone your age. a sense of pride in being together taking over you. you show him off and boast about him in a way that you wished gojo would have done for you. 

the revelation nearly kills satoru — it’s like a bullet to the chest or a knife to his heart. envy bleeds from the open wound, pours down his front and taints his blood stream. it fucking hurts to know that you’ve moved on to someone who treats you better than he ever could…but you deserve it. you were so good to him and to the world that it would seem like a crime for you to end up with someone who didn’t love and appreciate you in the ways that they should. 

that doesn’t make him feel any better though, it makes him feel as though he might die. 

when the elevator reaches the gojo’s floor  — he falters in stepping out without saying goodbye or replying to you. he would be doing it to hurt you, and to be spiteful or petty. just like back then. 

there’s still so much that he wants to say to you — so many things he wants to fix but he can’t shake the feeling that this was it. this was closure for the both of you. 

as he exits, he whirls around with enough time to spare before the doors close on you, and this chapter of both of your lives — just catching your bewildered expression. “thank you, for everything,” gojo calls to you fondly, watching your previous expressions morph into something soft and appreciative. “i…i really did love you, and if i could go back and do those two years over again. i’d be better, for you. i’d love you, properly.” 

the doors to the elevator slowly begin to close and satoru steps forward at the same time as you — it feels like you’re sharing one last goodbye. 

“i know,” you say without a trace of malice, a wistfulness in your voice. “i’m thankful to have been with you, because you taught me so much in such little time. i’d do it again, if we were better.”

a sad smile tugs at the corner’s of gojo’s pink lips. “in another life?”

“in another life.” you confirm, mirroring his smile as the elevator finally seals itself shut — leaving him with his reflection on it’s cool, metal doors.

it’s a shame that you only have one life, and that there aren’t any do overs. that way, everyone could live a life without regret — because gojo has his regrets, where he wishes that he loved you better, harder, more…so that you’d come back to him and you would be his.

 always.

so redditors and other losers lurking on this thread. that’s my update. i already know a lot of you are going to say that i deserve this — and i do. but i’m happy for her, for both of them and i wish them both all the best. whaddya say, am i still the asshole? 

END.

꒰ thank you for reading. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[peachessndreamss]

Wolfswood

Summery : Cregan receives an injury while out hunting, his wife cares for him

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings : Cannon typical injury and first aid/wound care, cannon typical hunting

Word count : 4k

A/N : Cregan Stark I love yooou. Also, apologies in advance if this is the most boring thing you've ever read.

Winter had arrived with devastating speed and brutality in the North. The first heavy snowfall had destroyed the last remaining crops left out in the fields and the woodpiles stacked as high as two men and just as wide had looked like enough to see them through two winters but soon began to deplete at an alarming rate. 

And when a great boar had been sighted at the edge of the Wolfswood, Lord Cregan Stark quickly called the men of his house to a hunt, knowing it was better to find the creature now and make use of it rather than let it be starved by the winter. 

They had set out in the pre-dawn, 10 men of House Stark, wrapped in layers of leather, wool and fur, mounted on the most surefooted horses the Winterfell stables had to offer. Lord Stark rode at the front of the group, his steward and close friend Martyn Snow riding beside him, the two of them talking as they disappeared from sight. 

Once in the Wolfswood Lord Stark had led the hunt, first on horseback as they tracked the creature deeper into the cover of the dense wood and then on foot, when the terrain had become too dangerous for the horses and the boar needed to be harried out of its hiding place.

Cregan had been moving slowly north, stepping over tangles of brambles and avoiding tree roots thicker than his thighs, the men of the group formed a large crescent shape as they moved slowly, hopefully driving the animal toward a clearing. One of the men at the end of the line gave a sharp whistle to indicate the group should stop, instinctively his head moved toward the sound and in that split second of distraction Cregan missed the rustling of dead leaves and the heavy breathing of an animal charging. 

The great tusk of the boar gored his left thigh. Cutting deeply through the skin to the muscle beneath, bright red blood immediately falling to the leaves at his feet. The power of the blow from the animal knocked him off his feet and sent him slamming into the cold ground, the back of his head knocking hard against a tree root. The metallic stink of blood filled his nose as shouts went up from the men of the household, they abandoned the hunt and gathered around their injured lord. 

“Get the beast,” was all he managed to say before the wintery sunlight faded from his view and he wasn't aware of pain or cold anymore. 

Lady Stark watched the hunting party return from the covered walkway between the Great Keep and the Armory. She expected to see Cregan leading the party, a triumphant smile on his cold reddened face with the great beast slung over the back of his stallion. 

Instead it was Cregan's steward, Martyn, who galloped in at the front of the procession, his horse wet with sweat, its nostrils flaring as it snorted. The animals rider didn’t look much better, the steward’s face was fearful and the same colour as the bark of the weirwood tree, his pale brown leather jerkin was darkened with blood. 

“My lady,” he called when he saw her watching, “Lord Stark’s been hur’, cut by the boar. Please send for the maester,” 

His words caused a lump of ice to form in her stomach, chilling her from her heart outward. There was always a risk when the men went hunting, and more often than not her husband returned home with some small injury or another but this had to have been serious. As she dashed into the Great Keep she caught sight of a wagon being drawn by two great horses, on the bed of the wagon a tangle of fur and blood, she fought a wave of nausea at the sight and ducked inside the keep. 

Her feet were light and silent as she reached the maester’s chambers, not bothering to knock on the old man’s door she threw it open with a crash. 

The maester was startled by her sudden interruption, jumping up from his stool at the desk with surprising speed and agility for a man who was nearing 70. He opened his mouth, ready to scold whoever had so rudely burst into his rooms, but his words died on his lips. 

“Lord Stark’s been injured in the hunt,” she said, praying her voice didn't waver and give away the fear that was gripping her throat like a claw. 

“Injured how?” The maester replied, moving toward the large wooden sideboard that dominated the room. On the shelves were jars, bottles and boxes containing every substance needed by a maester, and probably a few they didn’t need as well. 

“Gored, I don't know where, they've just arrived back, please come now,” she said firmly, not willing to keep Cregan waiting. 

The maester nodded and gathered his heavy leather case from the side, the bag was filled with sharp tools and simple herbs and mixtures for most every day healing.  He followed behind Lady Stark as she led them to the undercroft of the Great Keep, where there was a great deal of noise and disruption. 

The undercroft was a dark, cool, enclosed space usually used for storage, most days it would only see one or two visitors but now it was alive as men lit torches around the walls while others heaved Cregan’s limp form onto the huge oak table that sat in the centre of the space. They stripped him out of his blood soaked outer clothes and left him lying in his linen shirt and woollen trousers. 

The left leg of his trousers was ripped open at the mid thigh, revealing a 5 inch gash, skin and muscle had been torn apart and glistened dark red. A tourniquet above the wound had stopped most of the bleeding but his face was ghostly pale and his lips an unhealthy shade of blue. 

Lady Stark moved slowly toward the head of the table where Cregan’s closed eyes made him look almost peaceful, the maester went straight to the wound and began cutting away at his trousers. 

“Has he been talking?” he asked as he began to inspect the wound more closely. 

“A little, but he was unconscious for a minute or so after it happened,” the steward replied, standing by Cregran’s right hip, wringing his hands together. 

“Hello my love,” Lady Stark said softly, brushing her hand over his forehead, willing herself not to fall to her knees and weep when she felt how cold his skin was. 

His grey eyes fluttered open and blinked slowly, trying to bring his wife’s face into focus, the world around him seemed to shift violently, left and right, up and down but her warm hand on top of his head held him steady. 

“Now, what have you been up to?” she asked softly, as if addressing one of their children. 

Cregan’s whole left leg throbbed painfully and his stomach roiled with nausea, he swallowed once, finding his mouth and throat dry. 

“It's barely a scratch,” he croaked. Lady Stark gave a small huff that might have been out of amusement and stroked her fingers over the crown of his head. 

“‘Tis a dreadful looking scratch,” she replied, “still, the maester’s here now,”. 

Cregan hissed with the pain as the maester applied a green tinged ointment to the wound. Sweat broke out all over his body and he felt his hands start to tremble. 

“Did they get the beast?” Cregan asked, once the initial wave of pain had passed and faded back into a constant throb. 

Lady Stark glanced at Martyn who gave a small nod of his head. 

“Of course, and you shall have the beast's head for your chambers if you want”. 

He gave what appeared to be a weak nod before closing his eyes again and taking a deep breath. Cregan had known pain before but dislocated shoulders, broken bones and the sharp bite of Valyrian steel were nothing compared to this. 

At his thigh the maester had soaked a small piece of linen in a clear, strong smelling substance that he placed over the wound before tightly wrapping a clean bandage before removing the tourniquet tied high up his thigh. As the blood was allowed to flow back into the lower leg the colour returned to the skin but there were no signs of excessive bleeding at the wound. The maeester turned his attention to Lady Stark. 

“It’s as clean a cut as we can expect from a tusk, most importantly there’s no sign of dirt within, I have great faith that it will heal well,” the maester explained, wiping his hands on a clean piece of linen that was tucked into the belt at his waist. 

“I'll go to my rooms now and make a poultice to fight infection and in the meantime he can be moved to his rooms to ensure he's comfortable,” he added. 

With a small nod from Lady Stark the men still standing around the room went into action, they brought a stretcher and carefully moved Cregan from the table to the stretcher. He was then carried slowly through the Keep and up to his rooms. The masters chambers were the largest but the least used within the Great Keep, Cregan and his wife favoured the smaller but warmer Lady’s chambers, especially as they were the closest rooms to the children’s rooms. 

Once he was settled on the bed she sent for two bowls of water and a cloth before stripping him of the last remaining pieces of clothing. Unable to lift him from the bed to get his shirt over his head she cut the fabric straight up the middle with a small knife, pushing the two halves over his chest and cutting the sleeves apart to expose his arms. She also had to cut away what was left of his trousers, finding some of the material stuck to his skin with blood. 

Once he was as bare as the day he’d been born she soaked the cloth in warm water and set about washing him. Somehow the blood had managed to get up to his neck and down to the bottom of his left foot. She started at his neck, watching as droplets of reddened water ran down onto his chest and collected in the dark mess of curls that started at his collar bone, completely covered his chest and then funnelled into a thick strip that ran all the way down his stomach to the apex of his thighs.  

“I swear you're more beast than man sometimes,” she said softly as she dabbed at his chest, lifting the blood from his skin and hair. 

“It's the wolf in me,” he replied softly. 

Her head snapped towards his face, she’d had no idea he was awake and seeing his soft gaze on her face brought a wave of emotion flooding through her body. The usual surge of love she felt whenever she looked at him, intense relief at seeing his cheeks a healthy flushed colour after how deathly pale he’d looked before and bubbling anger brought on by the extreme fear that still sat in her stomach like a block of ice. 

“The wolf couldn't smell the boar sneaking up on you?” She asked as she felt tears burn her eyes. Cregan offered her a small, reassuring smile. 

“The wolf is more,” he paused a second while he thought, “passive...”. 

Unable to resist him, Lady Stark felt herself smiling and the two of them shared a laugh before she continued to wash him, revealing the pale skin under the dark curls and dried blood. 

“You're lucky it wasn’t more serious,” she said softly as she wrung the red water out of the cloth into a mostly empty bowl before dipping the cloth back into clean water, “if it’d caught on the inside of your leg you'd have been dead before they got you home,” she added, an icy edge to her voice as the fear that had gripped her throat now throbbed behind her eyes. 

“But I wasn't,” he placated gently, reaching out and taking hold of her wrist as she dabbed at his stomach.

“I'm fine,” he added when he noticed the tears gathering in her eyes and the angry wobble of her bottom lip. 

She snatched the hand from his, throwing the cloth into the bowl of clean water at her feet. The water splashed up, catching the skirt of her dress. 

“And what if you weren't? What if you weren’t fine?  Your son is barely 9 months old Cregan, do you expect me to hold the entire North until he comes of age? Fighting off every grasping lord from The Wall to Dorne trying to get to him and steal his birthright?” An angry tear tracked down her cheek.

“I cannot be regent, Cregan, I cannot be here without you,”. 

He reached out again and took hold of her balled first at the wrist, bringing her hand towards his face, pressing a soft kiss to her curled fingers. 

“And nor will you be,” he said softly, his lips still touching her fingers, “you and I are going to grow very old together, so old they write songs about us when we're all but turned to dust,”. 

She gave a small, watery laugh through her tears and pulled her hand out of his again. 

“Now you're just placating me,” she said, reaching into the bowl for the cloth and ringing it out. 

“Of course I am,” he replied with a smile, stretching his right arm up and settling it behind his head, the bend in his arm causing his muscle to flex and bulge under his skin. Were it not for the bandage around his leg he would have looked as if he was just relaxing for the evening. 

“I understand well that my most important duty is keeping you happy,”. 

Lady Stark scoffed at him and returned to the gentle washing of his stomach. A small smile tugging up the corners of his lips as he watched her tending to him so carefully. He'd been in a fair few scrapes before this one and was always happy to be tended to by his wife, the mixture of her gentle hand and sharp words always made him feel better. 

“Am I permitted to say how I'm enjoying your undivided attention?” He asked. 

“You may not say it” she replied, flicking her eyes to his face and catching him grinning at her. 

“I shall just think it then,”. 

They both fell into a tense silence as her cloth inched closer to the bandaged wound. The maester had said he would come by later that day to stitch the wound closed once it had time to dry and he could be certain there was no rot. Sweat broke out across his body as her gentle touch began to feel like needles piercing his skin, he kept his jaw firmly shut, unwilling to let a single sound of pain pass his lips.

“Would you take something for the pain?” She asked, not needing to hear him cry out to know he was in great discomfort, she wrang the cloth out again wetted it with clean water again. 

“I would rather keep my wits,” he replied, his voice strained. 

“Then perhaps a little when we’re finished and you can rest?” She pressed. She knew he disliked the effects of milk of the poppy but seeing him in such pain made her heart ache. 

“Perhaps,” he nodded before pressing his lips tightly closed, redoubling his efforts to stay silent.

She finished his bed bath at his left foot, cleaning the dried blood from the bottom of his toes and the ball of his foot. And all the pain that had passed before paled in comparison to the agony he felt as her hands gently tended the most ticklish part of his body. He fought with every ounce of willpower to stay still and not curl his toes and kick his foot out of her hands. 

Once finished she rung the cloth out one final time before standing and carrying the two bowls of water across the room and setting them aside to be cleared away later. 

“Will you sleep for a while? She asked him, moving back toward him and running her hand over his forehead before drawing a soft woollen blanket over his nakedness. 

Cregan nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted and wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep until the dawn of the summer. 

“Alright, will you take a little milk of the poppy?” she asked.

He nodded again, opening one of his eyes to peek at her face. 

“And a kiss to sweeten it?” He asked, letting the corners of his lips quirk up just a touch. 

She laughed softly, taking the small bottle of white milky liquid from the table beside their bed. She unstopped it and helped him lift his head off the pillow, she held the bottle to his lips while he took a small swallow before dropping his head back onto the pillow with his eyes closed. 

“And to make it sweet,” she said, bending and pressing her lips to his. 

As she stood he opened his eyes again although she could already see he was fighting the effects of the milk of the poppy. 

“Kiss the babies for me as well?” he asked. 

“Of course,” she replied, stroking his forehead again and watching his eyes close as he finally gave in and allowed himself to be dragged into a dreamless sleep. 

She watched him for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the steady ride and fall of his broad chest. In sleep he always appeared to be younger, his features softened as sleep took away the worries and the duties he carried on his shoulders every day. 

Once she was happy he would sleep for a while and there was nothing else she could do for him, Lady Stark went in search of Martyn the steward, she knew he would be worried and was waiting for news of his lord and friend. 

She found him outside the stables, running a brush over Cregan’s stallion. 

“Is he alright?” Martyn asked as she approached him. There was a panicked edge to his voice and his face betrayed his worries. 

“He'll be fine,” she soothed with a nod, “he's made of strong stuff,” she added as she placed a comforting hand on his forearm. 

“I'm sorry he was hurt, my lady,” he said, already looking lighter knowing Cregan was alright. 

“You've nothing to be sorry for, he's a man grown and it's his own fault if he doesn't hear a boar sneaking up on him,” she said, making her voice playful and teasing. 

“I'll pray for him,” the steward said, returning to brushing the huge grey horse that stood patiently in front of him.

“Thank you, I know he'll appreciate that,”. 

She stayed talking to the steward a little longer, the two of them discussing how to make the best of the creature that’d been killed that morning. The sky was quickly darkening and the air turning colder by the minute, although no new snow had fallen that day there was a crisp smell of it on the air and dark, heavy clouds covered the sky, threatening a heavy snowfall that night. 

She left Martyn to his final tasks for the day and returned to The Great Keep, she went first to the nursery to look in on their children. The eldest, Aly, was playing on the floor with her nurse, the two of them racing carved wooden animals across the floor. She paid no attention to her mother when she entered the room, too caught up in her game, while their son slept in his cradle. 

She lifted the boy from his crib and carried him to a chair beside the fire where she sat, focusing on nothing other than the small sound of his breathing and the tiny movements as his chest expanded and contracted with every breath. 

After a few minutes Aly got up from her spot on the carpet, her wooden horse still clutched tightly in her small hand as she walked toward her mother. 

“Where's papa?” She asked, coming to stand beside the chair, reaching out her own empty hand to take her mothers. 

“Resting, the men went hunting this morning, do you remember?”. 

“Will he put me to bed?” Aly asked, letting the toy horse drop from her hand with a small thud. 

“Not tonight, I can do it tonight,” Lady Stark replied. 

The girl sighed heavily, like she'd received some truly dreadful news, her small shoulders slumping. 

“But Papa tells the best bedtime stories,”. 

“I know he does, and I’m sure he’ll have a very special one for you tomorrow night,”. 

After another heavy sigh Aly climbed up into the chair with her mother and younger brother, curling into Lady Starks chest and closing her eyes. The girl found a loose thread on the bodice of her mothers dress and begin to twist it around her finger, in a few minutes she too has slipped off to sleep. 

The warm weight of her children soothed the Lady’s fractured nerves, this wasn't the first time her husband had returned home injured, his body was a tapestry of scars, each one she'd lovingly touched and kissed in turn, learning his scars as closely as a traveller learns a map. 

When she heard the first spatterings of wet snow from the nursery window Lady Stark decided it was time for her to look in on her patient. Calling the nurse over and letting the young woman take the sleeping girl from her lap. 

“Let her sleep a few more minutes, then wake her or she’ll never sleep tonight,” Lady Stark instructed as she stood and carried her small son back to his crib. 

“And I'll be back to feed this one once I've looked in on Lord Stark,” she added, lowering him into the cradle and watching as he settled. 

The nurse nodded and smiled softly as she lowered Aly onto her day bed, covering the girl with a soft embroidered blanket. 

Cregan didn’t stir when the heavy oak doors of his chambers were opened and his lady wife stepped inside, she paused, watching him for a few moments to see that his condition was unchanged, the only difference was that he’d thrown the blanket off his body and was now lying naked, his whole body exposed to the cool air. Moving toward him she noticed his breathing was still easy and his cheeks were a healthy colour. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek and then his forehead. 

At her touch his eyes flicked open and he blinked slowly as the world around him came into focus. He made a small sound of approval that rumbled up deep from his chest as his eyes focused on his wife. 

“How are you feeling?” She asked softly. 

“Better for seeing you,” he replied, his voice gravelly. 

“You're a dreadful flirt Cregen,” she replied with a smile, knowing his ability to flirt was a far better indication he was on the mend than anything else would be. 

“Come lie with me,” he said, choosing to ignore his wife's chastisement.

“Only for a few minutes,” she replied, moving to the other side of the bed and climbing on it, settling herself beside him and placing her head on his shoulder. 

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and encouraged her to roll onto her side, tightening her body to his in a familiar and comfortable way and she sighed contentedly. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers pushing and playing with the dark curls of hair. Cregan turned his head and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, feeling the warmth of her body sink into his own flesh and bones. 

“I should ban you from future hunts,” she said, her voice muffled by having her face squashed on his shoulder, “make you take an oath never to put yourself in such danger again,”

“Even for you, I could not swear such an oath,” he replied, kissing her forehead again and keeping his lips pressed to her skin, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent from her hair. 

The two lay in silence for several minutes, Lady Stark listening to the steady and deep drum beat of his heart, the thumping sound reminding her that he was still alive, injured but alive and home with her and in their private moment it was easy for her to believe that was the only thing that mattered in all the known world. 

“But I can swear, it will only be death that keeps me from you,”.

[emmaofnormandy]

Imagine Aegon is the father of your children.

Warnings: fluff all the way; canon divergence; long post.

( @dracaryxzs for you! One hopes you might like seeing Aegon happy here)

***

• How it all began…

You are his twin, his other half… What one feels the other feels it too. Naturally, as a result, bond came. Courtiers like to say how “wherever the Lord Aegon goes, Lady Y/N is after him like a loyal puppet.”

What they don’t understand is that you and him are two sides of the same coin, blood of dragon, despite the prince calling you his sun, to which he himself gravitates.

“I cannot not believe you are never bored whenever we are together”, says Aegon.

You both are blossoming into youth. You are the only one he trusts, the one he is naturally charmed to. But something about his age doesn’t let him admit there are feelings too.

“I am unlike any other”, you tell him in turn, a smile on your rosy lips. “We came together to this world, Aegon.”

He gives you a shy smile, lowering his gaze—you tamed him, like, it is said, your grandmother had tamed her husband, your grandsire, when they were both the same age.

Lively and so full of life, not even Aegon can deny you anything.

“Let us ride, shall we?”

And not waiting for a response, he takes you by the hand and in between giggles and chuckles the two of you go after your respective dragons.

Sunfyre has been enamored by Dreamfyre and as a result the female dragon has put some eggs. As soon as you are told this, you tell the object of your affections that:

“See, Egg? Evident signs that we are bonded right here”, and you show him the different coloured eggs.

Aegon smiles at you. How can you make him forget the scars of his troubled soul? How can you even sweep away grey clouds, making it seem that it is possible to find happiness?

When looking at your serenity, at how beaming you are before the eggs you cling yourself to, the prince sees himself in you.

You are the light of my world, Y/N.

As if you feel the tenderness his thought emanates, you turn your head at him and give him an egg.

“We are grandparents now, I’m afraid.”

That makes him cackle. A sound so rejoicing, full of life. Few could tell to have ever heard Lord Aegon laugh merrily.

“Too young for that. Come, Y/N!” And then turning to Sunfyre, Aegon is the image of a boy who finds love and happiness where at home such were taken from him.

You smile warmly when seeing the golden dragon almost smiling itself the moment he welcomes his rider.

A bond as strong as the one I have with my beloved.

Then you are distracted by nearly losing balance when Dreamfyre comes at you, resting her head against your face.

“Calm down, girl. I am not as heavy as you are”, you giggle, gently laying your head over the scales of your dragon, whom you claimed when you were ten years old. “Ready to fly high? To some adventures, eh?”

A sound comes from your dragon’s throat. It’s almost as if she speaks excitedly: “Aye, let us go! I’m ready for it!”, which only increases your good mood.

Now here you two are, flying synchronized, one being the extension of the other. Skies may have some clouds, but sun shines high with some warm breeze that announces summer.

“I suggest we could fly atop Dragonstone”, you tell Aegon over your shoulder. “There’s a spot no one goes there.”

“Rhaenyra is settled there with her children”, says Aegon with an unread expression.

You shrug your shoulders.

“So what? I’ve been there frequently and not once she scoffed me off. I doubt she ever knew I flew to this spot.”

And you flash him a mischievous smirk.

Aegon laughs in turn, realizing he’s unable to deny you anything. Flying as high as he could, there’s little need to tell Sunfyre where to go. As if the creature captured the rider’s thoughts, he flies exactly to where he wants… as does Dreamfyre.

It is almost as if both dragons suspect something may come up… even if you and Aegon don’t know that yet.

*

There is a lake in the midst of vast forests, where silence reigns and there is no sign of any living being. A few hills here and there separate the spot of the rest of Dragonstone.

“How did you come here?”, Aegon inquires you, intrigued by this unusual place. Hardly a man acostumed to wild life, his eyes scan these new surroundings with a mix of suspect and curiosity.

You are untying your hair and loosening your gown—you often ride Dreamfyre in your feast gowns, much to the Queen’s dismay— when you say:

“I don’t think I fit very well at court. I tend to flee whenever I can.”

Aegon is somewhat distracted by your curves, and how poorly hidden your curves are beneath the fabric you dress. He swallows hard, then says:

“We are betrothed. One day you’ll be queen.”

You flash him another of your typical mischievous smirks.

“When have I never performed my duties, brother?”

Aegon shakes his head, but he’s chuckling when he comes next to you.

“Well?”, you tilt your head and the prince seems to notice how handsome you look, wild and free—the way you are born to be. “Aren’t you going to swim with me?”

“Is that a challenge?”, he asks you in a whisper.

You like how he looks at you. Maybe this makes your nipples hard. And maybe this makes him burning inside.

“Perhaps.”

And without waiting for a response, you jump in. Aegon smirks, soon following you.

***

• Summer Children.

His kiss is indescribable. No words can do justice to the warmth his breath gives you, to the bliss it inspires you, to the affection it craves in you. Oh, where are the words when we need most?

Whispers at court regard you and Aegon as the “Baelon and Alyssa” of your age, perhaps two souls reincarnated. Whatever the truth, all you can think about is the taste of his lips against yours.

Not only that, there is more to inspire. As you are riding Dreamfyre in the absence of your lover—he’s been summoned by your father to attend the council—, summer breeze cannot cool down the heat in your heart. And you still recall that night.

Where no living being is found amidst corridors, when, for a moment of weakness, no guard lies awake; when unprotecting is at stake… Here he comes, visiting you.

Boldly so, his steps are silent—right under his demeanor there is a haunted boy, famine for affection, filled with desire to please… but above all, a very insecure man who needs to play pretend before all.

Even though you are not like any other, being in fact the only one who’s witnessed his fragility, he remains blunt in his manners.

Yet when the door opens… and you stand there in your line nightgown with your hair loose, his confidence dies.

“I feared you’d not come”, but there is nothing blunt or arrogant in how you welcome him; but rather tenderness from the moment he’s engulfed in your arms. “I missed you, Aegon. Too much I long for you.”

“My dear Y/Nickname…”, he buries his head against your neck and from the moment he inhales your scent, no pride is strong enough to resist the obvious. “In vain have I struggled to repress my sentiments for you.”

Hearing these words give you the reassurance you’ve been longing.

“Oh you took long enough, didn’t you? I’ve been kept in waiting, but it was worth it.”

One kiss and you are doomed. Aegon waits no longer, not anymore. He takes hold of your face and presses his lips against yours, biting your bottom lip and slamming the door as he leads the way.

“You must promise, though”, you push him away gently, much to his frustration. But you need to be sure… just in case.

“Anything”, his voice comes out in a plea.

You raise your eyebrows and Aegon, though sensing what might be asked of, is willing to pay the price. He is not letting go of you.

“No more whoring. I am no woman of sharing”, you tell him seriously.

Aegon smiles warmly, but you spot relief behind his eyes. He grabs you by the waist and says:

“I am yours and yours alone, Y/N. We came out to this world together, didn’t we? So we are dying together as well.”

“That is some drama you put in there, love”, you smirk before clashing your lips against his.

That night you came to learn you loved riding your dragon and we are not talking about Dreamfyre.

*

Nine moons later, the results of you and Aegon’s indiscretion comes to the world with a very strong pair of lungs.

“Here comes a very strong prince”, so announces the midwife.

You are exhausted after almost 12 hours in labour, a puddle of sweat and blood, but from the moment you are told you delivered a boy, you beamed proudly:

“I performed my duty well.”

Aegon, in the meantime, is left waiting outside, pacing impatiently in the corridors.

“One wonders what witchcraft has Y/N used to keep you in this state”, muses Aemond in his unusual show of sense of humor.

The prince of Dragonstone doesn’t bother answering Aemond, rather limiting to shooting a glare. It’s when Princess Helaena comes with a smile on her lips.

“My brothers.”

“We salute you well, sister. But pray tell us the news soon: is Y/N well? How’s the child?”

“She is doing great, Aegon. She’s recovering and getting some rest. As for the child… congratulations! You have a healthy baby boy!”

Aegon is paled by the news and even Aemond gets somewhat concerned with his older brother, holding him by his elbows.

“Are you well?”

“A boy”, he mumbles. “Y/N gave us a boy.”

“Our line is safe”, Aemond agrees. Then turning at Helaena, he asks: “Has the name been chosen?”

“Well, Y/N wants a traditional name… so she decided to have the boy named after you, Aegon.”

No one had ever seen the prince Aegon this overjoyed. The way he smiles… who wouldn’t be captivated by this sight? Even Aemond smiles too at this sight. Of all the misadjusted family, at least two of them found happiness… though when Helaena looks at him, he’s not too far from it himself.

“I must see her!”

Ignoring Helaena’s advice that no man is allowed in these chambers, Aegon, tradition-breaker, storms inside, demanding to see you.

You have just left your privy quarters dressed in a line nightgown with your hair wet and recently brushed when he comes at you.

“Husband!”, you giggle quietly when you are engulfed by his strong arms. “You should wait for me. I am not churched yet and we must…”

“Fuck traditions. I wanted to see my wife”, says he, peppering your face with tender kisses before looking at you with the devotion of a lover. “Are you well?”

You cast him the most infatuated glance to him, locking your hands around his neck as if there were no witnesses in the room.

“I am, thank you. Nothing that I could not handle myself”, you assure him. “Aegon, I performed my duties. I gave you a son.”

“Even if it wasn’t, as long as the child is healthy and you are healthy too, nothing else matters”, he whispers in your ear.

The prince cannot state enough his relief in seeing you well and safe. By how he holds you close, it is as if he needs another reassurance that childbirth will not steal you of him.

Feeling his fears, you raise your chin and give him that blunt gaze that marks your lively personality which he’s familiar with.

“I have no intention in leaving you alone in this world, unless you choose another to be in my place.”

Aegon gives you a meaningful look before snorting and scoffing at the same time.

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N! How could you possibly consider I’d find a substitute for you? I thought you knew me better, woman.”

You both share a quiet laugh before kissing as if to seal an unspoken vow. Not too far from the scene is the Queen, with her father by her side.

“Who’d know this was coming?”, she sighs, content with the merry scene that rolls before her gaze. “I may have been deprived of happiness myself, but on the other hand… thankfully such a burden is not placed on the shoulders of mine own offspring.”

“Do not be so dramatic, Alicent. This match is as fruitful as yours was”, says Otto, nonchalantly like usual. “But at times even I admit that I can see Baelor and Alyssa once more.”

A struggle he keeps to himself, since Otto and Baelor never saw eye to eye. Leaving such personal haunting aside, eventually this summer prince also named Aegon is seen placed in the arms of his mother.

“He’s a lovely child”, murmurs Aegon, whose head is now resting over your shoulder. “I cannot stop looking away of his delicate features.”

“Perhaps you should hold him”, you suggest in a whisper since the regal baby is asleep in your arms.

“I do not wish to wake him up”, says your husband, though you may detect a degree of panic in his voice.

You find his concern adorable, respecting his time. This afternoon, you and him watch over your newly born soon in great delight of how your love produced a handsome baby.

“Our summer prince”, you beam at him.

Aegon shares a smile with you. He looks thrilled before kissing your forehead.

“I cannot believe I am his father.”

“A doting father as I’m sure you will be.”

At times he doubts it, but this is a shadow he is unwilling to cast in such a bright moment. All Aegon can say is:

“Thank you for believing in me.”

He does blush though when you kiss his cheek and tell him in turn:

“How could it be otherwise? As my other half, you shall burn as bright as any dragon, my sun and stars.”

***

Little Egg, as he is called, is getting every attention Aegon’s father never bother doting his son. Whilst you are breast feeding, just nine months later his birth, a baby girl whom you named Alysanne after your favourite ancestor, father and son are found together at the nunnery.

“Your mother told me she plans to take you and Dear Alys to fly our dragon. I am not discouraging her, but we should best wait for a litttle bit, uh?”, says the protective father whilst rocking his lively and often chuckling boy in his arms. “Oh so you think this is funny? Are you planning to take after your great-grandparents?”

Aegon is holding him still, playing with the boy when the moment is interrupted by a maid.

“Excuse me, sire. His lordship must be fed. And your lady wife has summoned you.”

“Very well”, he stands, with the prince in his arms. “Before I handle you my precious jewel, Lady H/N, I must be certain you have been fed well. After all, you are responsible for feeding my child.”

“Indeed, lord. I am healthy and robust from the day I started the service”, the woman says seriously.

“Good. I appreciate it”, he nods before kissing his son’s temple. When seeing he’s about to weep, Aegon softens: “Do not cry, my prince. This is not a farewell. I shall go back later, I assure you.”

Reluctantly, he parts, though he does wish to go back when hearing a cry. Aegon pauses at the door but when looking back, Lady H/N has taken little Egg inside the quarters.

*

“How is mine faire ladies?”, the soon to be king asks you the moment he steps inside.

“Looking better than you”, you giggle quietly. “What happened, love?”

“I had to leave him with those women”, Aegon grumbles.

“I know. I don’t like leaving him there either, but thanks to you I can only feed one child now”, you laugh quietly.

Alysanne, whose hair is as silver as her parents’s, makes noises and Aegon, now more confident in how handling babies, carefully holds her.

“If I remember well, you were climbing on me when I was trying to sleep just the day you were churched”, Aegon chuckles.

“You keep saying that to yourself”, you lean to kiss his cheek. “You have been blessed with a handsomeness that makes me difficult not to merrily engage in marital affairs.”

Again, your bluntness makes him blush, a deed only you could brag in succeed doing so. Aegon gives you a long, meaningful look.

“Watch your tongue, woman. You don’t know what you are saying.”

But his mischievous smirk tells you precisely otherwise. The connection you two share has never grown stronger…

***

• Midnight Sun.

Little Egg is barely three when Aegon takes him for a ride in Sunfyre and you take two year old Alysanne with you as you mount Dreamfyre. It’s late night and since this family is restless, there’s no obligation to stop them in doing so—as if any would do in other period of the day.

“Fly high, Dreamfyre”, you whisper the command in High Valyrian and the dragon doesn’t need much before taking impulse and… weeeee, you and your excited child finally get to the skies.

“Let us do this, S.”, Aegon tells his beautiful golden dragon, resting his face against the creature’s forehead. “Look, this is the son I told you about. He gets my name, and Gods hope that he takes after my best traits. Not that I have many, but…”

Sunfyre buffs as if saying: oh please, you may not be perfect, but you have great qualities! To which Aegon blushes and smiles.

“You are a great friend, Sunfyre.”

“Daddy”, says Little Egg. “Fly!”

“Calm down young man. Are you in a rush?”, Aegon chuckles at his demanding son.

“Mommy… flew.”

“Oh. She’s always in a rush that woman you call your mother. Let’s do it then.”

And soon Aegon’s smile would spread larger if possible as Sunfyre finally spreads his large wings and begins to fly, the reason why Little Egg is happy.

When they are finally getting higher, Aegon makes sure his son is enjoying it. He wants to create this memorable moment that shall reinforce the bond father and son has.

It’s working since little Egg turns his head to his father and says:

“Amazing!”

“Are you enjoying that, my boy?”

“Yes! More, more! Please!”

Aegon laughs happily and does as requested. They fly as high as possible before diving below to meet you and Alysanne. The scene makes the prince emotional. His wife is looking as beautiful as wild as the day he realized he loved you to an unbearable point.

Sensing his gaze, you turn your head to meet him. And feeling your feelings, Dreamfyre is instantly drawn to Sunfyre.

“How’s it going?”, you ask him, eyes sparkling with delight for making it possible an old dream where you and Aegon, together with children of your own, would fly with your respective dragons.

“Just the way you wanted”, so Aegon tells you as if he’s read your mind.

You and him exchanged loving gazes and sweet smiles, letting the dragons taking the reins of the situation.

Indeed, as your children beam, Dreamfyre and Sunfyre dance.

Such is the dance of the dragons.

**

The toddlers are snoring by the time you and Aegon land.

“They should sleep with us in bed this night”, he suggests you, as he passes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him, placing a kiss on top of your forehead.

“I agree”, and then you instantly pause before the door of the red keep. “Aegon… I would like to thank you.”

“What for?”, he asks you, intrigued.

“For giving me these lovely children, for being the partner I’ve always known you’d be. For being my other half.” You smile softly. “I’d die for you, I hope you know that. You deserve to be loved, to all that you are given.”

“Y/N…”, he’s surprised to hearing these words of you, even though Aegon never needed proof of how you felt for him.

You stroke his face, wiping away his tears. Both of you know that you only have each other, and yet it’s enough. Specially now you have children of your own.

Resting his forehead against yours, the prince closes his eyes and kisses you.

“Whatever our souls are made of…”

“…mine and yours are the same.”

***

• Epilogue.

Alysanne is fast asleep when she dreams of dragons. Dragons that fight, dragons that die, dragons that survive. In the midst of chaos, she runs after her father.

Where is he? She calls out his name only to find another who is not in his throne. She wakes up thus, unable to remember the usurper’s identity, a mere shadow. But it’s enough to scare the seven year old princess.

She leaves her privy chambers. It’s still dark, but she needs to be sure he’s there somehow. Alysanne runs barefoot to her parents’ chambers. She opens its door, holding her breath but praising the Gods there’s some fire in the fireplace.

She sees you’re sleeping next to your father, but when seeing he’s there…. what a relief. Yet, the princess is scared to go back to her chambers.

“Papa”, she pokes him. “Papa, wake up.”

Aegon groans lightly, but when seeing it’s his oldest daughter calling him, he only rubs his eyes and makes sure to sit properly, careful in not waking you up.

“Lys”, he calls her affectionately and is probably thankful for wearing some proper garments after early copulating with you. “What’s wrong?”

Alysanne quickly throws her arms around his neck.

“I am scared. I don’t want to lose you”, she sniffs.

Aegon rocks her in his arms, smiling quietly for doing so.

“You’re not losing me. Who told you this nonsense? Has Little Egg been teasing you again?”

“No. He’s been good, actually”, she tells him, holding tightly against his neck. “I had a nightmare.”

For some reason, this gives him shivers. But Aegon isn’t inclined to dig into this deeper.

“A nightmare is just a nightmare. Come. Do you want to sleep with mama and papa today?”

Alysanne smiles brightly. She then kisses his cheek just as you are waking up.

“What happened?”, you ask, worried. “Are you well, my dear Alys?”

“She had a nightmare”, Aegon tells you as if this doesn’t mean anything, but one exchange of glances tells you this isn’t anything. Yet neither should feed it. And you agree. “So I’m letting her sleep with us tonight.”

You nod discreetly before kissing your daughter’s forehead.

“Of course. Like the good old days uh?”

And you watch as Alysanne makes herself comfortable in between you and your husband. Aegon strokes her hair as you cover her.

“Do you think…?” Aegon leaves the question in the air.

“Let us leave to concern about it tomorrow. It’s late.”

Aegon agrees. But neither looks forward to go back to sleep. As he casts a fond gaze at the princess, you take his hand and give it a small squeeze.

“It’s going to be all right. Helaena is doing well with it.”

“I know. But…”

“And at the same time she’s not like Helaena”, you tell him. “Let us not confuse things. It’s going to be well.”

“I just worry. I do not wish…”

Aegon looks away, remembering the wounds of his neglect childhood. There’s little need to explain since you can feel what he feels.

“Aegon, my love. We are not like them”, you tell him firmly. As he looks at you, you stroke his hair and place a lock of his messy hair behind his ear. “We are not like our parents. We are better than them. I’d not say so if I believed otherwise. Just look at how Egg seeks to impress you, how Alysanne came after you tonight… or how our twins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera often run after you.”

Aegon smiles quietly.

“How can you convince me that easily?”

“It’s the truth I speak. Besides… I have to tell you something”, and here you whisper. “I conceived again.”

“Oh how fertile we are!”, Aegon chuckles merrily.

You both kiss, before settling to lay down, careful now with your daughter fast asleep in between you. Shadows for once are pushed and in late night midnight sun comes to shine bright.

Oh these delights…

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[ellievickstar]

Bloodied Bonds

A/N: This was...fun. I wanted to fit it all into one part but it was getting too long sooooo yeah.....have fun :)

Summary: When hanahaki disease festers in your lungs, how will your family help you while you hide it from your mate?

Pairing: Azriel x Reader, Rhysand x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Elain slander, dying

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

There they were again.

Azriel smiled at Elain with those eyes…those eyes. And in your soul you felt the bond writhe with pain and clench in your chest. You remained still as you immediately brought your eyes to look at the ground beneath you. This hurt. This really hurt. A part of you wanted to deny it, wanted to believe that Azriel would remain faithful to you always, that he would stay true to the mating bond, something he desperately used to want before we got together.

Now, you were not so sure.

“Sweetheart…,” Cassian said from behind me, startling. He knew what you was seeing, saw it in his own brother’s eyes. Azriel may have always been a mystery to everyone else outside the inner circle, but his eyes — his beautiful hazel eyes — showed you everything you needed to know.

“I’m fine,” You waved Cassian off, bringing down shields on the bond, shutting out his emotions, the pain from it, and shutting yourself in as a stray tear slipped down your face, “I’m really fine,” You repeated.

Truth to be told, Cassian did not know what to say to you. After you had defended Azriel since you were kids, brought him to you and Rhysand’s mother, convinced her to take him in. Cassian did not know what could come over Azriel to internally betray you in this way. However as you began coughing Cassian was alarmed when you raced towards the kitchen sink and coughed out flower petals, one after another.

“What the hell-” He started, moving to pull back your hair as he observed what you had coughed out. Blood and petals coated the sink and as you choked them out one by one, slowly calming down, you waved your hand magicking it away. And it was then it hit him.

You were dying.

“Explain. Now.” He demanded. Looking away you mumbled.

“A few weeks ago after I first realised he loved her, I started coughing up flowers and my tears, my tears turned a gold colour. I asked Madja what was wrong. It’s a soul disease called hanahaki, caused by the betrayal of the heart and unrequited love. The tears were caused by the same thing, a unique symptom that is because of my magic due to being the High Lord’s sister. She said the flowers in my lungs will continue to grow until it suffocates me and I die. The star tears are just a symptom that causes physical pain, she doesn’t know if there will be any repercussions from it,” That’s all you managed to ramble out before you doubled over and heaved again, blood dripping out of your gaping mouth as you choked and coughed on the flower petals making their way up your throat.

Cassian was at a loss of words, on one hand he wanted to be angry, angry at you for keeping this from him, for not telling him sooner so he could beat the crap out of Azriel. On the other hand he was…devastated. You had always been like a sister to him, since he first met you as a kindred and fierce spirit when you were seven years old. The three of them had been twenty and Cassian had fell to his knees before the little girl with such a bright spirit, who dared to scream in Devlon’s face when he said females belonged in the kitchen.

Cassian had sworn to protect you.

And now, against a disease he felt helpless.

“Is there a cure?” He asked.

“Madja said there were two ways, either Azriel proves that he still loves me, which we both know won’t happen when he won’t stay away from Elain for more than a few hours, or I could have the flowers cut from their roots and removed, it’s a risky procedure and even successful all my feelings towards Azriel will be removed entirely, given the mating bond, she thinks it will be stripped from my soul. I….I wanted to wait.”

“So you either have your emotions robbed from you, make Azriel realise he’s an idiot, or die?”

You nod.

“Tell Azriel,” “I can’t!” You hissed, “We both know I can’t. He loves her, Cassian, I can feel it, I can see it, everytime he looks at her it’s like she’s the one who hung the stars and moon while when he looks at me that light dies!” You bang your fist on the table.

You point to where Azriel and Elain was far out in the gardens. His shadows no where to be seen, both blissfully unaware of what was going on inside with you and Cassian.

“He acts like she’s the one who went through countless of interrogation, of torture, when she got captured by enemies. He acts like she was the one who protected Velaris with Rhysand when she went under the mountain to be taken advantage of, when Amarantha held me down and tried to force answers out of me,” You let out another pained cry as you slid to the ground, “I have done everything for him, been through hell and back with him. And even after everything he still wants her, still wants to be with her, still doesn’t want me.”

Cassian brought you closer to him as he sat next to you and let you cry on his shoulder.

You cried and cried, and cried until there was nothing left. Cried until you couldn’t cry.

And when you finally fell asleep from exhaustion, Cassian glanced out the house to the gardens where his brother trailed Elain, and Cassian made a decision.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

“You told my brother!?” You shrieked. Rhysand and Cassian was now sitting around you in Rhys’s study.

“You told Cassian before me?” Rhysand shot back. You rolled your eyes as you scoffed, “Oh please I didn’t tell him anything I was throwing up flowers in front of him, not much I could do except explain.”

Shaking his head, Rhys sighed as he glanced at Cassian and they both shared a look. Narrowing your eyes, the tendrils in your mind crept towards your brother and the general, and surprise coated your face when you realised they had shut you out.

“Let me remind you what I do is my choice.”

“Not when your life is at stake,” Rhysand retorted.

So he had decided something against your will already. Of course, your brother who wanted to help everyone, your brother who thought you were his responsibility, his burden to bear. Your brother who claimed to value your opinion oh so much but then never, not once, ever considered how you feel in anything that had to do with you.

“He doesn’t care. I haven’t even been actively hiding it from him, it’s just that he’s never around to notice,” You said bitterly, “Did you know he missed my birthday? You all did. Because usually he’s the one going around reminding everyone the week before. Did you know our anniversary passed and I had waited for him all day just to realise he was with her?” Stray tears slipped down your cheeks as you tried to hold them back.

Crying meant that you were weak.

And you hated being weak.

That was when Cassian spoke, “Have Madja remove the flowers.”

Rhysand shot a look at him.

“She won’t survive otherwise. Even as we discuss this now she is running out of time, Rhys. Azriel’s infatuation with Elain is unforgivable and at least this way we can save her. Their relationship might never be the same but if Azriel is truly in love with Elain as she feels, then it is possible this way everyone wins.”

“I don’t want the male who almost killed my sister in my court,” Rhys bit out.

“Convincing Azriel that what he is doing is wrong will take too long. Maybe we should have interfered when it first started but now it’s too late. We can still save her, really save her. Not their relationship but at least she’ll live,” “And live with a bond that will eventually diminish into nothing?” “Maybe it’s better that way.”

Glancing between Cassian and your brother, your own inner turmoil seemed to be playing out in front of you as they discussed everything that you had not been able to come to terms with yourself. A part of you could still hardly believe that Azriel would do something like this, hurt you in this way when he himself swore that he would be loyal for eternity.

Mates.

A sacred connection that determined your equal, your partner in everything.

But your parents were mates too…and that did not work out well. So maybe it was time for you to let your mate go.

However, as you opened your mouth to agree with Cassian, to agree that maybe the best option would be to remove the flowers directly, the consequences of your feelings being stolen be damned, a cough climbed up your throat.

And as you coughed out bloody petals onto Rhysand’s office floor….everything went dark.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

It had all happened quickly, too quickly for Rhysand’s liking.

One moment he was debating with Cassian how they would save his sister’s life, the next moment as she was about to say something and he watched in horror as blood came out instead of words. Her eyes drooped and he raced to catch her from hitting her head on the hard wooden floors, and as his ears started ringing, holding his sister’s lifeless body in his arms, as he watched golden tears stream out of her eyes, he noticed there was someone screaming.

And it was not until his throat hurt, until his own throat burned, that he realised he was the one screaming, crying out loud for his sister who’s body seemed as lifeless as the one he had lost all those years ago.

“Get Madja!” He roared at Cassian, “Get her NOW!”

Less that a minute went by when Morrigan and Feyre came into the room, Feyre let out a horrified gasp as Mor took in the scene, freezing as she realised her cousin, her best friend, her only companion during the times after Eris and Keir, was in Rhysand’s arms, still and lifeless even as blood trickled out of her mouth and gold spilled form her closed eyelids.

Madja came shortly after, and Y/N’s body was moved to a different room for Madja to work, Cassian explaining what happened and the illness in Y/N’s body that was causing this. Morrigan took a few steps back, before she crashed into the wall of the hallway and let out her own sob.

And for the first time after Rhysand and Y/N had returned from the mountain, Morrigan wept.

Two days passed, and Y/N did not wake.

Madja estimated that they would have to make a decision within the week whether they would tell Azriel, or cut the flowers out.

And in those two days Azriel did not come.

It was only after Rhysand had asked him to meet, told him about Y/N did Azriel finally realised he had not seen his mate in days. That he had not even spent more than fifteen minutes with her in the past few months.

It was only after Rhysand said that Y/N was dying, did Azriel reach down the now cold and empty bond, and realise he had shut her out. And when he let his walls down, experienced the agony, the pain, the grief she felt even in her unconscious state, did Azriel regret.

“Why didn’t she tell me…” Azriel whispered.

“Because she heard you when I told you to stay away from Elain. I looked into her mind and I realised the day her disease started she went to find you, and you had been in my office, yelling at me that the cauldron had made a mistake, that you wanted Elain,” Rhysand laughed coldly. Even Rhys in all his beauty, his eyes were now red from sobbing, his voice hoarse from how he had cried, and cried.

“Good job, Azriel,” Cassian said from the doorway, “You got what you wanted. Your bond will no longer exist once she awakes…that’s if she survives even.”

“No….I don’t,” Azriel muttered, “Rhysand…what conversation?” Rhysand furrowed his eyebrows, “Are you really playing this game with me now? My sister is DYING! AND YOU WANT TO PRETEND LIKE YOU FORGOT WHAT YOU SAID!?”

Azriel’s eyes looked back and forth between his brother’s….when did he…when did he even get here?

Where was his mate?

Why did it feel like something just cleared from his head?

That was when Elain stepped in, holding a mug and what looked to be tea.

“Azriel, i heard your distress, drink this it will make you feel better,” She said softly, but as Rhysand’s eyes narrowed on the mug, it was Cassian who snatched it out of her hands, brought it to his eyes and shattered it on the already ruined hard wood floors.

“That was not just tea.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

And as Cassian lifted his head he declared, “As General of the Night court, I arrest you for illegal possession and use of aphrodisiacs. You are charged with attempted murder of the Princess of the Night Court. You are charged with manipulation and forced betrayal of the court’s spymaster,” And with a menacing grin Cassian said, “And you are charged because you bloody annoy me and you…what you have done today makes me want to rip you to shreds.”

A beat passed.

“That is….” Cassian continued as he glanced at Azriel, with each blink clarity seemed to return to the shadowsinger as he processed everything, as he remembered everything Elain made him do, as he remembered how he had hurt his mate, “That is if Azriel decides he doesn’t want to kill you first.”

Elain let out a scoff, looking down at the spilled tea and broken pieces of ceramic in disgust, “Azriel loves me. Azriel should love me not that disgusting slut of a female, she might be a princess but she is-,” “Mine.” Azriel interrupted.

“She was mine before you interfered. She was mine before you made me break her.” Azriel turned, no doubt to go find Y/N.

“Start counting your days, Elain, because now they are numbered.”

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Azriel taglist: @kemillyfreitas @going-through-shit @chessebookgirl

Part 2 here!!

Love, Ellie.

[yeyinde]

the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.  Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on. 

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach. 

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code. 

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back. 

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine). 

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon. 

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered. 

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows. 

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy. 

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest. 

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course. 

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself. 

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo. 

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning. 

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws. 

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough. 

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access. 

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor. 

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came. 

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you. 

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun. 

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks. 

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey. 

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter. 

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course. 

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect. 

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted. 

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something. 

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani. 

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol. 

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless. 

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence. 

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat. 

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable. 

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet. 

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery. 

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy. 

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. 

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones. 

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again. 

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue. 

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian. 

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will. 

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape. 

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar. 

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck. 

The comparison makes you sick. 

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it. 

Hate how much you don't hate it. 

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast. 

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth. 

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form. 

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus. 

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall. 

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones. 

He's watching you. Always. 

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire. 

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve. 

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed. 

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do. 

And so, you don't. 

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory. 

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute. 

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets. 

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone. 

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar. 

Dark, like him. 

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him. 

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much. 

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs? 

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour. 

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you. 

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way. 

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt. 

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you. 

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing. 

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin. 

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart. 

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks. 

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest. 

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions. 

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow. 

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place. 

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin. 

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight. 

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water. 

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it? 

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest. 

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty. 

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest. 

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying. 

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics. 

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger. 

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

This, though. 

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill. 

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy. 

But he didn't. 

Doesn't. 

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat. 

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward. 

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh. 

It's primal, this fear. Animal. 

But in the end, he doesn't kill you. 

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear. 

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to. 

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him. 

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk. 

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died. 

Should have, maybe. 

(is that a plea? an orison? 

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out. 

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just. 

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark. 

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it. 

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well. 

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over. 

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all. 

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites. 

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape. 

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers. 

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all. 

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary. 

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope. 

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks. 

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning. 

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless. 

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity. 

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing: 

he should have been back by now. 

And it—

It does something to you. 

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective. 

Because the reality is this: 

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates. 

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead. 

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about. 

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all. 

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white. 

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him. 

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm. 

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold. 

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch. 

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern. 

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh. 

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief. 

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands. 

The skull of a queen. 

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition. 

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound. 

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess. 

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb. 

Until—

It does. 

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory. 

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache. 

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall. 

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop. 

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face. 

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse. 

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue. 

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory. 

A queen is no easy feat, after all. 

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests. 

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep. 

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands. 

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch. 

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur. 

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind. 

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you. 

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air. 

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing. 

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window. 

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach. 

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette. 

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock. 

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign. 

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying. 

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.  

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee. 

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire. 

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him. 

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit. 

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual. 

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes. 

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word. 

He wants you. You. 

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate. 

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate. 

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice. 

Dark is a beastly thing up close. 

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. 

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it. 

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah. 

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles. 

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go. 

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so. 

He spoke. 

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt. 

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists. 

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance. 

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh. 

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly. 

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost. 

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute. 

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs. 

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission. 

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away. 

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you. 

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his. 

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured. 

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage. 

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching. 

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you. 

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust. 

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely. 

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on. 

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you. 

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels. 

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth. 

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so. 

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you. 

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock. 

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable. 

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him. 

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you. 

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock. 

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore. 

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else. 

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough. 

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is. 

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out. 

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain. 

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body. 

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb. 

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick. 

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before. 

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before. 

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel. 

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat. 

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk. 

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you. 

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous. 

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit. 

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release. 

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal. 

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes. 

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you. 

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads. 

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip. 

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight. 

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling. 

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have. 

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background. 

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat. 

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship. 

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion. 

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly. 

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma. 

You breathe it in. Breathe him in. 

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps. 

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you. 

And yet. 

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him. 

That alone, you think, is enough. 

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all? 

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep. 

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt. 

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue. 

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you. 

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom. 

Ensnared. 

[daisymbin]

for lovers who hesitate - choi seungcheol

warnings: cheating ex, mentions of pregnancy (not reader), shotgun marriage (not reader), some curse words, mentions of blood (seungcheol in a fight), some angst (mostly on seungcheol's part, some of reader's towards the end) + this is a long fic so I'm sure I missed out stuff, my apologies. please let me know what I missed out so I can add them in!

pairings: choi seungcheol x reader

genre: fake dating, resurface of old feelings (reader) & a down bad choi seungcheol

wc: 13k (not sure what happened i was aiming 3500-5000 but oh well.)

a/n: 13k words...my longest fic on here yet..... this took quite awhile, even proofreading was a challenge, so I hope you guys enjoyed this one! but fr, I early respect and admire authors who always belt out 30k word fics, it's really not easy i don't even wanna think about it. it's one thing to get a long fic done and another to proofreading it all oof. ... and no writer really only proofreads it once

check out my masterlist!

“you've got mail~” seokmin sings down the hallway of your shared apartment, “it looks like a wedding invite…” his voice trails off, “are any of our friends getting married? why didn't I receive one?”

seokmin's question was reasonable, you did both have the same friend group, you grew up together, having tons and tons of mutual friends, you went almost everywhere together. he's like the brother you never had. but now he's got your interest piqued as well. who could it be?

on your hand sits a wedding invitation, beautifully adorned with gold accents, pink flowers litter the edges of the invite, a bright pop of colour in contrast to the plain white.

seokmin snatches the invite out of your hand, opening the invite as he reads, “you are cordially invited to celebrate the joy of han- what the fuck? is this a joke?” seokmin shuts the invite close and crumples it, “what the hell does that guy want?”

“han minjun?” you asked as curiosity plagues your mind. seokmin’s reaction only amplifies your own confusion, and you reach out to grab the crumpled invitation from his hands, smoothing it out with trembling fingers. his name stares back at you, a name you had once thought you’d never have to see or hear again. but here it is, boldly printed, like a ghost from the past come to haunt you.

“han minjun…” you murmur, your voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of disbelief and absurdity. the memories come rushing back like a tidal wave, each one hitting you harder than the last. you remember the good days first, the laughter, the late-night talks, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world. but those sweet memories are soon overshadowed by the darker ones, the ones you had worked so hard to forget.

you remember the way he’d become distant, how the warmth in his eyes had faded, and the excuses he’d given whenever you asked what was wrong. you remember the pit in your stomach when he’d cancel plans at the last minute, claiming he was swamped with work, even though you could hear the laughter of friends in the background whenever he called.

then there was that one night, the night everything shattered. you had gone to his apartment, unannounced, carrying takeout and hoping to surprise him. the sight that greeted you instead was something you’d never forget. minjun had been in his living room, his hand tugging on another girl’s hair, the other on her waist as they makeout heavily. their light giggles echoing through the walls you thought you knew so well. you’d dropped the food in shock, the containers spilling onto the floor, and the way minjun’s face had paled when he saw you… it was a moment forever etched into your heart.

“its not what it looks like,” he’d said, scrambling for an explanation, but all you felt was betrayal, the heartache, the realization that the person you’d trusted had broken you in a way you never thought possible.

you come back to the present as seokmin's voice pulls you back, “oh i dropped a post it, ‘hope to see you there - kim hanna’ who the hell is kim hanna?” seokmin reaches for the invite again, his eyes scanning the words imprinted on the paper, “kim hanna…isnt she the girl he cheated on you with? that little bi- how dare she send this invi- SHE'S MARRYING HIM?” seokmin's mouth ran faster than body allowed, never finishing his sentence, but you heard and understood every word.

you snatch the invite back. the wedding is in 2 weeks.

are you hurt? no. heartbroken? no. sad? no. upset? just a little bit. angry? oh yes, yes you were. all the anger still simmering beneath the surface as you grip the wedding invite tightly. seokmin watches you with concern, his earlier frustration shifting into worry as he notices the way anger starts to consume you.

“you okay?” he asks gently, placing a hand on your shoulder.

you softened, “yeah i just… i can’t believe he’s getting married after everything he did.”

seokmin’s grip tightens, his protective brother instincts kicking in. “you don’t have to go,” he says firmly. “and if you decide to, you won’t go alone. i’ll be right there with you, you know the boys will be too. whatever you need.”

his words bring a small sense of comfort, but the invitation still feels like a dagger, reopening wounds you thought had finally healed. “oh I'm definitely going,”

“why?”

“just because. & I need a date-”

“I can be your date.”

“no you can't.”

“why not?”

“because i need my date to be my fake boyfriend. i cant show up all single to an ex's wedding & everyone knows we grow up together. we're practically siblings we would never ever date each other! that's disgusting."

seokmin's fake dramatic gasp only leaves your laughing, the anger that once resided is now long forgotten. “how can you say that?” he continues, “don't you watch movies? don't you read books? or even better, fanfiction? that's like a really popular trope and it's popular for a reason! why? because it's real, it happens. what if I'm in love with you and you just don't know it? then what? you could have seriously hurt my feelings!”

“yeah could have, that means I didn't. and don't think I forgot about the time we all played truth or dare and chan dared you to kiss me and you literally threw up from how repulsed you were by me. how could you possibly be in love with me? unless...you puked because you were nervous.." you said as you wiggled your eyebrows disturbingly. “also what hell fanfiction do you read? why didnt i know about that?”

“EW!!!" he screams as he steps away from you, "AS IF YOU COULD EVER MAKE ME NERVOUS!"

“& the fanfiction? what do you read? come on, spill!”

“that's none of your business.”

“seok-”

“beyonce x reader.” it was almost as if he was dying to tell you.

the laugh you burst out only brings relief to seokmin, now he knows you're really okay. you've moved on, just angry at the audacity of them. “please beyonce would never pick you.” you joked as you got up from the sofa. “come on, be serious, this is serious stuff. I need a fake boyfriend.”

“ask seungcheol.” seokmin answers easily without missing a beat, as if the answer was obvious.

“why seungcheol?” you heart raced at the mere idea of seungcheol being your date for the night, let alone boyfriend.

“because…he never says no to you. like ever,” he gives a brief, small smile before he turns to walk away. “oh and also, don't you think he'd fit the role perfectly?”

[—]

but that's what happens when seokmin plants the idea in your head, because you now find yourself in seungcheol's apartment.

you sit in seungcheol’s living room, heart pounding as you try to muster the courage to speak. he’s standing in front of you, arms crossed loosely over his broad chest, looking at you with his usual gentle, patient expression. but somehow, today, that patience makes your nerves worse. you’re not sure why you’re suddenly so embarrassed; maybe it’s the way his dark eyes seem to search your face for any hint of what’s coming.

“so… what did you want to ask me?” he prompts, his voice warm and inviting, though there’s a hint of curiosity lurking beneath it.

you swallow, your palms damp. “you can totally say no if you want to, there’s no pressure at all but um-”

seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow at your hesitation, “you’re making me nervous,” he jokes, though there’s a genuine note of concern in his eyes. “what’s going on?”

you inhale deeply, avoiding his gaze as you force the words out. “so, i got this wedding invite. from…my ex.” you don’t have to elaborate for seungcheol to know which ex you mean. his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a flash of something dark passing over his expression before he smooths it out.

“han minjun,” he says, and the way he says the name makes it sound like a curse. his hands uncross, one clenching the back of a chair as he leans into it. “are you… are you okay?”

“yeah,” you say quickly, “i’m okay, really. just…it's in two weeks, and he’s marrying the girl he—” you stop yourself before the floodgate of bad memories start flowing. you look up at seungcheol, feeling your face grow warm. “anyway, that’s not the point. the point is…i need a date.”

seungcheol’s eyes soften, his tension melting away just a bit. “oh,” he says, and a smile tugs at his lips in realization, “you want me to be your date?”

“yes. i mean-” you fidget with the hem of your shirt. “only if you’re okay with it. you don’t have to-”

“of course,” he interrupts, his answer immediate, his voice firm. “if it’s for that, there’s no way i’d say no.” his protective instincts flare up at the mere thought of you facing your ex alone, and he wants to be there for you, to shield you from any pain that might resurface.

you feel relief wash over you, but then the real request lodges itself in your throat. you take a deep breath. “but… not just as a date,” you say quietly. “i need… i need a fake boyfriend. i can’t just show up to his wedding…single.”

seungcheol blinks, and for a moment, he thinks you’re joking. you watch as his expression shifts, surprise giving way to something more complicated. his smile falters, and his eyes search yours for any hint of hesitation, or a joke even. any indication that you might realize what this could mean for him.

a fake boyfriend. the words echo in his mind, and his heart aches, even as he tries to keep his face neutral. he’s spent the past 3 years hiding his feelings, protecting your friendship, waiting for a moment that never seemed to come. and now, here you are, asking him to pretend.

“a fake boyfriend,” he repeats, and his voice is steady, but there’s a hint of something broken underneath. he can’t help but imagine what it’ll be like to hold your hand, to smile at you, to pretend to be the one who gets to loves you openly…only to have it all stripped away when the charade is over. he knows he’s setting himself up for heartbreak, but how can he say no to you? how could he ever refuse you when you look at him like that?

“cheol?” you ask hesitantly, noticing his pause. “is that… is that too much to ask? i’m sorry, it’s just-”

he shakes his head quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “no, it’s not too much,” he says softly. “if that’s what you need, then… i’ll do it.”

“really?” your eyes light up with hope, and he wishes he could bottle up the way you look at him, keep it forever.

“really,” he confirms, even though his heart is already starting to fracture. he pushes down the longing, the desperate yearning to be more than just a fake. because he knows this is all he’ll get—a bittersweet taste of something he can’t truly have. but for now, he’ll take what he can get. even if it means breaking his own heart for the chance to be close to you.

[—]

“rules. we need rules. oh and boundaries. just to be safe, you know? not make it weird.” you informed as you pick up a piece of blank paper & pen from your desk before jumping onto bed.

seungcheol lies on his stomach on your bed as he waits for you, “what kind of rules and boundaries do you have in mind?” he asks.

“well for one, no falling in love. like, we both have to promise that this stays strictly pretend. we can’t let it mess with our friendship.”

for a moment, silence fills the room. when you glance at seungcheol, his expression is unreadable. “no falling in love,” he repeats quietly, his voice almost too steady. you don’t notice the way his jaw tightens, the way he clenches his fist against the sheets.

you give him a nervous smile. “exactly. we both need to agree to that.”

“right,” he says, his voice softer now. “no falling in love.” he repeats louder this time, his heart aches at the irony, because if only you knew how deeply he’s already fallen. but he forces himself to nod, to play along, to act like he isn’t breaking the very first rule you laid out just by being here. “any other rules?”

“um, yeah,” you continue, scribbling your next point onto the paper. “okay,” you say, oblivious to the turmoil in his chest. “it has to be believable. like, no half-assing it. if we’re going to do this, we have to commit. but, uh, within reason, of course.”

seungcheol chuckles at that, the sound breaking through the tension. “within reason?” he echoes, his smile genuine this time.

“yeah, nothing too….much,”

“& what exactly is too much?”

“kisses,” you answer without missing a beat.

seungcheol smiles, "so, i can’t kiss you, even if it’s just for an act?"

you pause, thinking over his question. the way he says it, so casual yet so heavy, sends a shiver down your spine. “i mean… kisses are too intimate. that crosses the line.” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray how nervous the thought of kissing him makes you.

seungcheol watches you closely, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “too intimate?” he repeats, almost teasingly, but there’s something more in his eyes, something you can’t quite place. “but aren’t we supposed to look like we’re really together? won’t people think it’s suspicious if we… don’t at least pretend that we’re comfortable with that?”

“no one’s expecting a porno of us making out,” you argue, your cheeks warming at the implication. what a poor choice of words. “hand-holding, hugs, maybe a forehead or a cheek kiss if we’re feeling bold. but anything beyond that…” you trail off, your mind spinning and butterflies threatening to invade your tummy at the thought of seungcheol’s lips anywhere near yours.

he hums thoughtfully, propping his chin on his hand. “so, kisses are off the table. got it,” he says, though there’s a hint of disappointment in his voice that you dont pick up. “any other rules?”

“that's all i can think of for now, what about you? anything you dont want me to do? anything to add?” you ask.

“no, I'll do whatever you want me to.” he says, a mixture of fondness and longing swirling in his chest.

“okay, i guess we're really doing this huh?” you ask as you feel some tension leave your body.

“yeah,” he murmurs, even as his heart screams at the unfairness of it all. if only you knew just how real it already was for him.

[—]

“did you actually really ask seungcheol to be your fake boyfriend?” seungkwan questions, taking another sip from his iced americano, his eyes narrowing at you suspiciously.

you sigh, pressing your palms to your face. “how did you even find out about that?”

“seokmin told me. now answer me! did you actually?” seungkwan presses, his tone both exasperated and concerned. he’s your best friend. he knows every secret, every late-night confession, and every tear you’ve ever shed over seungcheol.

you glance away, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “yeah... i did,” you admit softly.

seungkwan lets out a small groan, leaning back in his seat. he’s silent for a moment, and you can feel the weight of his judgment hanging between you. but there’s something else there, too. something heavier, deeper. regret, maybe.

four years ago, you were a helpless mess, pinning after seungcheol like a lovesick fool. seungkwan remembered the way you’d light up whenever seungcheol was around, the way your laughter sounded a little brighter, your smile a little wider. and he remembered the way seungcheol seemed oblivious, never showing a sign of returning your feelings.

seungkwan had wanted to help you. he’d been desperate to see you happy, to save you from the heartache that came from unrequited love. so he’d done the only thing he could think of at the time: he’d set you up with someone else.

“do you remember when i introduced you to minjun?” seungkwan asks, his voice suddenly quieter, more somber.

you blink, caught off guard by the question. “of course i do,” you reply. how could you forget? you’d been resistant at first, clinging to the faint hope that seungcheol would notice you one day. but seungkwan had been insistent. he’d told you that minjun was a good guy, someone who could make you happy, someone who could help you move on.

“you were so against it,” seungkwan recalls, his lips curving into a wistful smile. “but you finally agreed, and... well, you actually hit it off.”

a small laugh escapes your lips, though it lacks any real humor. “yeah. we did.”

for a while, dating han minjun had felt like a breath of fresh air. he was charming, thoughtful, and everything you thought you needed. for a moment, you’d even believed you’d moved on from seungcheol. but now, years later, here you were again, tangled up in your feelings for him, pretending to date him, no less.

seungkwan’s expression softens as he looks at you. “you know, i really did think minjun was a good guy back then. i just... i didn’t want to see you hurt anymore.” his voice wavers, and you can tell he feels guilty, even if it wasn’t his fault that things turned out this way.

“i know,” you murmur. “you were just trying to help.”

seungkwan sighs, setting his juice box down. “but now you’re back to seungcheol, except this time it’s... fake. and that worries me.”

your throat tightens, and you don’t know how to explain that being with seungcheol, even if it’s just for show, feels better than being with anyone else. even if it hurts a little. or maybe a lot.

“it’s complicated,” you whisper, but seungkwan isn’t satisfied. his eyes bore into yours, filled with worry and protectiveness, like he’s already bracing for the heartbreak he’s sure is coming.

[—]

“do you think we should pick something that matches or just, you know, kind of goes together?” you ask, sifting through rows of dresses, your fingers brushing over various shades of fabric.

seungcheol tries to focus on the suits in front of him, but he’s barely listening, too distracted by the way your voice lilts at the end of your question. “hm?” he clears his throat, hoping you don’t notice how he’s completely lost his train of thought. “yeah, matching is… good.”

you raise an eyebrow at him, a small smile playing on your lips. “that didn’t answer my question, cheol.”

he laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “sorry. what was it again?”

“do you want our outfits to match?” you repeat, holding up a dress. it’s a deep, elegant navy blue, and seungcheol’s heart does a weird little flip. “like this one? it’s the same color as that suit you’re holding.”

seungcheol swallows hard, imagining the two of you side by side, perfectly coordinated, like a couple in a fairytale. he tries to shake the thought away. “yeah, that’s… perfect,” he says, his voice coming out softer than he intended.

you seem satisfied with his answer, disappearing into the dressing room to try it on. seungcheol stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, heart pounding for no reason he can justify. he’s known you for years, been by your side for countless moments, but something about this—the idea of the two of you dressed up together, the way you trusted his opinion—feels different, it makes his heart race.

“cheol?” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and he looks up, his breath catching in his throat as you step out of the dressing room.

he’s not prepared for the sight. you look… breathtaking, the dress fitting you in a way that leaves him momentarily stunned. his eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. it’s like he’s forgotten how to speak.

you tilt your head, concern flickering in your eyes. “is it bad?”

“no!” he blurts out, voice cracking embarrassingly. he clears his throat again; surprised at his own voice, his cheeks burning. “no, you look—” he stammers, searching for the right words, his mind a complete mess. but then, he smiles his boyish smile, his dimples dipping more than they usually do & says “god, you look… beautiful. really beautiful.”

you blink, taken aback, and seungcheol swears he sees your cheeks flush a little. he’s painfully aware of how warm his own face feels, how his hands are suddenly clammy.

“thank you,” you say, your voice softer now. you look at him, eyes wide and earnest, and seungcheol can’t handle it. he has to look away, but not before he sees the small smile spreading across your face.

he fiddles with the cuff of his suit jacket, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “you… you really think this is the one?” he asks, his voice cracking again. he winces.

you nod, your smile growing. “i think it’s perfect. but… what about your suit?”

he’s still trying to recover from seeing you in that dress, but he manages to nod. “right, my suit,” he says, forcing himself to focus. “i’ll go try it on.”

you sit down on a bench, and seungcheol practically sprints to the fitting room, his heart pounding. he stares at his reflection as he pulls on the navy suit jacket, trying to breathe. he looks like a mess, his hair sticking up from how many times he’s run his hands through it, his face still red.

“come on, cheol,” he mutters to himself. “get it together.”

when he finally steps out, he catches the way your eyes light up, the way you look him over and nod approvingly. “that’s perfect,” you say, and his heart does that stupid flip again. “we’ll look great together.”

he laughs, but it’s a weak attempt to hide how fast his heart is racing. “yeah. we will.” the words come out before he can stop them; even he knows he sounds completely & irrevocably smitten but he can’t help it, not when you’re looking at him like that.

[—]

“so, did you say yes to being her date?” seokmin asked casually, thumbs tapping furiously at the controller in his hands as he and seungcheol tried to hold their ground in the game. “you know, her fake boyfriend and all that?”

seungcheol’s fingers faltered on the buttons for a split second, and he shot seokmin a glare. “yah, focus on the game, we can't lose,” he grumbled, feeling his face heat up. but, of course, seokmin had to bring it up now.

“wait, what?” wonwoo’s attention snapped away from the screen, his character on the verge of getting attacked. he gawked at seungcheol. “when did this happen? and why didn’t you tell us?”

soonyoung’s eyes widened, and his character in the game momentarily stood still. “hold on, hold on,” he said, nearly dropping his controller in shock. “hyung, you’re telling us you agreed to be her date and fake boyfriend, and we’re only hearing about this now?”

“can we not talk about this?” seungcheol muttered, trying to refocus on the game, but his heart was racing. the way his stomach twisted at the mention of you and the fake dating arrangement wasn’t something he wanted to discuss—especially not with his friends teasing him about it.

“absolutely not,” soonyoung protested, his competitive spirit momentarily forgotten. “this is big news, hyung! you have to spill.”

“yeah, seungcheol,” wonwoo added, a sly grin spreading across his face. “why didn’t you tell us? don’t act like it’s not a huge deal.”

seungcheol sighed, his shoulders tensing as he kept his eyes on the screen. “because it’s not a big deal, its only for a day anyway,” he insisted, but even he could hear the strain in his voice.

“you’re so full of it,” seokmin said, barely holding back a laugh. “you've been in love with her for god knows how long, now you agreed to be her date and pretend to be her boyfriend. how is that not a big deal?”

unfortunately, soonyoung & wonwoo, have possession over seungcheol's not so secret, secret. but really, everyone knows, it's only a secret to you, seungkwan & seokmin although seokmin has been starting to catch on for the past few months. everyone else has miraculously managed to somehow keep their mouth shut around seokmin and seungkwan for 3 years; knowing how close you are with the two of them. I guess in a way you could say the boys are loyal to him? anyways.

seungcheol’s grip on his controller tightened. “can we just focus on winning?” he pleaded, desperate to change the subject, but his friends’ curiosity was palpable.

“fine,” soonyoung said with an exaggerated sigh. “but we’re coming back to this later.”

just as seungcheol was about to let out a breath of relief, the sound of the front door opening made his heart stutter, and he turned his head, unable to help himself. you stepped into the apartment, bags in hand, looking slightly windswept but effortlessly beautiful.

“hey, i’m home!” you greeted, smiling at everyone.

seungcheol’s mind blanked, his focus slipping away entirely as he took you in. he barely registered seokmin’s frantic warning—“hyung, watch out!”—before his character was obliterated in the game.

“yes!” soonyoung cheered, throwing his hands in the air. “we won, wonwoo!”

wonwoo leaned back with a smug smile, “thank you,” he said, looking over at you.

you blinked, confused. “me? what did i do?”

wonwoo’s eyes glinted with mischief. “it’s nothing you need to know… yet,” he replied, his voice teasing, and he shot you a knowing smile. “but thank you anyway.”

you tilted your head, clearly still confused, but you shrugged it off. “okay, if you say so,” you said, heading down the hall. “i’m gonna go take a quick shower.”

seungcheol watched you disappear, his shoulders slumping as he realized just how badly he’d let himself get distracted. he could feel the heat rising to his face, embarrassment and longing twisting in his chest.

seungcheol couldn't let it show. or at least, he thought he didn’t. he tried to play it cool, act normal around you, and pretend that his heart didn’t stutter every time you called his name. but apparently, seokmin noticed.

“you’ve got that look again,” seokmin pointed out, a teasing lilt in his voice.

seungcheol turned to find seokmin leaning against the backrest of the sofa, a grin spreading across his face. he blinked, feigning ignorance. “what look?”

“you know,” seokmin drawled, pushing himself off the backrest to lean closer to seungcheol “that look you get when she’s around.”

seungcheol felt his pulse skip, an uncomfortable warmth creeping up his neck. he avoided seokmin’s eyes, choosing instead to stare at the floor. “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, hoping his voice sounded steady.

“sure you don’t.” seokmin plopped down beside him, elbow nudging his ribs. “c’mon, hyung. you’re not exactly subtle.”

seungcheol rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to shake. “it’s not like that,” he insisted, though even he knew how unconvincing he sounded.

seokmin raised an eyebrow. “really?” he asked, voice softening. “because the way you look at her…you look at her like you'd burn down the whole world for her.”

seungcheol’s throat tightened, and he pressed his lips together, finally meeting seokmin’s gaze. there was no judgment there, only curiosity and a quiet sort of understanding.

“i didn’t mean to,” seungcheol admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “it just… happened.”

seokmin’s smile was gentle now, the teasing gone. “and what are you gonna do about it?”

seungcheol’s hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, a sense of helplessness washing over him. “nothing,” he said, bitterness seeping into the word. “she’s too important. if i mess this up… i can’t lose her.”

seokmin studied him for a moment, the silence stretching between them. “but what if you don’t lose her?” he said quietly. “what if she feels the same way?”

seungcheol’s heart twisted painfully. the thought had crossed his mind more times than he could count, but he always pushed it away, too afraid to hope. “and what if she doesn’t?” he countered, his voice breaking. “i’d rather be close to her like this than lose everything.”

seokmin sighed, leaning back on his hands. “i get it,” he murmured. “but you can’t live your whole life being afraid. sometimes, you’ve got to take the risk.”

seungcheol let out a humorless laugh. “easy for you to say,” he mumbled, but his chest felt a little lighter, the weight of his secret shared, even if just for a moment.

seokmin’s smile returned, playful once more. “hey, i’m rooting for you,” he said, clapping a hand on seungcheol’s shoulder. “but seriously, the way you look at her… it’s gonna give you away one day.”

seungcheol swallowed, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “maybe,” he whispered. “but not today.”

seokmin grinned, standing up and offering a hand to pull seungcheol to his feet. “well, just know i’ll be there to say ‘i told you so’ when it happens.”

seungcheol took his hand, rising to his feet. “yeah, yeah,” he said, but his heart felt a little less heavy & a lot more hopeful.

[—]

seungcheol stood outside your bedroom door with seokmin, heart pounding as he took a steadying breath. it wasn’t the first time he was picking you up, but today felt different. maybe it was the gravity of the wedding you were attending, or maybe it was the fact that this arrangement had slowly become more real for him than he ever dared admit.

“hyung, you okay?” seokmin asked, glancing at him curiously.

seungcheol blinked, snapping out of his reverie. “yeah,” he lied, his voice sounding far more confident than he felt. “let’s just…get this over with.” he lied, it hasn't even started yet but he doesnt want it to end.

seokmin gave him a sorry look but said nothing, and before seungcheol could dwell on it, you opened the door to your room. his breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he forgot how to speak. you stood there, radiant in a simple yet elegant dress, hair styled perfectly, eyes sparkling with nervous anticipation.

he was so down bad for you, it was almost pathetic.

he couldn't help the boyish smile that adorned his face, “you look… beautiful.” he didn’t trust himself to say more, afraid that if he did, the truth would come spilling out.

a faint blush dusted your cheeks, and you smiled, the kind of smile that made his heart feel like it was doing somersaults. “thanks, cheol,” you said shyly, adjusting your dress. “you clean up pretty well yourself.

he let out a laugh, hoping it masked the way his pulse was racing. “you ready?” he asked, extending his hand to you. “our grand entrance awaits.”

you hesitated for the briefest moment, but then you slipped your hand into his, and he had to fight the urge to hold on tighter, to pull you closer and never let go. he couldn’t, of course. this was all an act. just a performance to keep up appearances, to help you save face in front of your ex and everyone else.

but god, how he wished it were real.

[—]

the car ride was quiet at first, the only sound being the hum of the engine and the soft music playing from the radio. seungcheol couldn’t help but glance at you every few seconds, noting the way your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your dress. he knew you well enough to recognize the signs of your anxiety, and his chest tightened.

“hey,” he said gently, reaching over to take your hand in his. your eyes widened in surprise, but you dont pull away. instead, you stared at your intertwined fingers, and he wondered if you could feel his heart pounding.

“are you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, more careful. “if you’re not, we can turn around. we don’t have to go.”

you shook your head, a small, determined smile forming on your lips. “i’m fine,” you whispered. “it’s just… weird, you know? seeing him get married.”

seungcheol swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. he hated that minjun hurt you and how he couldn’t do anything but hold your hand and hope it was enough.

“if you want to leave at any point,” he said, squeezing your hand gently, “just say the word. i’ll get you out of there, no questions asked.”

you looked at him then, really looked at him, and he felt like he was being laid bare under your gaze, your eyes boring into his. “thank you, cheol,” you murmured, and your voice cracked just a little. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

his chest ached, a mix of longing and fear swirling inside him. he wanted to tell you that he’d always be there, that he’d never leave, but he didn’t. instead, he settled for rubbing soft circles into the back of your hand with his thumb, hoping you couldn’t feel how badly he was trembling.

the silence in the car was comfortable, but electric, charged with something unspoken. the way your shoulders relaxed under his touch, the way your breathing evened out as he held your hand—it was almost enough to make him believe that you felt the same way.

but that was dangerous territory, and seungcheol knew better than to get his hopes up.

“you know,” he said lightly, trying to steer his thoughts away from the ache in his chest, “you’re kind of incredible. not everyone could handle a situation like this with so much grace.”

you laughed, the sound soft and a little self-deprecating. “i don’t know about that or this grace you speak of,” you said. “i’m still trying to convince myself not to run away.”

“if you run,” he said, a teasing grin tugging at his lips, “i’ll run with you. we can both escape and go somewhere far away. just the two of us.”

the joke made you laugh, but there was a wistful note to it, and seungcheol had to look away to keep himself from saying something stupid. his heart was a mess, pounding wildly with every word, every touch, every second he spent in your presence.

“thanks, cheol,” you said again, your voice quieter now. “really. i’m so lucky to have you.”

seungcheol drove on, your hand still in his, hoping that this moment would last a little longer.

[—]

the wedding had gone off without a hitch, at least on the surface. the vows had been exchanged, laughter and applause filling the air, and now the reception was in full swing. seungcheol had been trying his best to stay close to you, to keep you from feeling the weight of the memories this day might bring. but as he returned with your drinks, he froze.

there you were, standing stiffly, looking more tense than he’d seen you all night. and, of course, minjun was in front of you, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he leaned in, saying something seungcheol couldn’t quite hear. your polite smile was brittle, your shoulders tense, and anger flared in his chest.

he forced himself to take a calming breath before approaching, setting your drinks down on a nearby table and stepping in between you & minjun, “hey,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but firm. “everything okay here?”

your eyes darted to him, a flicker of relief crossing your face. you tried to smile, but it wavered. “yeah,” you said, your voice a little too tight. “we were just… talking.”

minjun glanced at seungcheol, an eyebrow arching. “seungcheol?” he asked, a smug smile playing on his lips. “fancy seeing you here, i dont remember including you in the invite?” he quirked an eyebrow.

you opened your mouth, your voice coming out steadier this time. “actually, he's my plus one, since we're dating.”

“dating? as in, he's your boyfriend?” minjun asked as he sneaked a glance at seungcheol.

“yes, actually.” your words sent your stomach doing flips.

the disbelief on minjun’s face was palpable. he snorted, his gaze flicking between the two of you as if you’d just told a joke. “boyfriend? really?” he smirked, clearly unconvinced. “come on. that’s a little desperate, don’t you think?” minjun tries to reach for your hand.

before you could react, seungcheol stepped forward, his hand moving to reach for yours protectively; staking his claim. “i don’t think your wife,” he said, emphasizing the word with a hint of sarcasm, “would appreciate you making my girlfriend uncomfortable.”

minjun’s smile faltered, but he didn’t back down. “prove it,” he challenged, crossing his arms. “you really expect me to believe this… whatever this is?”

seungcheol’s jaw clenched. “we don’t need to prove anything to you,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “& you certainly don't have the right to ask for anything, much less a proof, not after all the shit you’ve done.”

minjun’s expression soured, but before he could respond, seungcheol turned to you, his eyes softening. “come on, pretty,” he murmured, his voice gentle and eyes earnest,. “dance with me?”

you stomach did somersaults, seungcheol watches you intently, he watches the way your expression melts into a grateful smile. you leaned in close and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “thank you,” you whispered, so quietly he barely heard it.

his heart stuttered in his chest, warmth flooding through him. but he forced himself to push the feeling away, to remind himself that this was all for show. you were only doing this because minjun was watching, because you needed to keep up the pretense. there was no way you actually meant that kiss, no way you felt the same fluttering in your chest that he did.

but he couldn’t help the way his heart betrayed him, the way his entire body seemed to light up at the simple touch of your lips on his skin. he swallowed, hoping you didn’t notice the way his cheeks flushed, and offered you his hand.

“let’s go,” you said, taking his hand, your smile genuine and warm.

the music had shifted to a slow song, and seungcheol led you onto the dance floor, his fingers still intertwined with yours. his heart was pounding, his mind racing, but he tried to focus on you, on the way you were looking at him now, your eyes so full of trust and something he couldn’t quite place.

“thank you,” you said again, your voice a little steadier this time.

he gave you a small smile, trying to keep his emotions in check. “i’ll always be here for you,” he said, his voice soft. “you know that, right?”

you nodded, your gaze flickering down to where his hand rested on your waist. “i do,” you whispered, and for a moment, he thought he saw something more in your eyes. something he desperately wanted to believe in.

seungcheol tried to ignore the way your body fit so perfectly against his, the way your smile sent his heart racing. he couldn’t let himself read too much into the way you were looking at him.

but it was so, so hard.

“cheol,” you said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “can i ask you something?”

he swallowed, his throat dry. “of course.”

“why did you say yes?” you asked, your voice hesitant. “to being my date and… pretending to be my boyfriend?”

his breath caught in his throat. he hadn’t expected that question, and he wasn’t sure how to answer without giving himself away. “because you needed me to,” he said finally, and it was the truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “and i’d do anything for you.”

your eyes softened, and he wondered if you could see right through him, if you knew just how badly he was hurting, just how desperately he wanted this to be real.

“you’re too good to me,” you whispered.

he shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “no,” he said. “i’m just… selfish.”

you tilted your head, confused. “selfish?”

he opened his mouth, then closed it, the words dying on his tongue. he couldn’t tell you. he couldn’t ruin this. “never mind,” he said, forcing a laugh. “just… ignore me.”

but you didn’t. your gaze lingered on him, searching, and he had to look away before he did something stupid, like confess right then and there.

“cheol,” you said, your voice so soft it made his heart ache. “what are you hiding?”

“nothing,” he lied, pulling you a little closer, trying to focus on the music instead of the way your eyes were looking right into his soul. “i’m not hiding anything.”

but he was. he was hiding everything. the way he loved you, the way he wanted you, the way he’d give anything to be more than…this.

“okay,” you said finally, but he could hear the doubt in your voice. “if you say so.”

“you know,” he said as he let out a small sigh, his voice barely above a whisper, “you didn’t have to kiss my cheek just now. not for minjun’s sake, anyway.”

you tilted your head, looking up at him with wide eyes. “i didn’t do it for him,” you said quietly as seungcheol watches your eyes sparkle and dilate, for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

“then… why?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

your gaze searching his face. “just because.. i wanted to.”

seungcheol’s mind went blank, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it. he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to process the sudden, overwhelming rush of hope that filled his chest. 

“should we call it a night?” you asked, your voice gentle as you turned to seungcheol, who still seemed lost in thought. you weren’t sure if it was because of the way you had kissed his cheek earlier or if he was still worried about you, but his expression had been hard to read.

seungcheol blinked, snapping out of whatever daze he had been in. “yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “let’s head home. but, uh, let me hit the bathroom real quick first?”

you nodded, offering him a small smile. “i’ll wait by the entrance.”

he nodded back, his eyes lingering on you a moment longer before he turned and made his way to the restroom. as he walked, he felt his heart racing, the memory of your soft kiss on his cheek replaying in his mind. you’d said it was just because you wanted to, but that couldn’t mean anything... right?

 seungcheol washed his hands, letting the cool water calm him down. he took a deep breath, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. he doesn't really want this night to end, he's not ready for that yet.

but that’s when he heard it: voices coming from one of the stalls, low but loud enough to catch his attention.

“man, i still can’t believe you're actually married,” one voice said, a hint of mockery in his tone. “and only because you got her pregnant. how the hell did you screw up that bad?”

what the hell? seungcheol’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay quiet, listening.

“don’t remind me,” minjun’s familiar voice replied. “i know, okay? it’s not like i love her or anything. but i couldn’t just bail, you know? had to do the right thing, i guess.”

the right thing? seungcheol thinks to himself, yet cheating on you is okay?

the friend laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “still, hanna’s nothing compared to your ex. that girl is so much hotter than your wife. you should’ve stayed with her.”

seungcheol’s grip on the sink tightened, his knuckles going white.

“hey, i made a mistake,” minjun grumbled, clearly defensive. “she really is hot. i was just thinking with my other head back then, okay?”

“yeah, well,” his friend drawled, “i would’ve made a move on her tonight if she hadn’t walked in with that new boyfriend of hers. what’s his name again? seungcheol or something?”

“yeah, well, i tried to,” minjun admitted, and seungcheol could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “but he showed up before i could.”

“did you see the dress she was wearing?” minjun laughed as he added, “she's got such a killer body…bet I could make her cheat on that boyfriend of hers, what do you say? 50 bucks? bet on it?”

that was it. the final straw. anger flared hot and fierce in seungcheol’s chest, and before he knew it, he was storming over to the stall. he yanked the door open, and the look of shock on both men’s faces did nothing to quell his rage.

“what the fuck did you say? you think you can talk about her like that?” seungcheol growled, his voice low and dangerous. “after everything you’ve done?”

minjun barely had time to react before seungcheol’s fist connected with his jaw. the fight was quick, brutal, and messy, with fists flying and the sound of grunts echoing off the bathroom walls. seungcheol didn’t care about the pain in his knuckles or the way his cheek throbbed from a poorly blocked punch. all he cared about was defending your honor, protecting you from these men who had no right to even think about you, let alone look in your direction.

when seungcheol finally left the bathroom, his heart was still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins. his cheeks were slightly bloodied and his knuckles were bruised.

but before he could reach the entrance to get to you, someone grabbed his arm. he turned, only to see hanna, minjun’s wife, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. “oh my god,” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “what happened to you?”

at first, she seemed genuinely worried, but then her eyes raked over him, and her concern twisted into something more flirtatious. she reached out, her hands brushing against his arms. “you look so hot like this with all the bruises,” she whispered, her fingers trailing down his biceps.

seungcheol stiffened, every nerve in his body screaming for him to pull away. “don't,” he held a hand up, “i have a girlfriend,” he said firmly, stepping back. he glanced around, hoping you hadn’t seen any of this.

but you had. your eyes had caught sight of the scene, the way hanna's hands lingered on seungcheol’s arms, and your stomach twisted painfully. you didn’t understand why it hurt so much to see it, why your heart felt heavy and your chest ached. this was seungcheol, your good friend. you’d moved on from this heartbreak years ago... right?

you tore your gaze away, your mind spinning. you couldn’t deny the pang of jealousy, the way your pulse quickened at the sight of him with someone else, but it made no sense. seungcheol was just your friend. nothing more.

when seungcheol finally made his way over to you, unaware that you saw him & hanna, was careful not to mention it or the fight that happened. instead, he focused on the gossip he’d overheard in the bathroom. “hey,” he said, his voice gentle, “did you know?”

you barely registered his words, your mind still replaying the image of hanna's hands on his arms. your chest felt tight, and you couldn’t explain why.

“apparently,” seungcheol continued, “this whole wedding is a shotgun marriage. she’s pregnant, and that’s why they’re doing all this.” he paused, searching your face for any reaction, but you weren’t really hearing him.

“huh?” you finally said, blinking as you came back to the present. your eyes widened when you took in his bruised knuckles and the cut on his cheek. “oh my god, seungcheol. what happened to you?”

“did you hear anything of what i just said?” he asked, a mixture of frustration and worry in his voice.

you glared at him, your concern overshadowing everything else. “no, but i’m sure it’s nowhere near as important as this,” you snapped, gesturing to his bruised face and bloodied hands.

seungcheol sighed, his shoulders slumping. “it’s nothing,” he insisted, but he knew you wouldn’t let it go. not when you looked at him with so much worry, so much care, and it made his heart ache.

“nothing?” the depth of your furrowed brows going deeper, “you're bleeding, cheol.” your tone angry.  “come on,” you said, your voice softening. “i’m taking you back to my place. i need to take care of those wounds.”

he tried to protest, but you wouldn’t hear it. “please, cheol,” you whispered, and the way you said his name made his heart stutter. he wanted so badly to believe that you cared, that this wasn’t just about him being your friend.

“fine,” he relented, his voice barely above a whisper. “but only because you’re so stubborn.”

you gave him a small, relieved smile, and he felt his resolve weaken even more.

back at your apartment, you lead seungcheol to the bathroom, rummaging through the first aid kit with a determined focus. he sits on the edge of the bathtub, watching you with a mixture of awe and longing. it’s overwhelming how gentle you are with him, the way your fingers tremble slightly as you gather supplies to tend to his wounds. he wants to believe this moment means something more than simple concern for a friend, that the tenderness in your gaze holds feelings he’s been longing to hear you speak out loud.

“does it hurt?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper as you dab a damp cloth against the cut on his cheek, your touch feather-light.

“no,” he says, his gaze never wavering from your face. the sting is nothing compared to the ache of wanting you. his heart pounds relentlessly, each beat echoing the longing he’s kept hidden for so long.

you move to bandage his knuckles, your fingers lingering on his for just a moment longer than necessary. “you’re so reckless,” you murmur, but your tone is soft, carrying nothing but worry.

he swallows, throat tight. “i couldn’t stand hearing them talk about you like that,” he admits, the words escaping before he can second-guess them.

your hands freeze. you look up at him, brows furrowing in confusion. “what do you mean?”

he hesitates, regret mingling with vulnerability, wanting to tell you everything but afraid of what might come next. “just... they were saying things they shouldn’t,” he settles on, the explanation falling flat compared to the storm raging inside him. “i couldn’t let it go.”

the bathroom feels smaller, the air thicker. you lean in closer, a wrinkle of worry creasing your forehead. “seungcheol…”

his hand lifts before he can stop it, and his fingers brush your cheek, gentle and unsure. “i just want to keep you safe,” he whispers, voice cracking, heart lodged in his throat. “even if it means getting a little bruised up.”

you’re so close now that your breath mingles with his, warm and intoxicating. your chest tightens, and something inside you shifts. you can’t tell if it’s the tenderness in his voice or the way his eyes seem to hold a secret you’ve always yearned to know. you feel your pulse spike, your mind racing. all the feelings you’ve tried so hard to bury come rushing back with an intensity that scares you.

you kneel in front of him, biting back the realization that you never really moved on, that you never truly stopped loving him. your feelings have been buried, but they resurface now, raw and undeniable, and you can’t pretend anymore.

“tonight was...a lot,” seungcheol says quietly, breaking the heavy silence. his eyes search yours, trying to make sense of the tension thick in the room.

you nod, hands trembling slightly as you pull back, though not far enough to break the spell. “yeah,” you manage, voice unsteady. “it was.”

seungcheol watches you with a gaze so full of longing that it makes your heart ache. he’s proud of you, he’s always been proud of you, but the way he’s looking at you now is different. “you were amazing,” he says, the sincerity in his voice making your breath catch. “the way you handled everything… i’m so proud of you.”

his words break something inside of you, and before you know it, you’re leaning in, closing the distance. it’s an impulse, a mistake, but you just couldn't help yourself. your lips brush against his, and for a heartbeat, time stands still.

seungcheol freezes in shock, but then he responds. his hands fly to your waist, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back with a fervor that leaves you breathless. the tension snaps like a taut wire, replaced by a burst of passion, and everything you’ve both kept buried pours out.

his fingers tighten around your waist, your hands finding their way into his hair, and you lose yourself in him. the way he tastes, the way he holds you, feels like a dream you don’t want to wake from. your heart races as the kiss deepens, desperate and all-consuming.

but then reality crashes over you like a tidal wave. you pull back abruptly, breaking away, your eyes wide with shock and horror. seungcheol looks dazed, lips parted, hair slightly mussed from your hands, and the sight of him so undone because of you only makes the guilt worse.

“i-” you stammer, voice cracking as you scramble to your feet. “oh my god. i’m so sorry.”

“wait-” he begins, but you’re already moving, stumbling backward, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “i shouldn’t have… we promised we wouldn’t-”

“it’s okay,” he tries to reassure you, his voice gentle yet laced with desperation. he stands, reaching for you, but you take another step back, your emotions spiraling.

“no,” you whisper, shaking your head, overwhelmed and terrified by the feelings that won’t stop crashing over you. “i ruined everything.”

you feel tears prick your eyes, your chest aching with regret and confusion. the kiss shattered the fragile balance between you, and you don’t know how to piece it back together. “you should go,” you manage, voice cracking. “its getting late,” your head starts feeling dizzy, “I'll call you tomorrow.” 

before seungcheol can argue, before he can make sense of the whirlwind between you, you’re gone. you rush out of the bathroom, heart hammering, not sure where to go but needing to escape. the apartment feels suffocating, your feelings too much to handle, and you slam your bedroom door behind you.

you lean against it, sliding down until you’re curled up on the floor, tears spilling down your cheeks. what have you done? you kissed seungcheol, and now everything is a mess. the love you never let yourself acknowledge burns bright, and it terrifies you.

in the bathroom, seungcheol stands frozen, the ghost of your kiss still lingering on his lips. he’s never felt more hopeless, more in love, and more afraid that he’s lost you forever. the echo of your apology rings in his ears, and he clenches his fists, wishing he could take away the hurt and confusion you’re feeling.

he tells himself he’ll wait for you to call, but he’s terrified that this time, waiting might not be enough.

but still, seungcheol waits. 

the days stretched on, each one feeling heavier than the last. it had been a week since the wedding, a week since that kiss had turned his world upside down, and still, there was no call from you. you had promised, but the days passed in silence. he wanted so bad to be the one reaching out, but he knows you well enough to know that it wouldnt end well, and that you needed your own time to process things. but he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened between you. each morning he woke up with a sliver of hope, a quiet, desperate wish that today would be the day you would reach out. but by every nightfall, the silence was all he had. the silence, and the ache that gnawed at him constantly.

he kept replaying that moment over and over in his mind, the feel of your lips on his, the way your eyes had searched his face afterward. the hope, the confusion, the raw vulnerability—it haunted him, leaving him restless and on edge. there was something about the way you pulled away from him, your apology spilling out in a rush, that made his heart ache. his own feelings were a mess, tangled up in things he hadn’t fully understood until that kiss, much less you, right?

he tried to keep busy, to drown the thoughts that plagued him. the gym became his sanctuary, his second home, a place to work out the frustration, the ache in his chest. he lifted weights until his body screamed for rest, hoping that physical exhaustion would bring some peace. but no matter how much he tried to tire himself out, the ache remained, lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting for the quiet moments when it all came rushing back.

work was just a blur, the hours blending together as he went through the motions. he found himself distracted, staring at his phone more often than usual, his thumb hovering over your contact, only to put it down before he could hit send. what would he even say? what if you weren't ready yet & him reaching out only made things worse? what if you didn’t even want to hear from him? what if his feelings were just a one-sided mess that he’d have to live with forever?

the days bled into one another, each one more unbearable than the last. he couldn’t tell anyone how much he missed you—how much he longed to hear your voice, to see you again, to figure out what all of this meant. so he kept it all inside, bottled up, carrying the weight of his emotions on his own. there were moments when he could feel it, the weight of his longing pressing on his chest, making it hard to breathe. he had tried to be patient, to give you space, but with each passing day, that patience was wearing thin.

he wondered if he’d done something wrong. had he misread the situation? had he pushed too far when he kissed you back? maybe you only kissed him because of the atmosphere or adrenaline or whatever? every time he thought about it, he felt sick. maybe you didn’t feel the same way. maybe he had crossed a line, and now he was paying the price for it. the thought of you slipping further away from him was unbearable.

his phone sat on the coffee table, screen blank, mocking him with its silence. he had told himself he’d wait, that you’d reach out when you were ready, but the longer the silence stretched on, the harder it became to believe that. he wanted to hear your voice, to know that you weren’t angry with him, to know that the kiss hadn’t ruined everything between you. but instead, he sat in his apartment, surrounded by the deafening quiet.

& seungkwan? seungkwan had been on you about it for days.

"seriously, you’re just going to leave things like this?" seungkwan had said one morning, his eyes narrowing at you over his cup of coffee. "you kissed him. you kissed seungcheol hyung. and now you’re acting like it didn’t happen. you think he’s not waiting for you to come around?"

you hadn’t responded at first, unsure of how to even begin to process it. all you could think about was the kiss, and how everything felt so wrong and so right in that moment, and how now, in the aftermath, everything was a mess.

"you’ve been so quiet about this. and it’s obvious to everyone. you’re both miserable. don’t you get it?" seungkwan continued, his voice growing more insistent. "you can’t just let it go, not after that. you owe it to yourself & especially to him to figure out what this is. what he is to you."

you had shaken your head, turning away, not wanting to face the truth. "i don’t even know what it is. i don’t know if i—"

"you’re making it worse by not doing anything," he cut you off, his eyes narrowing. "stop running from it. just talk to him, okay? if you don’t, you’re going to regret it."

you sighed heavily, sinking back into the couch. you had never been good at this kind of thing, especially when it came to feelings. but something in seungkwan’s words made you pause. the last thing you wanted was to regret anything.

"i don’t know if i can," you murmured. "i don’t know if he’ll even want to talk to me after everything."

seungkwan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "stop thinking like that. he doesn’t know what to do either, so you’re both stuck, waiting for the other to make a move. just go to him. get your act together."

before you could respond, the door to your apartment unlocks, interrupting your conversation, and there stood seokmin, looking far too cheerful for the somber mood that had settled over you.

"hey, what’s going on in here?" he asked, stepping inside with his usual bright smile.

you shrugged, feeling the weight of seungkwan’s words pressing on your chest. "nothing much. just… thinking."

seungkwan immediately jumped in, as if he couldn’t help himself. "you need to go talk to seungcheol. i’m so done waiting for this mess to sort itself out."

seokmin raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on his face. "ah," he crossed his arms, settling into the couch. "you’re still haven't called huh?"

"no," you admitted, your voice small. "i don’t know what to say to him."

"yeah, well, you’re not the only one," seokmin said with a sigh, his tone softening. "but running away from it won’t solve anything. look, and you know what cheol's like. if you tell him you need space & time & that you'll call him, he's gonna listen & wait for you. he’s not going to make the first move until you do so go talk to him, okay? figure it out. or at least to put that guy out of his misery."

you nodded slowly, trying to take in his words. it wasn’t that simple. it never was. but seokmin had a way of speaking to you that made you feel like maybe, you could take that first step.

seungkwan was still persistent, though. "seriously, i’m not letting you off the hook. you still love him after all these years, don’t you?"

"i don’t know," you said, your voice cracking. "i think i do, but i don’t even know how to deal with even coming to terms that i like him. everything’s so messed up. i kissed him, and now i… i don’t know what to do with all of it."

seokmin looked at you with an almost knowing smile. "sometimes, things don’t have to be figured out all at once. it’s okay to just… see what happens. go to him and talk. take it one step at a time."

seungkwan nodded eagerly, as if the suggestion had finally gotten through to you. "exactly. just go. trust me, you’re both miserable. just fix it."

the decision was made. somehow, someway, you had to go to him. you didn’t know what you were going to say, or how you were going to fix everything that had gone wrong, but you knew you had to try. the thought of never knowing how he felt, or whether you had a chance, was unbearable.

it had been days since you last saw him. days since everything had spiraled. and now here you were, on the verge of either fixing things or making them worse. you stood frozen, unsure of what to do. your hands trembled slightly, and for the first time in a long while, you felt completely out of control.

you knocked softly, but the sound felt too loud in the quiet hallway. a few moments later, you heard the shuffle of footsteps from the other side, and your heart skipped a beat.

the door swung open, and seungcheol stood there, looking absolutely stunned to see you standing there. his eyes widened in confusion, and for a brief second, you both just stared at each other in silence.

he seemed to take a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "you… you’re here," he said quietly, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. "are you… okay?"

you didn’t know how to respond. you wanted to say so many things, but words felt like too much. you stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to form a coherent sentence. the silence stretched, and then he spoke again, his voice breaking the tension.

"come in," he said softly, stepping aside to let you in, but you didn’t move. "did i… did i do something wrong? if i upset you, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to. i really didn’t." his voice was strained, as if he was holding back something. "i know we agreed on the whole fake dating thing for just 1 night, and maybe i crossed a line. but i didn’t mean to. i didn’t mean to make things complicated. I.. I didnt mean to make you uncomfortable.”

he sounded so genuinely sorry, and that was the moment it hit you—seungcheol was just as lost as you were.

you swallowed, forcing yourself to step over the threshold. you walked inside, every part of you feeling as though you were making a decision you couldn’t take back. the door clicked shut behind you, and you stood in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do or say next.

he gestured toward the couch, but neither of you sat. there was a tension hanging between you two, something unsaid but felt in the air. you stayed there, frozen, trying to process your thoughts while he watched you, waiting for something.

he cleared his throat, his voice quieter now. "come sit, please," he said. "talk to me, please. is it something i did? i… i can't fix it if i dont know what i did wrong."

you shook your head slowly, still unable to find your words. you felt like a mess, and you could tell by his expression that he felt the same. the weight of everything that had happened—the kiss, the awkward distance between you two after—was hanging over you both.

finally, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "it’s not your fault."

"what do you mean?" he asked, his brows furrowing in confusion, a mix of hope and worry in his gaze. "what’s not my fault?"

"i kissed you," you muttered, the words coming out rushed, almost in a panic. "it was me. i shouldn’t have done it. and i’m sorry."

he seemed taken aback, a flash of guilt crossing his face. "but… why? why did you kiss me?” 

you bit your lip, looking down at the floor, avoiding his eyes for a moment. "i don’t know why," you admitted, the confession escaping before you could stop it. "i wasn't thinking…i just… i was jealous. i saw hanna with you, and i couldn’t stand it. i… i kissed you because of that, but now, i’m not sure if it was jealousy or because i like you."

seungcheol’s face softened, his eyes searching yours as if trying to make sense of it. "you were jealous?" his voice was barely audible, as if the question itself was too much to bear. his eyes were glossy, and his hands trembled slightly at his sides. he took a step closer, his voice breaking as he spoke. "you… you like me?"

you took in a deep breath, feeling the tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "i think so, i don’t know..I'm not sure but i don’t want to lose you over a stupid kiss."

seungcheol exhaled shakily as his heart falters to the pit of his stomach. he felt a mixture of anger, bitterness and heartbreak flare in his chest, his fingers threading through his hair as he took a moment to gather himself. "a stupid kiss," he repeated, “you dont know if you like me?” and there was a bitterness to his voice that made your chest tighten. he looked at you, his eyes shining with something raw, something that made your heart splinter.

"it's not just a stupid kiss to me," he whispered, and your breath caught. "do you know how long i’ve been in love with you? do you have any idea how many times i’ve tried to hold back these feelings because i was terrified you wouldn’t feel the same?"

your eyes widened, your knees nearly giving out at his words. "you… you're in love with me?" you whispered, barely able to believe it.

he let out a bitter laugh, the sound cracking in the air between you. "yeah," he said, his voice breaking on the word. "i’m in love with you. it’s been hell, watching you, waiting for the right moment, praying that maybe, one day, you'd feel the same. and then you kissed me, and god, for a second, i thought it was real. i thought maybe you felt it too."

your hands shook as you tried to process his confession, the weight of his words pressing down on you, leaving you breathless. "cheol…" you started, but he held up a hand, his gaze turning away from you.

"don't," he whispered, pain etched in every line of his face. "if you're not sure, if you don't know what you want, please… don't say anything. because this? this hurts too much."

your chest ached, your heart breaking at the sight of him, of the way he was barely holding himself together. "i’m sorry," you choked out, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. "i didn’t know. i never realized—"

"that’s the thing," he interrupted, his voice strained. "i've always been here, and you never realized." he swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he tried to hold back his own tears. "i can’t… i can’t keep doing this if you don't feel the same,”

seungcheol softens as he took in a deep breath, “I can accept, no–I can understand if you don’t love me back,” he says, his voice breaking, “but i need you to at least be sure you like me. if you can’t even be sure you like me, then i don’t think i can do this.” his hands curl into fists on his knees, the weight of his words pressing into the air between you.

the tears come without warning, spilling down your cheeks as everything you’ve been holding back crashes over you. “cheol,” you begin to confess, voice trembling, “i was in love with you four years ago. back then, before everything. before my ex.” your confession hangs heavy, and you can see the shock and pain in his eyes.

“four years ago?” he chokes out. he’s crying too, his tears slipping silently down his face. “why didn’t you tell me?”

you wipe at your face, trying to catch your breath. “because i thought it was over. i thought my feelings had become platonic, that they’d evolved into this safe, distant affection. but seeing you... seeing hanna flirt with you... it hurt. it hurt because i realized i never really let you go. i still love you, cheol. and it’s not just this soft, easy love. it’s the kind that makes me want you even when it hurts.”

his sob catches in his throat, and he reaches for you, his hands trembling. “i’ve loved you for so long,” he confesses, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “i tried to hide it. i tried to hold it back, but i couldn’t. you’ve always been the one, even when i knew i shouldn’t feel that way.”

the two of you sit there, crying together, the years of longing, misunderstandings, and suppressed emotions finally crashing down. he cups your face, thumb brushing away your tears. “so now what?” you ask, voice small and broken.

seungcheol pulls back slightly, looking at you with a playful glint in his eyes, but there's something vulnerable there too. he smiles as he rubs soothing circles on your cheek with his thumb. "now... now i ask you out on a date," he says, his voice softer, but his tone filled with so much emotion. “but—” he pauses, his smile fading slowly as his gaze turns serious now, “i’ll give you…five dates.”

“what? what do you mean?” your eyebrows scrunch in confusion.

seungcheol's smile returns as he takes in your pouty face before clearing his throat, “i'll let you decide if you still want me after that. no pressure. in case you change your mind.” his hand goes to reach for a stray hair near your cheek and tucks it behind your ear as he gives you a soft smile, still holding a certain sadness and uncertainty to it.

you smile softly, shaking your head. “i don’t need five dates to know my answer, cheol. i'm not changing my mind.” bold adrenaline suddenly pumps through your blood, and you hastily pull seungcheol closer to you in a quick motion, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, and then you place a quick kiss on his lips. it's nothing romantic by any means, neither was it movie-scene-worthy. it's nothing like that, but it is more than enough to soothe your soaring heart, and it's definitely more than enough to send your message across to seungcheol.

seungcheol’s eyes widen in surprise as you pull away. "you’re…sure.” this time, it wasn't a question.

"i'm sure," you repeat anyway for him, stepping into his arms as your heart flutters at the feeling of him finally pulling you in, his embrace as warm as you'd imagined.

his arms wrapping around you with a warmth and desperation that sends a shiver down your spine. It feels like everything you've both been holding back for so long is coming unraveled, like this embrace is the start of something fragile but real. His face buries into the crook of your neck, and you feel his breath, heavy and uneven, as he holds on like he's afraid to let go.

"i've waited so long to hear you say that," he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. His words are shaky, the tremble betraying the vulnerability he’s still trying to hide. "i’ve wanted this for so long, but i never imagined it would feel this terrifying."

your hand finds his back, holding him just as tightly. "it’s terrifying for me too," you admit softly, your voice trembling. "but... i’m tired of being afraid.”

he pulls back slightly, his forehead pressing against yours as his eyes search your face. “let’s give this a real chance, even if it scares us. even if it’s hard." he whispers, a hint of a smile breaking through the sorrow that had clouded his expression. 

you nod, your eyes locked with his. "i want to," you say, feeling a fragile hope bloom in your chest. "i want us."

a soft, relieved laugh escapes his lips, and he pulls you into a real kiss this time—gentle, slow, and full of everything unspoken. It’s not perfect, but it feels like a promise, like a beginning you both desperately needed. you lose yourself in the moment, your heart pounding as the weight of everything finally starts to lift.

when you both pull away, breathless but smiling, seungcheol rests his forehead against yours. "so, about those five dates, even though you say you dont need them," he teases, his voice a little lighter now, a spark of his usual playful demeanor coming back. "should we count this one, or start fresh?"

you laugh, the sound bringing color back into the space between you. "maybe we should count this one," you say, your heart feeling impossibly full. "but only if it means you have to try extra hard to make the next four unforgettable."

his smile widens, the warmth in his eyes chasing away the lingering shadows of doubt. "deal," he says, his hands still resting on your waist. "i’ll make every single one worth remembering, just you wait."

[jinuaei]

Alastor x Fallen Angel! Reader

Accidentally getting 'married' to Alastor

Part 2

You fucked up.

You don't know what you did but you know you fucked up somewhere. One moment you were in heaven doing something, the next you see a red sky in front of you. The feeling of air rush behind you as you finally realize that you were falling, the smell of something burning and rotten eggs surrounding you as you fall deeper and deeper to your demise. Or what you thought was your demise, what you instead fell onto was a roof that momentarily broke your fall, before face planting to the ground. That wasn't graceful of you.

Groaning in pain you try to sit up before a sharp burning sensation spreads through your back, at where your wings was supposed to be. The sound of dripping enters your ears and your vision is blurry when you try to open your eyes, you can only see blobs of colours and the most prominent one was red as well as... Gold. Pupils dilating, your eyes finally take in the view in front of you. White feathers fall around you as golden blood seeps into your white clothes, the pain, you realise came from your wings, getting ripped apart and burning off when you fell. You try to decipher where you're currently at, from what you see, you seem to be in an alleyway, behind you is a dumpster covered in your blood and feathers, following the trail of blood you see the roof you hit when you were falling.

You hypothesize where you're supposed to be, with how adamant Heaven is in teaching angels not to do any sins nor question the higher ups, its kind of impossible not to know what will happen to those who defy heaven as well as where they will go. A pentagram encompassing the whole red sky, the scent of sulfur, blood, and brimstone flooding your senses, with this in mind you now know where you are.

"I'm in hell..."

"Yes you are, my good fellow!"

Startled, you scream and cover your head in hopes of protecting it.

"Well that's quite rude! You're not supposed to scream bloody murder when someones trying to be friendly you know?," his voice was odd, staticy, akin to an old radio.

You sheepishly drop your hands down to your lap and look up at the man in front of you. He's quite the tall demon, dressed in red... well actually everything about him is red, save for the black accents in his outfit and ends of his hair. Speaking of hair you keep glancing up at the tufts of hair attached to his head, and if you look closely, the antlers hidden behind his fluffy bangs. Is he supposed to be a deer? That's actually really cute.

"Erm... Sorry, just I was just surprised someone popping out from nowhere," you reply, hands fidgeting with one of your broken feathers.

Eyeing the golden blood and the broken wings behind you, the demon grins, showing off his sharp yellowed teeth. Nevermind that's TERRIFYING.

"Now what's an angel doing in hell? Not to mention a bleeding one! How tempting," he licks his teeth, already thinking about how delicious your angel meat would be.

Something tells me that this demon is NOT here to help. Now think! Make something up so you wont get killed by this red deer thing!

"I'm your spouse assigned by heaven!," you blurt out, not even thinking properly due to the fear of death.

Both of you froze as you stare at each other, one with horror, and one with disgust.

"And why do you think I would believe that?," sneering, he starts to creep closer and closer.

"Because... That's the reason why I fell! How can I meet my husband if I'm in heaven and you're in hell? I was so eager to meet you that I turned myself into a fallen angel just to be with you!," you smile widely, desperately trying to convince him.

He raises an eyebrow at that, mulling over whether you're telling the truth or not. Even if you are lying it'll be good to have a fallen angel on his side, and it'll be quite hilarious seeing the expressions of the hotel staff reacting to you being his spouse.

"If I am your fated one, what's my name? Surely heaven must have given you my name at least?"

Oh Gabriel's trumpet he got you there. "Alastor...?," unsure, you gave out a random name. If you're wrong, hopefully he kills you quickly.

...

"Hm. Perhaps you truly are who you say you are. Forgive me for being quite rude earlier, it's unbecoming from your husband to be." Holy cow you are lucky. You breathe out, the nerves simmering.

"Come on then let's get you cleaned up! What kind of husband will I be if I don't provide for you my dear?," he grabs your hand and leads you somewhere. His shadow cleaning up all the blood and feathers in the alley.

Now that's out of the way... What the fuck did I do to become a fallen angel???

[maxlarens]

53) holding the other’s jaw + logan

this is to make up for what i wrote last night viv hope u like ittt 😋🫢😌 @coff33andb00ks

You meet Logan “oh, I drive race cars” Sargeant in a dive bar in Austin, Texas and you don’t know if you have the heart to tell him that you’re in Austin specifically for the Grand Prix.

It’s cute that he assumes you don’t recognise him, it’s even cuter that he tells you he drives race cars and then assumes you still don’t know he’s an F1 driver. It’s a little sad maybe— especially when Oscar Piastri and Jack Doohan are sitting in a booth across the room, trying and failing to take surreptitious glances at the two of you. But you’re trying not to think about that, probably as much as Logan also is right now.

You’re leaning with your back up against the bar drinking a vodka whatever, he’s standing in front of you. Ostensibly in line to get a drink, but he hasn’t stopped talking to you since you almost bowled him over trying to get back to your friends. There’s no drink in his hand that’s for sure, just an empty beer glass that he’s bringing back. You think that’s unbearably sweet— well, no, actually you think that’s hot.

You’re not the kind of person who’s into Formula One for the drivers. You’re into it because instead of watching football games like every other all-American family did, your dad used to sit in front of the TV every weekend to watch twenty men drive around a track. You’d grown up on the sport; the roar of the cars before they hybridised them, old-school turn names, fiery crashes ending in tragedy, the blood sweat and tears of teammate rivalry. Your dad complains that the sport has changed too much— but still he puts the races on every weekend.

You try to watch the sport for the cars, for the racing, but at the end of the day, you’re not immune to a cute guy. You follow most of them on Instagram (except the drivers you hate), find yourself smiling at promo videos and liking pictures that have nothing to do with the sport. Your dad is annoying about it, but you don’t care.

You especially don’t care when Logan Sargeant is smiling something crooked at you as he tells you he’s here with his friends. You nod, looking where he’s pointing, where you’ve already seen Oscar Piastri and Jack Doohan, you laugh a little, giggle really, and you lean toward him.

Deliberately.

“Yeah,” you take a sip through your straw, maintaining eye contact, “I know who you are, Logan.”

He goes red immediately. Pale cheeks turning a very pleasant colour. You lick your lips, lean back against the bar. He blinks his sparkling wet eyes at you, mouth gaping like a fish out of water for a moment before he snaps it shut and scrubs a hand across his stubbly beard.

“Oh— I—”

You wave his shock off, barrelling on to avoid anything awkward for him, “Sorry, should’ve told you.”

“No,” he shakes his head, apparently desperate to make it fine, to make it okay, “You’re good. I just— I didn’t expect someone so—”

He trails off, trying to start the sentence again. But you’re intrigued, very intrigued.

You cut him off, not rude, just insistent, leaning forward into his space, “What was that? Finish your sentence.”

His eyebrows go up in a flash. The blush on his cheeks grows a little more prominent. He’s biting down a little on a smile, on something.

“I—”, he flounders for words for a minute, you give him that minute in silence but you’re staring at him, a little fiery, a little intense, “I didn’t expect someone so,” he stops, whines something a little desperate, quiet enough that you’re not supposed to hear it, “cute, I guess. To know who I was.”

“You guess?”

He nods, slowly. Getting braver as he leans past you, deliberately getting in your space to put his empty glass on the bar behind you. You’re trying not to smile, you’re biting down on the inside of your lip so the biggest grin you’ve probably ever grinned can’t split across your face.

“Yeah, I guess.”

This is how you end up in a dark corner booth with Logan “oh, I drive race cars” Sargeant. This is how you end up making out with Formula One driver Logan Sargeant. You’re halfway in his lap, your legs a weird tangle as you try to fit yourselves into the space. But you’re hardly thinking about his knee digging into you or how you’re slipping off the seat every five seconds because Logan’s got a hand buried deep in your hair and another on your waist. His hand splayed against your back, a few fingers touching the bare skin at your hip.

He tastes like beer and ketchup and he kisses you like he’s starving. It’s slow, it’s deliberate but the slip of tongue and the way your mouths slide against each other is intoxicating. Makes your head feel fuzzy.

You’ve got a hand on the side of his jaw, the crook of your thumb hooked on his ear, fingertips pressing into his neck, the base of his skull. He tries to pull away from you— ostensibly to breathe, to say something. But you’re a little desperate, chasing his mouth and bringing your other hand up to his jaw to drag him back.

You feel him laugh a little into your mouth.

“What?”, you mutter, eyes closed, still kissing him, "Finish your sentence."

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, you feel his mouth move against yours as he speaks, hot breath fanning across your jaw, “Just. Do you maybe wanna get out of here?”

And this is how you end up in Formula One driver Logan Sargeant’s hotel room.

this is probably the most bordering on nsfw content that i will venture to in my writing just a heads up for people:)

[skzdarlings]

i do ; skz ; felix x reader

requested by anonymous: ' I would love if you could use these prompts...on Felix x fem reader:❛ i love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you. they don't get to have you, but i do. ❜❛ you're mine. you've always been mine. ❜I love possessive Felix, istg i would give amything to have him' plus two anonymous requests for: 'i'd say you need someone to put you in your place' for felix.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: look this request was for possessive!felix and so possessive!felix i delivered. he is a little weirdo in this tbh. but i think after all my anti-rich-guy stories, i have earned the right for one problematic possessive mafia boss who throws his money and his dick around hahaha. so yes, possessive!felix, virgin!reader, wedding night, arranged marriage, felix being a criminal boss, insta-love. reader's backstory involves a verbally abusive/neglectful family. explicit sexual content. word count: 4000 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy <3

-

Your new husband is astoundingly pretty.   You expected a different face to be waiting at the end of the wedding aisle: harsh, old, scarred.  Maybe, if you let yourself fantasize, he would be handsome in a rugged way. 

You were not expecting Felix.  Slender, delicate Felix with his high cheekbones and freckles, his dark eyes and feather-soft blonde hair.  He smiled a dimpled smile as your father surrendered your hand. 

That surrender was a visual representation of a literal transaction.  You were a bartering tool to save your father’s business.  You knew an arranged marriage was inevitable when a few trades went sour and the company went bankrupt.  The family could only maintain relevancy and safety through a match to someone more powerful. 

Lee Felix is the heir to a very dirty criminal syndicate that blends in high society.  Everyone knows their money is blood-spattered, but they throw a good party and the jewels sparkle the same.

You knew his name long before the wedding.  Of course you knew his name.  But you did not know his face.  You expected a devil, not a vision of divinity, resplendent in white and gold. 

Your heart has not stopped racing since he first lifted your veil and kissed you with lips softer and gentler than your grandest fantasies. 

Now you are perched on a lavish bed in a beautiful penthouse suite.  The walls are windows, externally tinted but offering you a glorious view of the glittering cityscape at night.  You wonder how much of the city your new husband owns. 

Would that be an impertinent question?  It is not as though there is any real charade to play; this is not a love match and there is no sense pretending otherwise.  Enquiring after financial assets is arguably appropriate insofar as business goes. 

Then the door opens and your new husband enters.  All thoughts of business flitter into nothing, an insignificant detail next to your wedding night.  A night with this powerful and beautiful stranger.

“Are you nervous?” he asks in a voice so deep it keeps surprising you.  It suits his angelic appearance in a way, something so captivating about its low tones, effortlessly melodic.  But that melody is coloured darkly in its depth, scratching a shiver up your spine.  When he speaks, it feels like he is trailing his fingers up your back in a curious, searching touch. 

He looks at you with as much depth, dark eyes penetrating as he circles the bed.  He has been nothing but polite, but you can’t help but feel like prey being circled by a predator. 

Even more concerning, you can’t help but like it.  Since the moment he took your hand, his eyes have not left you.  It is almost overwhelming.  You have been invisible your whole life.  No one ever looked at you.  No one ever wanted you.  Your father scared off anyone who tried. 

Felix is not just anyone.  Anyone sensible would be scared of him.

You are also not just anyone. 

“No,” you answer.

“Really?”  He lifts a curious eyebrow. 

You are both in your wedding clothes, all white and gold.  Your veil is draped over a chair in the corner.  He puts his coat there too. 

He never looks away from you, rolling his shirtsleeves up his forearms as he approaches the bed.

“May I ask, why not?” he asks.  It’s a funny question, so polite but only posed because he knows his own reputation.  He knows what you must think of him.  The bloodshed, the ruthlessness, the merciless command he holds over his family’s legacy.  He might look unassuming, but he is not to be trifled with.  That gentle exterior could be unnerving to some people, even more than an outward brute. 

But you have dealt with those brutes your whole life.  An abusive father, cruel brother, an uncaring mother.  Hurt, neglected, ignored. 

Tonight, while you circled the reception to greet everyone, your father and brother pulled you aside.  Your mother had already berated you on the details of your appearance, but they were reprimanding you for every other misstep.

You almost burst into tears, tired and frightened.  You were so afraid you would never escape them.  Even at your wedding, on the cusp of a new life, they were dragging you around, kicking and screaming.

Then you felt a tap on your shoulder.  Bang Chan, one of Felix’s most trusted agents, stood there with a forced but cordial smile.  He looked at you and not your family. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said.  “Your husband is asking for you.  Please, come with me.”

Your father sputtered indignantly, unaccustomed to such blatant disrespect for his authority.  Chan said nothing to him, simply offered you his arm.  He also opened his jacket to flash the gun in his chest holster.  Your family had their weapons stripped before entering the reception.  It was a subtle reminder of who was really in charge. 

So your father and brother were left sputtering helplessly as Chan escorted you across the room.  Felix was sitting with some of his men, smiling his bright smile and looking like any happy young groom. 

That sunny face faltered when he saw your morose expression.  His glance passed to your family, a flicker of anger in his gaze.  Then he smiled at you and held out a welcoming arm. 

“Come here,” he said.  “Sit with me a bit.  Please.” That deep voice.  You felt it like a touch inside you. He had recited the scripted vows earlier.  This invitation was his first real address. 

You nodded.  Your legs were shaky from the confrontation, never mind the wobble from your heels.  Your feet hurt.  Sitting would be a relief if nothing else. 

There was an empty seat behind Felix.  It was the type of seat you were usually given: at the back where you could be forgotten. 

Once you were within reach, Felix grabbed you around the waist.  Your breath caught as you stumbled towards him.  He caught you and held you.  Then you were sitting in his lap, your dress draped everywhere, a glittering ivory prize perched safe and pretty on his knee.  He wrapped a possessive arm around your middle. 

It was more than a power play.  It was one thing to put you on his lap and show your family that he owned you now, but it was another for him to frown as he touched the painfully tight pearl belt around your waist. 

“Why is this so tight?” he asked, looking at you with concern.     

“I’m sorry,” you said automatically, in the habit of grovelling whenever someone took a disappointed tone.  “My mother,” you spoke softly, not wanting the rest of the table to hear. 

He leaned closer to you, offering you his ear directly.  A whisper was all you managed, unaccustomed to such attention.

“They’re real pearls,” you whispered.  “Very expensive.  Very fine.  Too fine for me.  My mother had the belt made small so I would remember to act worthy of them.  Sit straight.  Not over-eat.  You know.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing.  Instinct compelled you to soothe that displeasure, laughing like you were not upset.

“It’s all right,” you said.  “She’s right.  They are very fine pearls.”

“It’s not all right,” Felix said.  He looked at you, held your gaze in his own.  You found yourself counting his freckles.  “Do you like it?” he asked. 

Maybe it was his display of power.  Maybe it was his arm around you.  Maybe it was the freckles.  He looked so sweet, so sincere.  You could not bring yourself to lie.  Though you had defended your cruel family all your life, the truth fell from your lips in a rough exhale. 

“No.”  You felt tears in your eyes.  “I know it’s expensive.  I know it’s beautiful.  But I’ve never hated anything more.” 

He held your gaze, your watery eyes in the dark depths of his own.

Then he grabbed the belt by a thin material strand and yanked.  A couple pearls popped right off and scattered.  The rest dangled on the belt, an absurd amount of wealth in his hand. 

Felix tossed it over his shoulder like it was garbage. Then he wrapped his arm around your waist and held you against him. 

You chanced a look at your family.  They were scandalized.  Horrified.  And you breathed easier for the first time in a long time. You have long suffered the oppressive strangle of control masquerading as love.  His protective arm felt nothing like that pearl belt.

So you look at him now.  You strive to articulate all these feelings.  You are not used to speaking and having someone listen. 

“I can’t explain it,” you say.  “Maybe it’s foolish.  But I… I just feel like I was meant to be here.  With you.  Like this.”

Your heart jumps at his expression, a luminous pleasure that brightens this dimly lit room. 

“That’s funny,” he says.  “I feel the same way.”

You swallow as he sits beside you.  Slowly, touch by touch, breath by breath, he is bringing your bodies together.  His knee touches yours, his arm your arm.  He folds his hands in his lap but he is close enough you can count his freckles again. 

“I need to be honest with you,” he says.  “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you.  A year ago.  At the winter masquerade.”

You look at him with surprise.  All at once, his eyes come back to you, gazing at you behind a golden bird mask at the annual winter social.  You couldn’t place the handsome stranger at the time.  His hair was dark then, his face in a mask.  He did not speak.  His distinctive voice would have given him away. 

He danced one dance with you, the only person who danced with you all night.  You were later reprimanded for behaving like a slut, even though he touched your waist and nothing more.

“You were very kind,” he says.  “I watched you with the staff.  You were the only one in that whole room to say please and thank you to them – did you know that?”  He sighs and looks away, thoughts travelling beyond this room.  “I came from nothing,” he says.  “My family… we fought to get where we are now.  But I remember, you know.  What it feels like to be the smallest and least important person in the room.”

You sit straighter when he looks at you.  Oh, your heart has not slowed its thunder.  Excitement and affection swirl together in a motley tempest of sensation, touched by his words and yearning for more.  You thought you had been sold to an uncaring bidder, but Felix touches you slowly, like he would a very fine work of art.  His knuckles caress your cheek, the slope of your jaw. 

“I thought…” He looks at you reverently.  “I thought… I would do anything to preserve that goodness.  I would protect it.  Like your family wasn’t.”  His brow furrows now, a shadow of his face.  “They would have ruined you.” 

His hand continues, knuckles skimming down your throat, your shoulder, your arm.  You shiver.   He has a terrible scar, scoring the whole back of his hand.  A stark difference to your unblemished hand, your manicured nails against his calloused fingers. 

He says, “I know what it’s like to be ruined.”

You look from your hands to his face, his handsome profile, the slope of his nose and his soft lips.  He is still looking at your joined hands. 

“I wasn’t always like this,” he says.  “I’d give anything to have my innocence back.  But I can’t.”

He lifts your hand, cradles it between both of his like something precious.  Your breath catches when he kisses your palm, lips soft against your skin.  

“So I told myself, I would do anything to save yours,” he says.  He looks almost… afraid.  An expression you never expected to see on this man.   “So I destroyed your father’s business,” he says.  “It was all me.  I knew he would never give you to a man like me unless he had no choice.  He would have given you away to one of his friends and they would have broken you.  But you were already mine.  So I left him no choice but to see things my way.” 

“Oh,” you say, surprised beyond all words. 

“I wanted you to know before anything… happens… between us,” he says.  “But I understand if your feeling are complicated.  Or if you… fear me.”

Your father has often boasted how many men fear him.  It does not sound like a boast from Felix, rather something lamentable.  His face is shadowed in shame. 

“My feelings are not complicated,” you say.  He is still holding your hand in both of his.  You lay your other hand there, a complete joining. 

He meets your gaze, an intense and imploring stare.

“I’m not my father’s daughter anymore,” you say.  “I’m my husband’s wife.  My loyalty is to you.  My place is with you.”

“Yes,” he says, spoken on a breath.  His smile returns.  “Your place.  I’d say you need someone to put you in your place.  Your rightful place.” 

He springs off the bed like there is lightning under his feet.  He is all smiles and sunlight again, a beacon in the blue dark of this room.  You cannot help but bask in his warmth, bereft in the chill when he leaves your side. 

He takes something from his discarded coat pocket, a case swathed in velvet, soft to the touch.  You hold it, admiring the texture.

He kneels behind you on the bed while you open it.   Inside is the most breathtaking necklace you have ever seen in your life.  When you lift it, the chain is long, designed to sit low, loose around your neck.  No more chokers.  No more pearls. 

“Oh, Felix,” you say, breathless and amazed, then very embarrassed.  You are not used to such lovely gifts.  Even the pearls were a punishment.  “I can’t accept this…” you say, stunned.

“You can,” he says. 

He takes the clasp then strings the necklace around you.  His fingers on the nape of your neck have you shivering.  The necklace clasps in place, then his lips are on your neck, a chaste press that nonetheless lights fire under your skin.  “It was made for you,” he says.  “Like you were made for me.” 

He takes the zipper of your gown between two careful fingers, so slowly lowering it.  It feels like you are unravelling with it.  The zipper reaches the base of your spine and his fingertips dance across your bare skin. 

He steps off the bed.  He looks down at you, his eyes intense but his smile soft.  He touches your cheek, strokes his thumb across it lovingly. 

Then he is sinking to his knees in front of you.  You already feel weak as jelly, but your whole body goes soft and pliant when he gently grasps your ankle, when he slides your painful shoe off your foot and tosses it aside.  He somehow finds every sore spot and rubs it better. 

“This is how it works,” he says.  He is on his knees but somehow his presence looms bigger than you.  You cannot look away from the thrall of his gaze.  “You are my wife.  And when we are out there, I am your servant.”  He takes your other foot and removes that shoe as well.  He massages you gently.  “I will never deny you anything,” he says.  “You can ask me for anything. All right?  I will give you the whole world.  I will give you my whole heart.  In return, I only want one thing.”

“What’s that?” you ask, already breathless.

“I am your husband,” he says, “and in here, you are my servant.  Only I can touch you.  Only I will have you.  All of you.  In every way.  Always, starting from today.  Starting from right now.”    

“Yes.  Yes.  But I – I’ve never done this before,” you say, aching to surrender but fearful he will regret this.  Though you are knowledgeable, you are lacking in experience from years of isolation.  “I’ve been alone for so long,” you say.  “I don’t want to disappoint you.” 

“You don’t,” he says.  He lifts your leg, swoops down to kiss your calf, then higher: your knee, your thigh.  “You could never,” he says, guiding your leg to rest on his shoulder.  He gathers the volume of your wedding dress in his hands and pushes it up, up. 

You almost forget to breathe.  He kisses higher on your thigh.  Then he grabs the thin material of your white tights and rips them open.

“You’re mine,” he says.  “You’ve always been mine.” 

You fall back on your elbows, limbs already quivering as he tears through your underclothes as if impatiently ripping open a prettily wrapped gift.   With your expensive lace panties shredded and your tights in tatters, he pushes your skirts up and out of his way.  You hold them while he kisses up your thigh.  He runs his tongue along the seam between your thigh and somewhere much more sensitive. 

“No one else has done this to you?” he asks.  He already looks flushed.  Desperate.      

“No,” you answer.  You swallow hard.  “Never.”  You know some men do not enjoy providing this type of pleasure to their wives, so you are about to tell him that you have no expectations in that regard—

But then he is on you like a starving man, eyes closed and mouth open and licking through all that wet desire.  You fall on your back, pressing your heel into his back.  He groans, pressing deeper, tongue seeking, swiping, stroking. 

He grips your thighs possessively, holding you in place as he ravages you with his mouth.  He takes you up and over a blissful crest.  It leaves you a drenched and panting mess. 

He stands, wiping his arm across his wet mouth.  He does not look satisfied, eyes still hungry as he climbs on top of you. 

“My wife,” he says, like the word is sacred and impossible, like he thought a man like him could never say it.  “All mine,” he says, running his hands up your thighs, up your waist, touching every inch of you until he is cradling your face delicately in his careful but calloused hands.   

It makes your whole body clench up tightly, your breath stuttering as he kisses you.  You melt into the kiss, so different from the chaste peck of your ceremony.  It is a claiming kiss, the taste of you still on his lips, his moan in your mouth, his chest against yours as those sounds of pleasure rumble through him. 

He tugs down your bodice, then he is ripping through your underclothes again.   When your bodice is around your waist and your chest is bare except for his necklace, you find yourself covering your breasts instinctively.  He takes your hands, not forcefully but firmly, holding your gaze.  His mouth is already so pink and raw from kissing.  You wonder if you look as ravished.  Maybe more.  It makes you whimper, surrendering when he pins your hands on either side of your head. 

“This is mine,” he says, kissing your jaw, your throat, then lower.  “All mine, sweetheart.”

He wraps his lips around a pointed nipple and you feel the reaction between your legs, as if connected by a thread.  Your legs try to close around his hips but he presses down.  The crumpled skirt of your dress is between you, but he feels your thighs clenching, feels you desperately bucking. 

Even his chuckle is a deep sound.  He smiles at you, batting his eyelashes as he licks the curve of your breast.  Your whole body twitches again. 

“Mm,” he says.  “You feel that?  You getting all tight… and hot… just for me…”

“Felix,” you say, you beg.

He sits back on his heels to get your wedding dress off.  It is a flurry of ivory and silk, earning some laughter, then it is gone and your husband is staring down at you.   Again, you feel like prey, like a meal spread out helplessly for some predatory creature.  Again, you like it. 

He is just as impatient with his own clothes.  He does not look away from you while tearing his shirt open.  Buttons fly, forgotten, and he rips the material down his arms and off.  His belt is next, leather whistling through the air then joining the heap on the floor.  He grabs your hand and guides it to the hard shape in his white pants, groaning deep in his chest as your palm curves around it. 

You are so captivated him, by the way he feels, by the sounds he makes, that you are surprised when he touches you too.  Your legs part instinctively, then your thighs twitch to close when you are embarrassed by your eagerness. 

“Don’t be shy,” he says.  “Not with me.” His fingers feel divine inside you, gliding as if through silk, pressing at your walls and making you whimper.  “Yeah, my baby.  So nice… ‘n wet… for me…” he murmurs, more to himself than you. It still makes you clench, like your body wants him deeper, pulling tight around him.   “God.  Perfect.” 

“Aren’t we g-gonna—”  Your eyes drop to his waistband, then up to his eyes again. 

He smiles, laughs, and withdraws his fingers slowly. 

“Oh yeah, sweetheart,” he says, unbuttoning his pants.  “We are.  Be patient.  You’re gonna enjoy this.  Gonna remember this night forever.”  He leans down so his body is over yours.  He kisses you, presses you into the pillows.  When he pulls back, he traces a finger along the necklace, smiling brightly. “The first time I made you mine,” he says, speaking low and soft against your lips.   “I’m going to do everything with you,” he says.  “And you’re gonna want it.  All of it and more.” 

He has you begging for more already.  When he finally is pushing inside you, after so much torturous build-up, you are a breathless, sweaty tangle of limbs.  It feels like he is pinning you to the mattress, taking you so deep and so hard, like your whole body is changing to fit him.   There is a long, slow burn, but you are so wet and he is so careful; it is an ache that gives way to pleasure. 

His arms are around you, holding him above you, making you feel so completely shielded and enveloped.  He starts a slow pace that turns more frantic.  Your hands move all over his chest and shoulders to find a grip. 

“I love that no one else has seen you like this,” he says, grabbing your searching hand.  He brings it to his mouth, kisses your palm, your fingers.  He puts your hand on his shoulder, then he slides his hand under your head to cup your neck, holding you steady while he rolls his hips into yours.  “That no one else has felt you before,” he says.  “Been inside you. They don't get to have you, but I do.“

“Yes,” you say.  “Always.  My husband.” 

“Mm.”  He drops his forehead to yours.  “My wife.” 

You come again but it feels different, starting deep inside you and rolling outward, a full-body spasm that has you crying out his name.  He comes too, holding you against him, his lips on your neck as he says your name. 

Then he kisses you.  Then he lays you down.  He wraps you in his arms and squeezes. 

“Sleep for now,” he says.  “It’s been a long day.  And I want you again.”

“You have me,” you say, nestling in his arms, your head under his chin. 

“Yes,” he says with a smile.  He looks so sweet even while his wicked hands hold your body in a strong, possessive grip.  “I do.”      

[finniestoncrane]

Pleaseeeee can I have a softer Cooper who worries a lot about his girlfriend having to deal with people looking at them weird all the time, but who would be happy to yell "THIS IS MY MAN!" to anyone who would listen?

Willingly

Cooper Howard x Fem!Reader, word count: 1.5k i am already on the soft cooper train oh no lmaooooo just a little bit of soft boyfriend cooper, or as soft as i imagine he can get, being defended by his partner 🤎 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: guns, blood, violence, good old fashioned trope fic!

Cooper struggled against your gentle grip, his gloved hand pulling away from yours, fingers no longer entwined with yours. You looked to him, noticing he was avoiding your inquisitive gaze, and then noticed the crudely painted sign on the wall ahead of you. The gates to the nearest settlement were just ahead of you. Your last stop before you headed on to the next job.

“What? Are you embarrassed to walk in here holding my hand, Coop?”

His easy, charming smile seemed a little off as he spoke to you, still looking straight ahead.

“You kiddin’? Darlin’, this is for your benefit. Not many settlements are alright with folks like me at the best of times, but with you on my arm? We’d both be in danger, and I can’t keep spendin’ all my time savin’ you.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“I can hold my own. You know that.”

There was no response, but you knew better than to keep fighting your corner in this particular arena. So instead, you sighed, placing your hands which now felt so incredibly cold and empty, back into your pockets to keep them from mindedly grabbing Cooper’s hands again. You couldn’t be too annoyed. For someone as stoic and cold as he could be, the fact he tolerated holding your hand at all was a pleasant enough gesture. But his willingness to offer up any form of physical affection dwindled completed when there was a risk of running into people. He became reserved, quiet, well-behaved almost. It was something you hadn’t expected from him, to be shy or to allow someone else’s opinions to hold him back. And admittedly, a lot of the time, you had worried that it was because he didn’t want to be seen with you. But you knew it was the other way around in his mind. He was afraid of how people would look at you.

As though he could hear your thoughts, knowing you well enough after all this time together, Cooper spoke finally as you sidled up to the gates.

“You wake up to this face smiling. You call me handsome. You say I’m charming. Good lookin’ I might be in your books, but there ain’t a lot of charm left in these old bones, sweetheart. I couldn’t talk my way out of an argument, and since you keep remindin’ me that I’m not allowed to cause problems everywhere we go…”

He tapped his thumb against the barrel of his holstered gun.

“… Then I just better not give anyone any more reason not to like me.”

“Well, I like you, Coop.”

“And I will forever question your judgement on that, kid.”

Smiling, you both passed through the open gate of the settlement and separated with a nod to get the supplies you needed. Quicker, and safer, to go separately. But still, you kept your head down, Cooper with his ragged mask up and his hat brim tipped to cover as much of his face as possible. Quiet, subtle, nondescript.

It didn’t stop them though, three of them. Pointing towards you, setting their beer bottles down on the stained and rusting bar top as they rushed to follow you.

“Hey! Hello there, pretty lady! You all alone?”

Turning, you spotted the colour of the uniform first, immediately recognising that you had made a mistake in even acknowledging them. That telltale burnt orange jumpsuit. The arrogance in their smug smiles. The Brother of Steel.

“No. I’m not alone.”

“Sure looks like you are… you know, maybe you could come on over and we’ll by you a cola?”

They laughed amongst themselves as you walked on. That one answer and a quick disappearing act was all you were willing to give them, turning quickly back and trying to lose them in the crowd as they slapped each other’s backs and spat to the ground.

And you thought you had been successful. You found a trader with everything you needed on your list before you returned to wait just beyond the gate for Cooper, no further interruptions to your day from the louts at the bar. But the entire interaction had out you on edge, so much so that when Cooper appeared behind you, leaning in without you noticing to whisper in your ear, you jumped out of your skin. Luckily, he was quick, and managed to grab your wrist before your fist struck the side of his face.

“Jumpy, aren’t you? Maybe you don’t think I’m so handsome after all.”

His wink made you blush, it always did, and you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.

“You surprised me is all, smartass.”

Cooper smiled, tightening the grip on your wrist and pulling you closer to him. You feigned some resistance, pretending to put up a fight against his grin, his charms, his strength. But you were following his pull, your lips almost touching his before the blow was landed.

Cooper’s body was knocked completely off balance, his body falling to the ground in a cloud of dust. Turning in the direction he was hit from, you found yourself staring down the three members of the Brotherhood from the market. Holding back some of the choice words you had for them, you managed to narrow it down to one question simple enough for even them to answer.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Shocked by your ungrateful attitude, one of the men, the largest of the three, stepped forward and pushing your shoulder with his finger.

“We’re saving you from assault, lady! This monster had its hands all over you, but don’t worry, we’ll take care of it. And you’re welcome.”

You scoffed, face going red with rage as you knelt to help Cooper up.

“You’re not saving me, asshole! You’re ruining the fucking vibe, you dweebs.”

Again, a far more polite term than you had wanted to use, but that didn’t seem to make the men any less aggressive towards either Cooper or now you. The largest of the men grabbed your arm, pulling you back up and away from the hand that Cooper had held out to you.

“Oh… you’re one of those freaks! No wonder you turned down some good old-fashioned heroes like us then.”

One of the others nudged you to the side, the other pushing Cooper back down to the ground with a kick, turning around as all of them converged on you until your back was against the wall. Nowhere to go. Trapped by them as they made their disgusting comments.

“Why would you waste your time on some abomination like that, huh? You into freaky stuff? Cos I could sure show you a thing or two. What’s he got? Like two cocks or something weird like that?”

You spat out your retort, well aware of the repercussions, but not caring.

“He could be feral and I’d still let him touch me before I even thought about letting any of you near me.”

Bracing for impact, you squeezed your eyelids shut, opening them again moments later when you realised you hadn’t been hit yet. Instead, all three of the Knights were on the ground, Cooper kneeling over them as he tightened the lasso and added the long length around their wrists for measure.

“Oughta keep ‘em long enough for us to make our escape, hm?”

You nodded, smiling, surprised still at how effective he was at handling anything the Wasteland threw at him.

“And I did it all without too much violence and noise, like you asked.”

“My hero.”

You swooned playfully, watching him as he made his way to stand beside you, both of you looking down without an ounce of pity at the men who writhed before you in the dirt.

“And look at you, shouting all those kind words about me for anyone to hear.”

“I keep telling you, Coop. I can hold my own, and I don’t care what people think.”

“You sure about that, darlin’? The likes of these fellas don’t put you off none?”

His eyes darted towards the Knights, now trussed up and struggling against each other on the ground, straining their necks to move their heads out of the line of Cooper’s gun.

“What? You think I’m put off by the Brotherhood? Yeah… and the rads put me off stuffing tin after tin of delicious cram down my throat.”

Cooper grabbed your hand in his, initiating the contact for the first time, and pulled you away back onto the cracked road. He knew he’d let go before you hit the next settlement, but he felt a little bit better about the risks associated. Especially since he had to admit, you could hold your own. And you were determined to do so when it came to him. It was nice to feel like he could let the affection be reciprocated.

[messenger-of-babel]

Coloured Red

Summary: He likes you in his colour, just not that like that. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 2.1K

Notes: blood and injury. Hope everyone's having a good week so far! Not my favouriteeeeee Jason piece I have written but please enjoy anyways. xx

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It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

Never like this.

He had been working out of the manor for a few days, something he was already reluctant to do. However, you had sent him off to "work" with a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek, wishing him well for whatever convention Librarians had. Instead of your boyfriend being the gruff librarian sorting returns every night, he was in fact the red masked vigilante cooped up in the cave, pacing back and forth in front of the Bat computer while Tim tried to trace their latest suspect.

Dick had called him back for some extra firepower in the latest case, and if he hadn't owed him one Jason would be back with you in a heartbeat. "Get anything?" he grunts to Tim, who's fingers are typing strings of code into the keyboard.

"Not yet," he hums, the younger man's face twitching with annoyance as the firewall warning flashes across the screen again.

"Give it time, Jay. we don't want to let them know we're onto them." comes Dick, who’s leaning against a railing and still fully suited up from his earlier patrol. "I've checked all through The Cauldron and Southside, no trace of them there. Penguin must have closed up shop around Cobblepot Steel when he started working with his new friend. Going through great lengths to gatekeep his new buddy from us." he hums.

"Well I want to get this meet and greet over with," Jason grumbles, crossing his arms while he scuffs his boots impatiently.

"Bee in your bonnet, Red?" Dick calls and Jason scoffs.

"You put it there. You wanted me to help take 'em down while the Bat is out of town with Superscout, but you don't even know where they are. I've spent a full night just waiting for boy genius here to get a lock."

Dick puts his hands up in mock surrender. "We'll be done soon, promise. Then you can go home to your sweetheart. Hey, you can even say you came back early just to see them. I'm helping you get brownie points." he grins, nimbly dodging the hand Jason had swung out to slap the back of his head. "Where are they anyways? Their place?"

"Safehouse." Jason grunts back. "Staying at mine while I'm helping you lot. Old Gotham, near the GCPD. Besides, I told them to mark down I'd be back tonight on the calendar anyways."

Dick whistles. "Didn't think you had a place that close to the cops."

Jason just shrugs. "They're not after me, and if they were it would be somewhere they wouldn't look. Plus it's a nice distance from you all." he grumbles.

Dick pushes off the wall coming to lean over a monitor near Tim. "Well if our mystery person is teaming up with Penguin, and he isn't interested in the drug business, what is he here for?" he hums, eyes focused on the map of Gotham that Tim has pulled up. He taps the screen after a second, zooming in. "Here. Dixon Docks. We haven't checked here yet. Penguin used to smuggle through here, but it also became a bit of a meet up spot. He might have gone back to old ground."

"Yeah, but Penguin shifted his focus into drug running. Bruce put him under pretty heavy surveillance, managed to shut down a lot of his operations for a while. You really think he'd be that stupid to start trying to smuggle firearms again?" Tim piped up.

"Maybe. But Maybe its not firearms. This spot used to be a mob meeting spot. He never visited the operation personally unless-"

"Unless he wanted to order a hit." Jason cut off his older counterpart, voice becoming modulated as he fixed his mask to his face. "Seems there's a chance his new play pal is a hitman."

"For who though?" Tim asks.

"Maybe the hit isn't one Penguin is ordering. maybe the Penguin's selling info." Dick calls, testing his in earpiece before giving Jason a nod. "Me and Hood are going in to take a look. Track our location and keep the cameras on."

Tim nods while Jason and Dick head for the bikes, mounting each of their respective vehicles.

"Finally something to do." Jason groans, stretching his arms above his head before catching the cocky grin from Dick speeding past him. "Show-off." he murmurs, his own engine roaring to life as he follows suit.

They had cleared the dock pretty easily, Dick's hunch being correct. Between the two of them the middlemen and thugs were strewn across the floor of the warehouse, and Tim had already called the GCPD to come pick them up for the arrest. "No sign of our flightless friend." Jason grumbled, stepping over an unconscious thug.

"Nor our new mystery visitor." Dick concludes, tucking his escrima under his arm as he goes through the stack of papers at the makeshift desk tucked behind some shipping containers. Jason has known the eldest robin enough to know when he was worried, and the tight way he now held his body was a clear sign. "You find something?" he asks, boots thudding as the come to stand beside him.

"You think Oz was beginning to catch on?" Dick asks quietly, turning the page to show Jason the blurry CCTV photo of Bruce, a crude cowl and ears drawn over the image in sharpie.

"Shit," Jason breathed, taking some of the papers from Dick and beginning to flick through it. "This is all of us." He confirms, worry beginning to gnaw at his bones. There were photos of Tim leaving the city library and entering the Wayne Tower. Photos of Dick back in Bludhaven in a police uniform, photos of him at galas. Photos of Damian at school and meeting with Alfred. The more he flipped through them the more his heart dropped. There was a photo for nearly every 'apprentice' of Batman, surrounded by question marks.

"Whoever is joining the dots isn't fully convinced of it themselves." he murmurs, blood freezing as he sees a photo of himself there. A photo with you on his arm next to him. Dick comes to peer over at it, cursing under his breath.

"Hood, don't panic-" he tries to soothe, but Jason is already pushing past him to tear at more of the documents on the desk. He rifles through the papers, the sound of approaching sirens and Nightwing's urging to leave the scene deafened by the ringing in his ears. In his tightly clenched hands there was a leger, with a list of addresses. In the middle, was his address. The address he had given you, highlighted in yellow.

"We need to go." Dick urges, hurrying him to mount his bike. Jason jaw clenches, and he shoves the piece of paper into his brothers’ hands.

"Yeah. We do." he grits out, but he hopes Dick can't hear the sheer fear held behind his teeth. His bike speeds off, roaring through the side street they came on as he reroutes for Old Gotham. Dick looks down, eyes wandering over the red written date next to the highlighted address, tonight date. "Jesus," he breathes out, quickly following behind his brother before he does something reckless.

Jason doesn't think that he'd ever driven that fast since he'd been on the run from Bruce, throwing the bike into park so violently outside his apartment that the tires burnt as they squealed. Dick wasn't too far behind him, calling out for him to wait in between talking to Tim on the other end of his earpiece. His heart is thudding in his ears, hands feeling cold as he scales the stairs to the fourth floor, knocking on the door rapidly. He didn't care he was in his full suit. He could make some bullshit excuse if you were fine, claiming some noise disturbance or the wrong door.

But if he wasn't?

Then someone was going to fear the fact he was already suited up.

"I told you to wait, Hood-" Dick snaps at him, slightly out of breath from having to run behind him. Jason doesn't listen, shoulder slamming into the door when you don't come to answer.

"Don't you have the key?" Nightwing hisses to him.

"Left it in my civvies." he grunts, stumbling slightly as the door gives way. "I wasn't really expecting to…" he trails off, bile rising in his throat and blood draining from his face. Dick pushes in next to him, still scolding. "You can't just go in like this-" he cuts himself off, catching sight of what Jason was burning into his brain. "Oh no, Jay..." he whispers, but Jason is already moving to your side.

His hands come to your head, softly cradling it in his large palms. Two fingers come to press against your neck, his breathing evening out as he finds a weak pulse. "They're still kicking." He grunts out, other hand coming to cradle the back of your head. He closes his eyes trying to scrub the image of you lying there in the living room, sprawled on the carpet surrounded by the shards of the broken window and white rug drinking your blood.

Your eyes flicker weakly and you make a faint cry when he presses down on the wound by your ribs, a sound that tears him up inside. "Shhh," he tries to say softly, but the modulator makes it robotic, stripping the emotion from it. "I gotta put pressure on it. Did you see who did it?" he asks. He can faintly hear Dick calling for Robin on the end of the commlink, calling for paramedics to come to his address.

He hates how warm his hands feel, gloves heating up as if they were stealing the life force from out of you. Blood is flecked across your lips from the spray, faintly mumbling the words, "didn’t see them."

He nods along. "That’s okay, that’s okay." he murmurs, but he wasn't sure who he was telling that to.

"Red Hood…" you groan out, hand coming the grip his wrist as he pushes firmer on the bullet wound. Your fingers are bloody, smearing the crimson across his suit. "You gotta…you gotta find my boyfriend," you cough weakly. "They were here for him. He’s just…he's just a librarian…" your eyes tear up, throat swelling with the weight of your words. "He was just coming back tonight…oh god…you have to find him… what if they-" you sob, causing your face to scrunch up at the pain that ripples through your body. "I wanna…I wanna see him."

Jason's heart is tearing into pieces as Dick kneels to your other side, hands coming to your non-wounded side as he preps the area, Tim faintly heard giving instructions on how to stabilise you until the paramedics arrive. Jason shakes his head, fighting back tears. Despite the side glance he gets from Nightwing, he pulls one hand up to his face, feeling for the latch under his jaw to release his mask.

When he pulls it away his eyes are red, tears already built in the corners. His lips have a tremble that hasn't been felt since he was in the single digits on the streets, and his hairline is beaded with sweat from worry. He offers you a weak smile, unable to stop the shooting pain that wracks his mind watching the hazy confusion on your face.

"Jay?" you whisper, the word more mouth than sound. He nods reluctantly.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Oh god, it wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He dreamt of the day that he could tell you his identity, of his real profession. He imagined all the best scenarios of you accepting him, of letting him spin you around the kitchen when he picked you up by the waist like he did so often. Of telling you while you both read together on the couch, your legs pulled across his lap. He never imagined the bad scenarios. He pushed those to the back of his mind. But as you reached up with bloodstained fingers, dragging the sticky red across his cheek in that oh so familiar motion, he knew right then that this was the worst situation imaginable.

He lets his tears wash the red from your fingers, trying to blink them out of his eyes so he could focus on saving you.

"Hold on, sweetheart." he murmured weakly, desperately praying for the wailing of the siren to reach his ears.

He had always said how much he loved red, loved you in the colour. Loved you in his colour.

Now he was thinking he never wanted to see you bathed in this much red ever again.

[callsigns-haze]

Here Comes Kaboom

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Summary: Tyler shares his love for storms with his three-year-old daughter Hazel, who joyfully believes she can summon thunder from the safety of his lap.

Mild peril due to storm-watching.

Tyler Owens knew storms like the back of his hand—their rhythm, their power, the way they could turn the sky into a canvas of light and shadow. But nothing compared to the thrill of sharing that passion with his daughter, Hazel. She was only three, but already she had an uncanny connection to the weather, a fascination that seemed to run in her blood.

Today was one of those rare days when the conditions were just right for a storm, not too dangerous, but strong enough to put on a show. Tyler had been watching the weather all morning, debating whether or not to bring Hazel along for a closer look. After much deliberation, he decided to take her out in the truck, knowing they would keep a safe distance, just close enough to see the action without getting caught in it.

Hazel, with her wide, curious eyes and boundless energy, was thrilled when he told her they were going to see a storm. She climbed into the truck with all the excitement of a child about to embark on a grand adventure, her tiny hands gripping as Tyler buckled her into her car seat.

“Are we gonna see a big storm, Daddy?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder.

“Not too big,” Tyler reassured her with a smile, “but big enough to make some noise.”

As they drove out to the open plains, the sky began to darken, the clouds gathering in thick, rolling masses. Hazel’s eyes were glued to the window, watching the sky with an intensity that made Tyler’s heart swell with pride. She was so much like him, so eager to understand the world around her, to feel connected to something greater than herself.

When they finally reached the perfect spot—a wide, flat stretch of land where they could see the storm from a distance—Tyler parked the truck and unbuckled Hazel from her seat. He lifted her onto his lap, letting her small hands rest on top of his as they held the steering wheel together. She leaned back against his chest, her head nestled under his chin, and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling the steady beat of her little heart against his own.

“Look at that, Hazel,” he murmured, nodding toward the horizon where the storm clouds were beginning to boil and churn. “See how the sky is changing colours?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, her voice a hushed whisper. “It’s like the clouds are getting angry.”

Tyler chuckled softly. “That’s right. They’re getting ready to make some noise.”

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the storm unfold. The wind began to pick up, rustling the tall grass around them, and the first flashes of lightning lit up the sky in the distance. Tyler could feel Hazel’s excitement growing, her little body practically vibrating with anticipation.

Suddenly, Hazel raised a hand, her small fingers pointed toward the darkening sky. “Daddy,” she whispered urgently, “be quiet.”

Tyler obeyed, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched her. Hazel was completely focused, her eyes wide and bright as she stared out at the storm. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of the wind whistling through the truck’s open windows.

Then, in a soft, solemn voice, Hazel declared, “Here comes kaboom.”

Tyler held his breath, waiting. And just as she said it, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the plains, growing louder and louder until it crashed like a cymbal, reverberating through the air around them. Hazel’s eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered joy, and she turned to look up at her father, a triumphant grin spreading across her face.

“I did it, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice full of awe. “I made the kaboom.”

Tyler’s heart melted as he looked down at her, seeing the wonder and pride shining in her eyes. He knew, of course, that she hadn’t really made the thunder, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the magic she felt, the connection to the storm that made her believe, even if just for a moment, that she had called the thunder into being.

“You sure did, Hazel,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. “You made the biggest kaboom I’ve ever heard.”

Hazel giggled, clearly pleased with herself, and snuggled deeper into his arms, her attention returning to the storm. They sat there together, watching as the lightning danced across the sky and the thunder rumbled in response, each crash more powerful than the last. Hazel’s excitement never waned, her eyes wide with wonder as she took it all in, every flash and bang a testament to the incredible world she was just beginning to discover.

For Tyler, it was a moment of perfect contentment. Here he was, sharing something he loved with the person he loved most in the world, passing down not just a passion, but a sense of awe and respect for the natural world. As they watched the storm together, he could feel the bond between them growing stronger, shaped by these shared experiences, these quiet moments where nothing else mattered but the sky and the storm and the two of them together.

When the storm finally began to move on, the thunder growing softer and the lightning fading into the distance, Hazel let out a little yawn, her head resting against Tyler’s chest. “That was the best storm ever, Daddy,” she murmured sleepily.

Tyler smiled, gently rubbing her back. “I’m glad you liked it, sweetheart.”

“Can we do it again?” she asked, her voice already heavy with sleep.

“Someday,” he promised, “we’ll do it again.”

And as Hazel drifted off to sleep in his arms, Tyler sat there a little while longer, watching the last remnants of the storm disappear over the horizon. He knew that this was just the beginning for Hazel—that she would grow up with the same love for storms that he had, the same curiosity and wonder that made him who he was.

But for now, it was enough to hold her close, to feel her small body rise and fall with each breath, and to know that in her dreams, she was still making thunder, still calling down the kabooms that made her eyes light up with joy.

And Tyler wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Requests for Tyler are open be free to send in as much as you wish!

tagging some:

@senawashere

@saviorcomplexrry

@cevansbaby-dove

@saynotononsense

@missdottie

@willowisp7

@taorislover94

@eloquenceinpurple

@86laura11

@rosiahills22

@jessicab1991

@kmc1989

@shanimallina87

@eternalsams

@teen-antisocial

@katiemcrae

[ncttytrack]

Valedictorian - l.hs (m)

He never knew that the nerdy-virgin thing you had going on would turn him on, but maybe it did. And he needed to do something about it. 

☆ Summary: Heeseung is your sworn enemy and you hate everything about him. You hate how he looks, you hate the fact that he gets better grades than you, and you hate the way he makes you cry. The problem however, is that you are his favorite plaything, and he couldn't get enough of you.

☆ Genre: Academicrival!Heeseung, Badboy!Heeseung, nerdy!reader, virgin!reader, SMUT

☆ Words: 5,2k+

☆ Warnings: Dacryphilia, a looot of crying, Dom!Heeseung, Sub!Reader, Manipulation, Heeseung is super mean, degradation (praising in the end though), chocking

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ───

You had always been at the top of your class, getting straight A’s throughout all of high school. You didn’t care that you never went to parties, never talked to boys, or the fact that everyone calls you ‘teachers pet’ behind your back. It’s you who are going to have the bright future you have always dreamt of, and not them. And, if you are at the top of your class at the end of high school, the valedictorian title would be yours, and the dream of attending a top university would be achieved. But it was one person that was ruining everything for you. 

Lee Heeseung. Even his name makes your blood boil. Lee Heeseung. Leeee. Heeeeseung. Urgh. He wasn’t always there, and oh you wish you could turn back time to freshman year when he wasn’t present in your life. When you first saw him, you didn’t think he was much more than a low-lifer like your other classmates. Black hair, eyeliner, tight black clothing? Ah so an emo then, probably too depressed to be good at school, spending all day rutting in his room listening to mcr. Or he was maybe a bad boy, spending all his weekends on parties and fucking girls without even knowing their name.

But you were so wrong.

You clearly remember the day when you realized Heeseung might even be smarter than you, which was also the first day you talked to him. You had just got back the result from a massive math test, and of course you got an A. You triumphantly look at your score, 96/100, not bad - you thought, could definitely be better, but surely no one else got as high of a score as you did. That’s what you thought until you squinted at Heeseungs table beside yours. 

Down on his desk you saw his exam paper, and you could not believe your eyes. To make sure you saw right, you adjusted your thick glasses. 100/100. What? How is that even possible? Was Heeseung a nerd?

Not realizing that your stare caught his eye, you get surprised when his voice interrupts your thoughts. “Jealous? People have told me a lot about you.” Wtf? You get startled by his dark voice, looking up at Heeseungs dark orbs with an irritated expression. You observe him. His body is tilted back against his chair, legs spread wide - as if he wants to show off his dominance. His ripped jeans and the shirt he was wearing was both black, which is the color he always wears. His black hair was peeking out from the same coloured bennie, and his ear was covered with silver piercings. You hate the fact that his bad-boy-emo persona makes your heart skip a quick beat. He is so annoyingly good looking that it hurts, hurts even more now that you know he is a smart asshole. 

“What the fuck did you say”, you say, trying to sound intimidating even while wearing your thick nerdy glasses. People have told things about me? What? His lips turn into a smirk, and with his elbow on the table in front of him, he leans his head down on his hand. His eyes look at you up and down to take in your appearance. You are wearing a neatly ironed shirt, paired with a pastel yellow thick sweater and a pleated skirt just above the knees. The skirt looks way too big for you, and way too long. How old were you, fifty? The tights that you were wearing were thick, making anyone unable to see your skin through the fabric, and your hair was far from styled - messy, as if you just woke up. Probably were up all night studying for the test he aced. You looked like a nerdy-virgin (which you were), and he couldn’t help but to imagine what you would look like under all that clothing. 

“Well, that you were supposed to be this wannabe smart-ass, and annoying, really…” Oh so he is not just a nerd, but also an asshole. In frustration you turn your whole body facing him, before standing up so you can look down on him - getting the upper hand. With a hand on your hip and another on your glasses, you really do look like a smart-ass. “So, what? Are you saying I'm not smart?” He chuckles at your attempt in challenging him and stands up, looking down at you. He tilts his head and pouts his lips at you. Fuck he is tall. Embarrassingly, you look down at your feet and begin to fiddle with the hem of your shirt. No boy has never been this close to you, especially someone like him, someone bad. 

“Maybe you are, but you are nothing compared to me, bunny”. Bunny. Ah hell nah. You quickly look up at him again with furrowed brows, oozing with anger. Did he just use a pet name on you? How dare he look down at you like this, and how dare he try to flirt with you. “Please, everyone knows that I am going to be valedictorian, dick” You say and cross your arms in front of your chest, puffing out air and looking to the side to avoid his gaze. What you don’t know however, is how your arms in front of your chest pushes your boobs up, making Heeseung able to look down your shirt. “Let’s see who gets that title, Sweetheart.” He bites his lips to hide the laugh he lets out, enjoying the state you are in right now. “By the way, cute bra. I love the color blue” he says and walks out of the classroom leaving you speechless. You look down. Fuck. You didn’t know that one of the buttons had opened up when you crossed your arms. You will never wear stupid this bra again.

This was just the beginning, and during the last years of high school Heeseung could not stop bothering you. And as the times passed, the hatred for Heeseung increased. The way he looked at you teasingly when you got something wrong in class makes you want to vomit, the way he would brag when he got a better grade, makes you want to punch him hard right in his face and the way he was watching you throughout class, making it impossible to concentrate, makes you want to scream in his face.

But that was not even the worst thing about him. He knew he was hot, and he knew that you thought so too. Therefore, at least once a day he would embarrass you, torment you, flirt with you. How could someone be this bad, this sinful disturbing a girl like you. He would always sit beside you in every class, even though you protested him not to. Occasionally you would feel his hand on your thigh sliding up and down, making you shiver. You would always immediately slap his hand away, ignoring him throughout the day. What was his deal? 

Another day you remember clearly, exactly a year after first talking to Heeseung. You were starting to get used by his daily torment, almost getting immune from his mean comments. I guess he wanted to step it up a notch, and decided to do it during a presentation in English. You were as prepared as you could be, wearing a neatly ironed blazer and a hair up in a ponytail to look professional during your speech. Your speech cards were decorated with blue paper, perfectly organized in order for you to ace the speech in front of your classmates. 

The teacher called up your name, you got to the front, and started talking. You were good, so good, and you could see the anticipation throughout the class. Your flow was on point, not showing a single sign of nervousness. That was until you met Heeseungs gaze in the back of the classroom. Heeseung hated to see you succeed, including this geeky english speech. He was even more annoyed when he saw what you were wearing. Again with the try-hard-good-girl clothing. The blazer? Too big. And could you not let your hair out for a single day? Nonetheless, he got bored doing nothing but listening to your nonsense, his speech was better anyways, but he couldn’t let you go away unbothered. 

With his legs wide apart, and a hand on his thigh he looked at you, smirking - licking his lips even. You begin to stutter with your words, losing the confidence you built up for the presentation over the last four days. You couldn’t look away, and continued to watch Heeseung grace his veiny hand up and down his leg. Everyone else noticed that there was something up with you - the top student stuttering during a graded speech? Still, you continued - and tried to calm yourself down, until you met his eyes once again. Now, he was sending you a wink, while biting his lips. You unwillingly let out a surprised gasp, his actions making you drop all your cards on the floor. In panic, you quickly let out a weak “sorry..”, before dropping down on your knees, picking up all the cards. 

The teacher looked at you concerned, “Are you sure you don’t want to do the speech again?” You looked down on your feet, too scared to look up knowing who is watching you. “No, it’s okay”, you say before storming out of the classroom. While you do so, you look back to see a laughing Heeseung.

Since then Heeseung could never stop bother you, he loved to see you so worked up. He loved the face you would make when seeing his result on a test, he loved how irritated you became when he talked loudly with his friends about how much better he was than you. But he also loved how quiet you would be when teasing you. Seeing your flushed face when being touchy, stuttering when he lowered his face towards your neck to whisper something in your ear, only for him to say how much of a loser you were - making you punch him away. He never knew that the nerdy-virgin thing you had going on would turn him on, but maybe it did. And he needed to do something about it. 

“Man, why are you always staring at her? Give her a break” Jake says, looking at Heeseung. He was sitting at a table eating lunch in the cafeteria with his closest friends. He had known all of them throughout high school, and they were even close now in senior year. They also knew his obsession with teasing, as Heesung himself likes to call you, his ‘loser classmate’. He looked at you, you were sitting alone reading a book - as always, eating a sandwich your mom probably made. You were wearing the same ugly skirt you always wore, with a blouse that was way too big. The thick glasses that were helping you read your boring history book, were resting low on your nose bridge. Sensing that someone was watching you, you looked up only to see Lee Heeseung staring at you. Urgh, Why does he always do this? He smirks when you look at him, biting his lips to make you nervous. As irritated it makes you - it works, making you look down at your History book you were reading for the massive test later the same week. 

Heeseung lets out a chuckle when Sunghoon punches his arm. “You sure love to tease her, why do you even do that anyways”. Heeseung looks at him and cocks an eyebrow, as if the answer to his question isn’t obvious. How can you resist making fun of something like that? “Because she is a loser, and the way she acts when I tease her is way too enjoyable for me to stop?” He says and takes a sip out of the cola in front of him, still staring at you. “Hmm, I don’t know Heeseung. Maybe she has a freaky side, all nerds do” Jay says and turns around to look back at you. Jay also staring at you is too much for you to bear, so you quickly gather your things and leave, looking back at Heeseungs table. That was when Heeseung got an idea, something that would sure really rile you up. 

“Of course she has a freaky side, Jay. Haven’t you heard?” He says and looks at the others. With wide eyes the boys look at each other, shaking their heads. “No, bro, what do you mean? '' Jake says with a curious expression, always a sucker for some high school gossip. Heesung signals them to lean in so he could whisper, and they do. “Last week y/n got a B on a super important math test - oh you should’ve seen her face, and because she was so desperate to get an A, she gave Mr.Park a blow job after the lesson in his office.” He lied, of course. He knew that you got an A from that test and would never suck off a teacher. But he can just imagine the look on your face when you find out about the nasty rumor. His friends let out a big gasp at his words, not believing that the school's good girl did something like that to get a better grade. “ No way dude, you are lying”, Jay says and punches Heeseungs chest. Heeseung brings his hands in front of his chest to defend himself. “No, trust me! I saw everything.” 

The rumor spread like wildfire, and It didn’t take long before everyone knew about it, including you. You already knew who would come up with something like this, and that’s why you are running towards the library to find him. He may have made everyone in school think that you went down on your teacher for a better grade, but oh but you were not going down without a fight. You hurriedly run down the hall towards the library.

With tears embarrassingly streaming down your face, you run up to Heeseung and his friends in the library. He looks up at you with a cocky expression, laughing when he sees your tears behind your thick glasses. He looks at Jake, “Do you see her? The way she cries? So embarrassing” You are now standing right infront of him. He continues, “What do you want? Do you want to suck me off too, bunny?” You swallow down your saliva, gaining courage to look deep into his eyes. “Stand up Heeseung” You say, your hands formed in fists. He looks around at his friends, laughing, before standing up crossing his arms in front of his chest. Heeseung looks down at you. You are wearing the same thing you wore the first day he talked to you, although now the sleeves on your shirt is wet from wiping your tears. Your face is red and puffy from crying, and small parts of your mascara are now under your eyes. He towered over you, making you feel small and fragile. But that was not going to stop you from standing up to yourself though.

“Why did you spread a rumor about me sucking off Mr.Park for a better grade?” You say, still looking at Heeseung. He lets out a chuckle and tilts his head to the side. He walks up to you, getting closer with any second. “Who said that was a rumor? What I know is that you went down on your fragile little knees and wrapped your dirty little mouth around Mr.Parks cock. I heard you were good too, really knowing how to use that soft tongue, and here I thought you were a virgin. Maybe you want to show me how you did it? Of coarse if you are even able to fit my massive cock in your mouth” 

Oh he was sooo dead. “What the fuck did you say to me?!” You scream at him, punching him in his stomach. He lets out a grunt from the pain. Right after, he grabs your wrist and lifts it up - almost making your feet leave the ground. You breath hitched, surprised by his sudden movement. His face is close to yours, making you feel his hot breath on your face. “Did you just fucking punch me?” If you thought Heeseung was scarry before, it was nothing compared to now. You immediately regretted punching him. Before the conflict could escalate any further, a teacher stormed into the library and separated both of you. “What is going on here? Y/n I thought higher of you, and Heeseung, why are you threatening another student! Detention, after school, both of you!” She says and storms away.

Detention. No way. You look up at Heeseung with tears in your eyes. “This is your fucking fault.” He only looks at you with a smirk on his face. “Let’s settle this in detention sweetheart” 

You were already crying when you walked to detention. You hate Heeseung. Hate the fact that he is so smart, even getting better results than you - probably making him earn the valedictorian title instead of you. You hate the way he looks. How can someone be so smart and look like that? Dressed in all black, eyes coated with black eyeliner, hair covered in a dirty beanie, his stupid piercing that made him look like a bad boy, stupid combat boots that would echo the halls when he stomped his feet on the ground, how stupid you felt for thinking he was hot, stupid, stupid, stupid! 

The classroom is completely quiet, the only people in detention being you, Heeseung and the teacher guarding you. You had brought your history book, still studying for the same history test - at least you were productive to keep your grades up. But still, this bothered you. Of course it was only you Heeseung in detention, wouldn't it be other students too? At least then you wouldn’t have to be alone with him. As if the devil heard you complain, the teacher suddenly stood up from her chair. “I’m just going down for a coffee break, don’t do anything stupid - I’ll be back in twenty minutes” She says and walks out, slamming the door after her. The classroom was at first completely quiet, before someone spoke up. 

“Twenty minutes?" That is a looong time”. You look besides you at Heeseung from across the classroom. His body is facing you and his hand is on his thigh, creeping up closer to his cock, the same way he did during your speech that one time. You were already weak, unable to look away from the thing you swore you hate. His tight ripped jeans hugging his thighs perfectly makes your mouth water, but the way he looks at you makes you want to run away. Stop it y/n! He is doing this on purpose! You were already trembling, your feet bouncing against the floor while biting your nails anxiously. You tried to read your book, tried to concentrate on the French revolution you were supposed to have a test on, but Heeseungs gaze was - something. 

Heeseung stands up from his chair, walking towards you until he is right beside you. You glance at him behind your glasses, still trying to concentrate on your studies, trying to ignore the weird feeling in your stomach. You really are a loser, only his presence makes you want to cry. “Look at me, bunny” He says and licks his lips. Oh, he loves this. Loves how he can see your bottom lip tremble. You didn’t look at him however, still reading your book. 

Irritated, he pokes the inside off his cheek with his tongue, and lets out a sigh before grabbing your chin, almost lifting up your entire body using his strength. The chair you were sitting on falls to the ground from his movement. Tears are already forming in your eyes, before sliding down your cheeks. Why is he so scary? “I said look at me? What is it in that demand that you don’t understand, sweetheart?” He says and backs you up, still holding your chin, making you sit on the desk behind you. You bite your lips trying to muffle your cries, but it was no use, Heeseung could still see how scared you were from your tears. “T-this is unfair!” you try to let out between hiccups, your thighs clenching together from being this close to your sworn enemy. Being this close to him, you are able to smell him - a mix of mens perfume and sweat filling up your nostrils. 

Heeseung looks down on you with furrowed eyebrows, he slides his thumb across your swollen lips. Damn you cry all the time, is it this easy to make you upset? “What is unfair, baby?” He says, trying to sound sweet, even though he is forcing you in this position, the thumb leaving your lip so he can wrap his hand around your neck. You let out a yelp, which makes him chuckle. Through sobs you try to let out an answer. “It’s unfair how much I've fought to be at the top of my class, only for you to barge in and be better than me. Not only that but you're so mean to me, using your strength to force me like this” 

First, he doesn’t answer, suddenly putting his hand on your thigh to spread them apart. You don’t even try to fight back anymore, lost in the way he looks at you. Heeseung grabs the end of your long skirt, and pushes it up to your thighs. “Mhm, using my strength to force you? Am I forcing you baby?” He says and bites his lips, his hand still playing with the hem of your ugly rolled up skirt. He tilts his head, and the hand leaves the front of your neck to pull out the ponytail you were wearing, letting your hair down. “I know how you look at me. Probably loving the idea of a bad-boy fucking the nerdy good girl up, making you sweat, making you tremble with my touch” The hand leaves your head and wraps around your neck again but from the back. His other hand is closing up towards your inner thigh, and the closer he gets to your core - the heavier your breathing gets. 

“That’s not true, I could never find someone as irritating, mean, annoying as you attractive. Even though your tal frame, your strength, and your black silhouette would make any other girl fall, I’m not like the others” He chuckles at your statement, you just exposed yourself by the way you described him. Suddenly, he leans down towards your neck, giving you kisses with his soft lips. The sudden contact, that you had never experienced before, makes you bring up your hands to Heeseungs chest to grab his shirt, trying to push him away. But he is too strong, and your grip loosens when you feel his other hand just above your core. 

You unwillingly let out a moan at the feeling. What is going on? “Oh, are you not? So you don’t like it when I touch you like this?” He says, pressing his fingers harder down against your clit, making your back arch. The humiliation is too much, and your entire face is wet from the crying. You hate how weak he makes you feel, and how much you know he can do to you, and how much you would let him. Your glasses are getting foggy, making Heeseung chuckle, before taking them off. The sight of your teary eyes without your glasses makes his cock twitch. “Aw, baby, don’t cry. I’m going to take care of you, bunny” 

You pathetically nod your head, before letting out a high-pitched moan at the feeling of his finger on your clit, making soft circles through the fabric. Only this could bring you over the edge, this being the first time someone touched you. Heeseung let out a chuckle when seeing how desperate you were, making him want to push you even further. Therefore, he stopped touching your clit to pull off your thighs under your skirt. “No- stop!” You say, trying to push him away for the last time, even though you secretly want him to continue. You can’t let someone like him touch you like this, your reputation would be ruined. 

“What baby, you want me to stop?” He says, while pulling off your panties and letting his finger come in contact with your bare skin. You don’t answer, too busy letting out sweet moans from his touch. God he was good at this. Your hand leaves his chest, and grabs his shoulders to keep yourself from falling back out of pleasure. Heeseungs other hand begins to button up your blouse, laughing when he sees the same blue bra you were wearing at your first encounter. 

“If you want me to continue, you have to actually beg for it bunny” Heeseung says, laughing in your face at the whine you let out when he stops touching your clit. Desperate to feel pleasure, desperate for his touch, desperate for him, you unwillingly get down on your knees in front of him. Heeseung gets surprised by this, thinking you would never do what he says. 

Through ugly cries, tears running down your cheeks in desperation, you clasp your hands together in front of your chest and look up at the man in front of you. Because of your open blouse, the tears from your eyes run down your neck, between your boobs, something that Heeseung can’t keep his eyes away from. He always adored your cries, definitely if it came because of him, definitely if it made you look like this. “Please Heeseung, please”

You sure knew how to beg like a bitch.  

“Don’t worry bunny, I’m going to take care of my nerd real good” He grabs the back of your hair and pulls you up to your feet- earning a loud whine from the pain you feel in your scalp. He flips you around so your back is against his chest and punches you down on the wooden desk, while throwing away your history book with his other hand. You let out a pathetic cough from the hard impact from the fall, feeling the air being pushed out from your chest. Knowing he does not have a lot of time to fuck you, Heeseung quickly wraps the hem of your skirt, dragging it down to your ankles. The sight of your bare skin makes him let out a groan, making you wet. He unbuttons his pants, pulling them down alongside with his boxers to let his hard cock free. He looks at the clock on the wall beside him, 10 minutes before the teacher gets back. 

The contact of his cock against your wet folds makes your knees buckle, only being able to stand up from the grip Heeseung have on your waist. The embarrassment you are feeling is still making you cry, feeling defeated with your bare ass up in the air in front of the biggest asshole you have ever met. Heeseung leaves his hand from your waist up to your mouth to cover your cries, he was maybe an asshole but he doesn’t want to get caught.  

Before you could protest any further, he pushes himself into you, making you cry out of pain and pleasure. He was massive, and if you weren't so wet already from his harsh words, then you would never be able to take all of him. “Shh, shh, bunny, I’m going to be careful alright? I know it’s your first time taking cock”, he says, while pushing in and out of you slowly. Everytime he pushes himself into you, your back arch, making Heeseung let out a chuckle from your pathetic movements.

The only sound coming from the classroom was your muffled cries alongside with wet slapping sounds from the way Heeseung fucks into you. But Heeseung can’t resist, he needs to hear more of you, so he removes his hand from your mouth so you can let out your moans free. When he does, he grabs your waist again, stabilize himself, before fucking harder into you - getting impatient by treating you like a fragile doll. 

His cock is hitting into you as deep as it could go, making you let out a loud cry. It's painful and you can’t feel more disgusting than what you already do, pushing back to make him go even deeper. He lets out a loud groan from your sudden movement. How did he turn this nerdy good girl into something so nasty? 

“You’re such a dirty girl, y/n” Heeseung says, not slowing down his pace. Too lost in the pleasure you agree, giving him a weak nod between moans. “Tell me you are dirty, say it!” He says, feeling how he gets closer and closer by any minute, looking at the clock between thrusts to make sure you don’t get caught. “Im a d-dirty girl, Heeseungie” The way you say his name could make him cum then and there, but for your sake he tries to hold back. 

He lets out a laugh at your response, realizing that he finally got you under his spell. “Say how much better I am than you, tell me that you are nothing, nothing more than my little nerdy loser to play with, say it bunny” Heeseung says, slapping your ass right after, making you cry even harder. The pain, the pleasure, the fury you feel inside of you is making your head fuzzy, not caring if the words you are about to say will make you look pathetic. “Yes! You are so much better than me, I’m nothing except yours Hee!”

The guilt you feel inside your chest is almost unbearable. Your worst enemy had just made you swallow your pride while fucking roughly into you over the schooldesk in an empty classroom. All this work to seem like a good girl, wasted, only to get dicked down by someone who makes you cry every night. He has taken everything from you, your virginity, your confidence, not to mention the dream to become valedictorian. Heeseung can feel the shame oozing out of you, and he hugs your body from behind to get a stronger grip so he can fuck into you harder. You feel his sweaty, muscular, chest against your back, and you lean your head back against his shoulder to feel some sort of comfort.

 “Fuck yes, your mine alright baby? Now cum all over my cock” He says, fastening his pace. You cum because of his words, his commands, and the feeling of your juices covering his cock brings him over the edge, making him cum as well. He doesn’t pull out however, fucking his cum into you for a few seconds before realizing that the teacher is back in any seconds. 

Heeseung pushes your body away from him, and you are too weak to stand so you fall down on the hard floor. Your whole body hurts, and you try to use your strength to stand back up, until you feel Heeseungs arms wrap around your body. He helps you to pull on your clothes, helping you sit down in your chair as he brushes your sweaty hair away from your red face. “You were so good baby, so good for me”. He says as he gives you your thick glasses, dirty from being on the floor. He gives you a kiss on the forehead, and rubs your cheek with his thumb. “You are mine now bunny, understand?” You give him a weak nod, before he walks away to his desk.

When the teacher got back, she had no idea that the schools ‘good girl’ finally got ruined by her worst nightmare.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ───

Finally another fic! Rebloggs are really appreciated :)

[eightmakesonebraincell]

ateez as mafia boyfriends (christmas special)

genre: mafia!ateez x fem!reader, fluff, angst, smut, crack, brainrot and smutfest of mafia x christmas tropes

length: 13.8k

c/w: nsfw scenes - mdni, explicit language (dirty talk, swearing, insults), graphic depictions of death, violence, blood & injuries, weapons, heavy & mature themes (murder, abduction, corruption), pet names (kitten, babe, baby, love, sweetheart)

a/n: this one’s for yumi (@sorryimananti-romantic), mafia anon and everyone who’s sent in an ask about mafia!ateez before 🫶 loosely based on aammwffy but this is still a standalone fic not part two thank you for coming to my ted talk 😙✌️ merry christmas y'all

hongjoong

the stocking in your hand jerks when you suddenly feel it

it’s a black stocking that hongjoong has made for wooyoung from out of a spare shirt

there are already several other hand-made stockings hanging on nails that he has hammered into the wall of the warehouse

and this whole ‘ateez’s mob boss couple decorates the gang’s old warehouse for christmas’ shenanigan would have been cute and wholesome…

if not for the vibrator that is currently pulsing inside your throbbing pussy

“why’d you stop, kitten?” hongjoong murmurs into your ear from behind your shoulder, knowing very well the reason why is currently in the pocket of his black slacks

when you struggle to answer, he snakes the hand that isn’t toying with the remote around your waist to the front of your pants

“hmm? what’s wrong?” he asks teasingly

your knees buckle when he suddenly cups your core, pressing the vibrator further into you as he switches it to a higher setting

gripping onto his forearm to ground yourself, you’re unable to stop yourself from moaning at the feeling of his muscles rippling underneath your fingertips while he grinds his hand against you

but as soon as you feel your high approaching, it is ripped away from you

hongjoong switches the vibrator off and removes his hand

you are close to cursing him out, but the way that you can feel the hardened front of his slacks chase after your ass for friction whenever you move away even the slightest has you confident that it will not be long until he is cracking

until he begs for you

letting out a shaky exhale, you hang the stocking still in your grip next to mingi’s one; a dark, navy blue that used to be a fluffy towel, now repurposed for christmas

hongjoong passes you the last stocking but you let it drop to the ground

“oops,” you drawl coquettishly

you bend over to pick up jongho’s stocking, slowly and deliberately brushing up against hongjoong’s cock with the curve of your ass

you smirk when the friction draws out a guttural groan from his chest

a hand comes to rest just below your waist, “you’re playing with fire right now, kitten” 

“looks like we need a little…water to put it out, then,” you press back against him once more

he snaps

it’s not long before the tip of his swollen cock is pressing against your entrance, his slacks still bunched around his thighs in his hurry to fuck you

he pulls out the vibrator and he shushes your whines at the feeling of emptiness by thrusting three fingers right into you

“fuck, kitten,” he mouths the side of your neck, “you’re already stretched out and ready for my cock”

your mind goes fuzzy at his words and hongjoong smirks in satisfaction

sliding his fingers from out of you, he lines the tip of his cock between your legs-

you both freeze when a loud clang resonates throughout the warehouse, like someone has hit the outer steel walls

hard.

“kim hongjoong!” an unfamiliar voice yells with fury from outside

another clang, this time closer towards the entrance

there’s not much holding the warehouse doors closed; you two weren’t exactly expecting hostile visitors

“you think we can get a round in before they make it through the doors?” hongjoong asks

“if you can cum in the next ten seconds, sure”

a colourful string of curses leaves his mouth before he pulls out of you and fixes his slacks - with difficulty, you must say - while you adjust your own clothes

just in time for the warehouse doors to fling open

“you killed my fucking brother, you motherfucking bastard!”

“who are you again?” hongjoong leans back to rest against the edge of the table while he watches you pick up jongho’s long-forgotten stocking on the floor. “you’ll have to remind me.”

numerous men stride in towards the far end of the warehouse where you two are - were - hanging up the stockings

you look away with disinterest; it’s nothing you and hongjoong can’t take care of

“kyungseok,” the man grits out, jaw clenching with irritation when neither of you show any signs of recognition. “you killed my brother, kyungtae. leader of the bluebirds.”

at his last word, it finally clicks

“ah,” hongjoong cracks his knuckles and stretches his neck lazily, “the one who thought they could touch my kitten and get away with it”

meanwhile, you step back after hanging the last stocking on the wall, admiring the row of decorations

you direct your question at the man behind you, “what do you think, kyungtaek?”

“it’s kyungseok,” he snarls

you wave dismissively, pressing a kiss against hongjoong’s jaw as you praise, “these look wonderful, babe”

you hear kyungseok yell out at his lackeys followed by a flurry of movement

hongjoong sighs, sneaks a kiss in, and then gently steps the both of you to the side out of the path of an incoming kick

“if we make this quick, maybe i can finish fucking you before seonghwa and the others get here,” he winks

then you two move

in quick succession, you use the momentum of their thrown punches to yank two men over your shoulder, one after the other

the wind is knocked out of them and you aim a sharp blow to their necks to render them unconscious

realising that close combat may not be the best idea, another bluebird member brandishes a knife to gain the upper hand

“weapons? that’s not very fair,” you purr

you lunge forward before you have even finished your sentence, catching him off guard and grabbing hold of his arm

twisting his wrist backwards, he shouts in pain as his grip on the knife loosens and it clatters to the floor

“oh dear,” you mock, your hands twisting up to curl around his throat

vaguely, you register hongjoong yell out your name

“duck!”

you barely have time to crouch, your hand yanking down the man with you from where your fingers are still wrapped around his throat, before a burly male is tossed right over your body and sent careening into the table nearby

you watch in dismay as cookies scatter onto the floor, wood splintering with a loud crack

“fuck you, hongjoong, i spent ages arranging them onto the plates”

he has the audacity to smirk in apology while he wraps his arms around the neck of another man and twists, forearms flexing as the bone gives way with a sickening snap, “sorry, kitten”

the man whose throat you have been squeezing is now limp and he sags to the floor

he’s too heavy for you to throw at hongjoong, so you settle for picking up the knife you disarmed and fling it at your boyfriend

“duck,” you tease

hongjoong rolls his eyes and drops his body towards the ground, your knife hurtling past the empty space where his forehead was just milliseconds ago, before it hits its mark and makes itself home in the chest of a man who has been sneaking up from behind

moving in tandem, hongjoong extends his leg and sweeps it along the ground to knock the thug off his feet

the man’s arms fling backwards as his weight crashes towards the ground, colliding into the christmas tree you had decorated earlier and taking it down with him

you pinch the bridge of your nose as the ornaments shatter

“oops?” hongjoong shrugs his shoulders noncommittally 

stepping over the lifeless bodies scattered by your feet, you move away a little to pull out your phone

most of the bluebird gang has already been taken out; hongjoong can handle the rest himself

“hey, seonghwa and i are nearly there,” yunho’s voice sounds over the receiver

“oh,” you hum contemplatively, “is anyone else still on their way?”

“probably wooyoung. you know him, he’s always late,” he chuckles into the phone, “why?”

“can you see if he can buy some new ornaments? and pick up some fresh cookies while he’s at it”

there’s a yell and a loud thud as a body rolls to a stop just a few feet away from you

“what was that?” yunho startles

hongjoong has picked up the fallen christmas tree and is currently swinging it around like a crazed batter

“just hongjoong having some fun”

when you hang up, you are just in time to hear the loud thwunk as the tree connects with kyungseok’s temple

you’re not sure whether the splinter you hear is a result of the trunk or his skull cracking

the last bluebird member drops down dead, blood pooling out from under him

hongjoong scoffs, “merry fucking christmas”

and for good measure, hongjoong shoves an intact bauble into the man’s mouth

it’s finally silent

“now,” he turns to you, “where were we before we were…interrupted”

at hongjoong’s predatory gaze, you feel the arousal from before washing over you

he approaches you leisurely as he uncuffs his sleeves to roll them up, loosening the top buttons of his shirt, all the while undressing you with his lustful eyes

you drink up his appearance, eyes raking over his exposed chest that shines with a sheen layer of sweat

he’s in front of you now

“looks like i’ll have to prepare you again, kitten”

his fingers start to slip under the waistband of your panties when-

“heard you fucktards knocked over the cookies!”

his voice echoes throughout the warehouse before he even steps foot into the warehouse

wooyoung is fucking early.

you’re quite positive hongjoong is about to deck him through the roof

“wow,” wooyoung lets out a low whistle as he walks in to survey the scene, eyes scanning wildly over the splattered blood and mutilated bodies across the floor with an expression that appears mostly impressed

hongjoong’s clenched fists are white

uncaring of his leader’s lack of response, wooyoung continues, “when you told us the dress code was red, i didn’t think you meant this kind of red”

he approaches you two to squat down beside kyungseok’s body and taps the bauble in his mouth with interest, “rad decorations”

you watch in amusement as hongjoong’s last string snaps

“wooyoung,” he says evenly

it goes in one ear and out the other

wooyoung looks around as he asks, “can i tie him up with tinsel before the others get here?”

“jung wooyoung”

said man finally blanches

good thing too

because you don’t think hongjoong is joking when he says,

“if you don’t get the fuck out right now, you are going to become part of the decorations.”

seonghwa

“remember, as soon as i leave-”

“i need to lock the door,” you finish seonghwa’s sentence cheekily

he chuckles as he shakes his head fondly, “and if you feel like anything is off-”

“call you or hongjoong straight away,” you mimic, emphasising the last two words with the same seriousness he nags you with all the time

despite your words, your heart flutters shyly at seonghwa’s neverending protectiveness and worry for you

with his line of work, it isn’t easy for him to leave your side, much less leave you alone in the apartment

he understands though

it’s only been a few months since he found you; barely a shell of the curious, energetic and endearing person that you are now

under his careful nurturing, you have flourished and learnt to love and trust again

it doesn’t mean that you are quite ready to leave the apartment just yet for something other than a quick grocery run or walk in the park with seonghwa at your side

but it’s okay - baby steps

“i’ll be back at 6 and then we can cook dinner together,” he kisses your temple sweetly, “see you later, love”

you watch as he lingers outside the door, feet always ever so reluctant to leave

he motions for you to close the door and you know he won’t leave until he sees that you have closed and locked it

so with a final wave, you shut the door, turn the lock and then press your ear right up against the wood

he thinks you don’t know that he does it, and you won’t admit to it in fear that he will stop out of embarrassment

but you hear him whisper love you before his footsteps recede down the corridor

you have most of the day to yourself until seonghwa comes back

he had said that hongjoong was giving the gang christmas night off, a pleasant and welcome change from all the nights you fight the sleep tugging at your eyelids as you wait curled up on the sofa for seonghwa to come home

you occupy your day with little odd jobs here and there around the house, like washing the dishes and doing the laundry and cleaning the bedroom

he always tells you off because he wants to be the one doing them for you, but the small exasperated smile that he gives you every time barely conceals his underlying fondness

and then when you have exhausted the chores, you pull out a pencil and some paper and start drawing out ideas for a gingerbread house

because seonghwa had promised to make one with you later tonight once he discovered you had never tried it before

you cannot contain your excitement as the clock finally ticks to six

your little sketches lay abandoned across the coffee table as you start to pace the living room skittishly, ears perking up whenever you hear noise outside

half an hour passes just like that but there’s still no sign of seonghwa

that’s okay, you tell yourself

you understand that he doesn’t have a normal office job where he can just clock out and walk away as he wishes

sending him a quick text asking if he is on his way home, you busy yourself with lining up all the utensils on the kitchen counter perfectly parallel, just the way he likes it

the chopsticks

the spatula

the knife

the cooking board

again.

the chopsticks

the spatula

the knife

the cooking board

you glance up at the clock

it’s seven

you tap on your phone to bring the screen to life

no notifications

you try to quell the growing panic inside of you

but you cannot ignore the fact that seonghwa would usually send you a quick message when he is held up by something, especially on a day where he has clearly told you when to expect him home

what if something went wrong?

what if he is hurt?

what if he is missing?

what if he is…dying?

you take a shuddering breath as you pick up your phone again with shaking fingers

7:24 PM

the glare of your screen seems too bright all of a sudden

you press on the first contact of your speed dial, seonghwa’s name popping up, decorated with a little heart that he added himself when he first entered his number into your new phone

the call rings and rings and rings

“the person you have called is not available, please leave a short message after the tone-”

your chest heaves to force oxygen into your lungs

you haven’t had a real reason to contact him yet, not with seonghwa personally keeping you in the loop

but you don’t hesitate to press the second contact on your speed dial

hongjoong greets you with a little surprise, obviously not having expected a call from you, “hey, is everything alright?”

you fight to keep the panic out of your voice as you ask him, “is hwa still there?”

there’s some rustling in the background

“hwa? no, he left almost two hours ago”

your stomach lurches dangerously

you don’t realise you’ve let out a soft whimper until hongjoong is repeating your name over and over again into the phone

“take a breath for me,” he soothes, “what’s wrong?”

“he said he’d be back by six,” your eyes start to well with the tears you’ve been suppressing. “he’s still not home”

hongjoong curses, calling out for the others still at base

then his voice filters through the speakers again, “we’re going to look into this, okay? everything’s going to be fine. you’ve done a good job letting me know”

with reassurances and words of comfort, a promise to call you back in a couple of minutes, hongjoong hangs up the call

yeosang and jongho sidle up to hongjoong on high alert, having heard the end of the conversation

“seonghwa’s missing,” hongjoong grits out, already trying to track down the other’s phone location

san appears in the doorway to the room looking grim

he holds up seonghwa’s phone in his hand, “he forgot to take it with him”

hongjoong curses lowly, “park fucking seonghwa. i swear if he isn’t already dead by now, he will be when i find him”

he tells yunho to hold down the fort at base while he, yeosang and wooyoung trace the route to the apartment you now share with seonghwa

you are unsure how long it will be until hongjoong calls you again

what you do know is that you’re not going to sit around idly while seonghwa could very well be in danger

your mind flashes back to all those times you both stand in the expanse of his living room, coffee table pushed to one side, as he gives you what he coins the ultimate self-hwafense class

he demonstrates and talks you through both defensive and offensive stances and how you can use your size and agility to your advantage

sometimes, he hates that he has to even teach you how to protect yourself

because if it were up to him, he would be your protector forever

but seonghwa knows the dangers of being involved with the mafia and so instead, he gently adjusts your movements, gives you praises when you grasp the concept, and demands kisses when you successfully pin him down

and more often than not, his self-hwafense classes end up in giggles and laughter because there is nothing less intimidating than his sparkling doe-eyes and wide grin as he pretends to act the part of a threatening intruder

just as your fingers brush over the cold steel of the gun hidden underneath the table, your blood runs cold when you hear your doorknob jiggling

it’s not purposeful - it is hesitant, intermittent and careful

exactly how an intruder would open a door

you know you do not have a choice

you have to protect yourself

slinking slowly towards the door and positioning yourself so that the intruder will walk in with their back to you, you grasp the gun in your hand a little tighter with bated breath

the lock clicks open and you watch the knob turning to nudge the door open

your mind screams at you to run and hide as you fight every cell in your body to keep your feet rooted where they are

amongst the fogginess of fear clouding your brain, you have enough sense to wait for the perfect opportunity

…now.

with as much strength as your shaking hands can muster, you slam the butt of your gun against the intruder’s head

hongjoong’s phone vibrates in his hand and he answers the call within the first ring

but before he can even get so much as a word out, he hears your trembling whisper

“hongjoong, he- he’s here”

“shit,” hongjoong says at the same time wooyoung steps harder on the accelerator, “who? are you okay? are you safe?”

“oh no,” your voice becomes harder to hear as the phone slips further away from you, “he’s awake”

“we’re close, hang in there- fuck” hongjoong punches the side of the car door when your call cuts off

wooyoung doesn’t need to be told - he floors the car

the tyres squeal as they pull up to the street of the apartment, wooyoung having just barely turned off the ignition before the three of them are dashing in and bypassing the lift for the stairs

as they reach the door of your apartment, they see that it is nudged open

a sign that cues the three of them to immediately slip out their guns

with hongjoong at the front, they barge in and point their guns at the figures in the living room

“move and i’ll blow your fucking brains out,” he commands

“hongjoong?”

said man falters

that’s not your voice

“the fuck?”

of all things he was prepared for, this was not one of them

because seonghwa is in the living room

sitting on a chair nursing a very bruised head with a sorry bag of frozen peas pressed to it

but it is very much seonghwa, alive and kicking

something on hongjoong’s face must show how much he wants to skin the man and feed him to the sharks because seonghwa grimaces and makes a very poor attempt to break the tension

“surprise?”

wooyoung loses it and keels in on himself with laughter

seonghwa gestures weakly with the hand that is not holding the bag of peas at the inconspicuous paper bag sitting on the kitchen counter, which is looking slightly sad and saggy after he quite literally crumpled on top of it, “i bought donuts?”

when hongjoong exhales the longest sigh known to mankind, pinching the bridge of his nose, you completely understand how he feels

“they’re shaped like reindeers and elves…they’re limited edition…” seonghwa’s voice trails off and you see him visibly wilt like a sunflower in a cave

because as much as he knows and is sorry for making you and the gang worry, he had rushed to line up at that donut shop you have recently fallen in love with because he thought surprising you with the cute christmas donuts would make you smile

well, surprise you he did

it’s not everyday you knock out an intruder, only to find out that it’s actually your boyfriend

“i’m sure they are very cute, hwa,” you tenderly replace his hand on the makeshift ice pack so that he can rest his arm, “thank you”

and you really do mean it

seonghwa perks up at your words and snakes his arm around your waist, tugging you closer until you are basically sitting on his sturdy thigh

he looks haughtily at the other three men, “at least somebody appreciates them”

and then he lets out a yelp as his hands scramble to catch his forgotten phone that hongjoong has tossed at him

“i’ll let you off the hook this time, park seonghwa, but only because it’s christmas and i have better things to be doing. we all do,” the leader makes a move with yeosang and wooyoung to leave

but he seems to think better of it because hongjoong whips around to make one last biting remark

“they better be some fucking good donuts, the best fucking donuts you’ll ever eat”

you and seonghwa dissolve into giggles once the door slams shut behind the trio

“how’s your head feeling now?” you take the bag of peas off and gingerly touch the red bump

“much better,” his eyes twinkle, “all it needs now is your kiss”

you blatantly turn your nose into the air and stand up to grab the bag of donuts, “no kisses. that’s for scaring me”

he grumbles indignantly under his breath like a five year old; nose scrunched up, lip jutted out

you laugh, presenting the bag to him and watching as his demeanor immediately brightens

“well, let’s find out if these are the best fucking donuts we’ll ever eat”

seonghwa opens the bag excitedly, having made it very clear that he wanted to do the honours and present them to you

but then he freezes, mouth opening to form an ‘o’

and then his shoulders sag once more

seonghwa wails

and it all makes sense when you peer into the bag

“the donuts are all squished!”

yunho

“J, can you take a look at my sniper? i think something’s wrong with the scope”

you dog-ear the page of the file you’re scanning through to look up at yunho

“i’m pretty sure i know the least about scopes out of everybod-”

“cause i can’t seem to take my sight off you,” he waggles his eyebrows at you with an overly-smouldering gaze as he leans oh so casually against the doorframe

you swallow the insult that is about to leave your mouth, instead, undoing the dog ear and dutifully continuing from where you left off

unfazed, yunho steps closer towards your table with an excited bounce, “want to see my gun? i’ve got a pretty big one”

you hum, “i’ve seen it plenty times, nothing new”

his eyes crinkle at having received a reaction, which spurs him on further

yunho leans down a little into your space so that you are forced to look up at him, “then can i put my gun in your holster?”

you finally laugh at the crudeness of his words and you hate that he looks utterly pleased with himself

(you don’t really hate it, but you know that he loves flustering you)

(you can pretend if it’s for him)

“remind me again why you’re my boyfriend?”

“cause i shoot my load into you,” he flirts, complete with a wink, finger guns and then a flying kiss that you pretend to snatch out of the air and slam against the ground

immediately, he looks like a puppy whose tail you have just stepped on, so you reach out for his hand and tug him closer with another laugh, turning your body so that you can bury your face into his stomach and wrap your arms around his waist

one of his arms naturally slides over your shoulders to encase you, his other hand running through your hair the way he knows you like it

“what do you want, you big puppy,” your voice comes out muffled

yunho may have claimed you as the J to his PB, but you think he is better nicknamed BP than peanut butter

BP as in Big Puppy

“i miss you,” he admits

you pull away and shake your head, “you see me every day, yunho. we work together”

“yeah, and i’m sick of work cockblocking us,” he says with finality

yunho swipes your files to the side in one smooth motion, clearing the table as he easily lifts you by the waist to perch you on the edge

you barely have time to complain about the files until he is pressing his lips against yours

“i miss you,” he repeats when you break apart to take a breath, “and it’s christmas. relax”

“you talk too much,” you say, grabbing his tie and pulling him in for another kiss

his large hands settle on your waist, just below the hem of your shirt

your back arches from sensitivity when the fingers of his right hand slip under your shirt and slowly trail upwards towards your chest

his other hand snakes behind you to splay across the pretty arch of your back

you loop your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair for purchase

a stuttered moan escapes your lips when he shifts and his thigh brushes against your core

“you like that?” yunho grinds his thigh against you once more, eyes dark as he watches your face contort with pleasure. “bet you’d like to ride my thigh until you cum”

you’re about to hook your legs around his waist when there’s a yell from the doorway

yunho immediately retracts his hands and you rush to tidy the appearance of your top, both of your heads snapping towards the door

wooyoung is there, body already turning back the way he came from with a hand blocking his own view, “can you guys get a room or close the door at least?”

“or you can stop walking in on us,” yunho suggests with a red face

but the younger is already out of earshot, too busy prancing through the rest of the base announcing, “PB&J are fucking in the office again, nobody disturb them!”

yunho rubs the tips of his flushed ears and you pepper one final kiss along his jawline before you bend down to pick up the scattered files from the floor

“don’t tell me you’re going to read your stupid files again,” he groans

“well, reading these stupid files happen to be direct orders from hongjoong,” you retort

“then good thing i’ve already asked him for permission to take you out today”

he snatches the file from your hand and tosses it haphazardly onto the table, quirking an eyebrow teasingly

“what do you mean?”

yunho grabs your hand, leading you towards the door as he tells you excitedly, “let’s go on a date”

and that’s how you find yourself wrapped up in yunho’s coat over the thin sweater you slipped on because nobody told you that you’d be fucking freezing your ass off on the open rooftop of a building on christmas night

it had taken all but three seconds of stepping out onto the rooftop for a shiver to descend through your body from head to toe

“this is a date?” you had groused

yunho had then immediately taken off his coat to wrap around your shoulders as he made a pleased noise of affirmation

“then do tell me why you took your sniper along,” you sniffle a little, compliantly allowing yunho to button you up. “you want me to tell you how sexy you look while you shoot someone through the head?”

yunho grins down at you

“you think i’m sexy when i snipe people?”

you roll your eyes at his selective hearing

(you think he’s always sexy)

at your playful shove, he reaches into his pockets to pull out a pair of earplugs for you

“put them in,” he tells you before you can even ask what they’re for

when you make no move to do so, he gingerly tucks your hair out of the way so that he can put the plugs into your ears

watch me, he gestures with his hands

and then he is perching along the edge of the rooftop, setting up his sniper in front of him and adjusting the scope as he looks down the sight into the far distance

you watch as he applies pressure to the back of the rifle with his broad shoulder, as his slender fingers curl around the trigger, as he closes one eye and exhales a slow breath

then he shoots

you think that he is going to get up and finally tell you what he is doing, except he pulls the bolt back to chamber a new bullet and adjusts the angle of his rifle

and then he shoots again

you catch yourself staring at the veins running across the back of his hand and the way his finger flexes around the trigger

because you know all too well how it feels for his finger to flex in…other places

you lose count of how many times yunho pulls the trigger - at one point, he even reloads a magazine

he has almost finished the second round of bullets before he finally appears to be satisfied, scrambling up and dusting off his knees

with an eager tug once you have taken out your earplugs, he brings you to his sniper that he has left in its place on the floor

“look through the scope!”

you are careful to ease yourself down into a mimic of yunho’s earlier pose, knowing that even the slightest of nudges can displace the target by miles

hovering behind you, he shifts from foot to foot, waiting for you to see it

and when you do, your eyes nearly fall out in surprise

“yunho!” you exclaim, unable to fathom what you are seeing

because yunho has shot a fucking heart shape made out of bullet holes into the side of an abandoned building

“is this meant to be romantic?!”

contrary to your tone, you don’t think you have ever found your deadly 6’1” sniper boyfriend to be more endearing than now

he preens with the widest smile on his face, “yeah!”

you stand up with a matching smile of your own and step closer to pull him into a hug

“i don’t think i’ll be forgetting about this christmas for a while”

“you better not forget about it ever,” he threatens with a harmless tickle to your side

“thank you,” you tell him sincerely, “i love you”

he peppers your face with kisses, “i love you too”

distantly, you hear the sound of sirens, no doubt the sound of gunshots having been reported

“i guess that’s our cue,” he grins, stepping away from you and slinging the sniper over his shoulder

“our cue to do what?” you allow him to lace his fingers through yours

“our cue to fucking leg it”

and so with his hand warmly encasing yours, laughter bubbling out of your chests and cheeks flushing as the first flakes of snow start to fall, you both make a run for it

yeosang

“get some napkins, snacks, cooking oil and maybe a couple of drinks if you can carry it all”

you listen while seonghwa lists off the things you need to get from the shops for the christmas party

it’s nothing huge - just a get together between you, your older brother, hongjoong, and the rest of the ateez gang

yeosang sidles up to you to ask, “ready to go?”

as you smile with a nod and lean into him, hongjoong narrows his eyes from where he’s sitting on a chair

it seems like the two of you have gotten quite…close recently

not that you two weren’t already close before

and granted, hongjoong was the one who raised hell to ensure yeosang followed you everywhere as your bodyguard

except you and yeosang are getting a little too chummy for his liking

but then you’re giving seonghwa a quick goodbye peck on the cheek and you are turning around to look at your brother with that damned smile of yours to ask if he is coming along too, and hongjoong thinks that he’s just looking into things a bit too much

“yeah,” hongjoong gets up from his seat, “let’s go”

once your little trio makes it to the mart, you decide to divide and conquer the items on seonghwa’s shopping list

you’ve just grabbed a packet of napkins when someone suddenly tugs you down one of the aisles

the squeal of surprise that comes out of you quickly turns into an exasperated laugh seeing that it’s just yeosang

he’s looking at you with his sparkling eyes and expectant smile

“you’re hopeless,” you tell him because you know exactly what he wants

“hopelessly in love,” he corrects you, still waiting with an eager expression

you hiss his name and frantically look around to make sure your brother isn’t around before you relent and press a chaste kiss against the corner of his lips

yeosang immediately blushes and tries to hide the smile on his face like he didn’t literally just kidnap you into a shopping aisle demanding for kisses

you always find his bashfulness endearing though, so you rest your hands on his shoulders to balance on your tiptoes and quickly pepper several more kisses over the apples of his cheeks, the tip of his nose and the sharp of his jawline

“i don’t think santa needs rudolph this year,” you tap his nose affectionately, “you’re much brighter”

as you watch yeosang grow even redder at your statement, you wonder how this is the same man who will move heaven and earth to protect you

“y/n? yeosang?”

hongjoong’s voice is frighteningly close and you’re pretty sure he is just in the next aisle over

grabbing the first thing that you see, you clutch the item and the napkins to your chest and walk out to meet your brother

“there you two are,” hongjoong frowns, “what took you two so long?”

you reach out and touch his elbow in apology, “sorry, joong. i needed help finding the plastic plates”

except hongjoong doesn’t think you two are very sorry at all, because not only did he pay, but the backpack stuffed full with the shopping bags is now on his back

“why am i carrying the backpack,” he complains, looking at you and yeosang already mounted on the latter’s motorbike

yeosang smiles innocently and jerks his head back in your direction, “i’ve already got a cute little backpack”

“well that cute little backpack also happens to be my sister so shouldn’t she sit behind me- hey!”

you press yourself closer against yeosang’s back, both of you breaking out into laughter as he revs his bike and leaves hongjoong behind in the dust

your brother flips the bird at your backs, grumbling colourfully under his breath as he twists the throttle on his own motorbike to catch up to you two

and for someone who prides himself in being an observant mafia boss, it takes hongjoong many, many days to belatedly realise that plastic plates were never even part of the shopping list

yeosang gently takes your helmet from out of your grasp and tames an unruly strand of your hair that has become ruffled as you two walk back inside, bypassing seonghwa hanging a wreath on the front door

the eldest watches you two for a moment, seemingly in thought, before he picks up something else to hang up

that’s how, when hongjoong arrives a few minutes later with the shopping, he runs into seonghwa fixing mistletoe to the doorframe of the kitchen

“mistletoe?” hongjoong questions as he places the bags onto the countertop, “the fuck for?”

seonghwa shrugs vaguely, “the couples”

“the only couple i see is the couple of losers over there”

hongjoong stares pointedly into the living room, where san is starting to wriggle under the weight of the ornaments balancing on the top of his head and shoulders and hanging off his ears and fingers, courtesy of wooyoung who is currently yelling out stay still!

except the ornaments all come tumbling off in a flurry of movement when yunho thunders past them, mingi in tow

“snowball fight!!”’

it’s not snowing heavily but there’s a layer of snow thick enough for all nine of you to stumble outside in glee

and as it turns out, yeosang is very serious about his job as your bodyguard

even during snowball fights

jongho and yunho have formed some sort of alliance, so by an unspoken agreement, pretty much everyone else has teamed up in hopes of defeating the formidable pair

(no one’s entirely sure which side mingi is playing for, but he’s having fun scooping handfuls of snow and dumping them onto people, which is all that matters)

hongjoong is busy fending off wooyoung’s snowballs - another person who has broken the unofficial alliance - so yeosang stays close to you

he alternates between adding fresh ammo to your snowball pile and blocking any snowballs that are thrown around

it doesn’t matter if they’re thrown in your direction or not; if yeosang sees a snowball, then he is ready to keep it far, far away from you

somehow, amidst all the chaos, yunho manages to unearth a whole slab of snow that is still intact

he cackles evilly as he lifts it above his head and hurls it somewhere into the centre of the whole group

now, the deadly snow slab is nowhere even close to landing on you

but again, yeosang takes his job as your bodyguard - and boyfriend - very, very seriously

he makes a dive in your direction to take the hit and the angels up in heaven blow their trumpets in celebration when he knocks you over instead and you two fall into the snow together

he lands on top of you, arms bracing himself as he encases your frame underneath him

you’re a little winded - the breath has been knocked out of you, you want to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, and also yeosang looks extremely stunning

you can see every single snowflake that has fluttered down and clung onto his long lashes and soft hair, and it certainly doesn’t help that he’s looking at you with the most tender eyes

“merry christmas,” he murmurs with a smile, “i love you”

the sounds of snowballs breaking and consequent screeches mute themselves into the background, the crystal petals falling from the sky blurring in slow motion as yeosang dips down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss

one of his hands cradles your face gingerly as you sigh into the kiss, almost as if he is afraid you will melt and seep into the snow

jongho is about to take the opportunity to pelt yeosang’s exposed back with snowballs, but pauses his deadly pitch when he sees that the older is actually a little…preoccupied right now

he realises very quickly that not only have you two caught his attention, but you’ve also managed to grab hongjoong’s attention

said man squints his eyes at who he thinks is yeosang and…you?

you’re both awfully close together in a heap on the ground and hold the fuck up are you two kissing?

right before hongjoong can rub his eyes and take a closer look, a snowball is smashed to smithereens against his face

hacking snow out of his mouth, he searches furiously for the culprit, eyes landing on jongho who is staring right back at him with his hand still pitched forward from throwing the snowball

why jongho looks flustered, hongjoong has no idea

but it’s not like hongjoong can take on the younger anyway so he chooses to ignore the snowball and looks back in your direction

…where you and yeosang are both lying on your backs making snow angels

hongjoong frowns, rationalising that the kiss had just been a glitch in his imagination

because surely he would’ve noticed ages ago if you and yeosang were indeed dating

seeing as the leader shrugs it off and drops to the ground to shovel an enormous snowball with renewed vigour, jongho lets out a sigh of relief

that is

until wooyoung very helpfully points out, “why are yeosang’s lips all glossy”

you and yeosang freeze mid-snow angel

like zombies in a horror film, you and yeosang slowly sit up with unease creeping through your bodies as you both look towards your brother

his back is turned, body eerily still

most of the other members have also frozen, snowballs still clutched in their hands as their knowing pupils waver

then mingi also helpfully tacks on, “it looks like he kissed y/n or something”

at his words, hongjoong’s arms start to move again

he does not turn around yet, simply hums and says, “interesting”

yeosang nudges you with an elbow and theatrically whispers, “if we leg it right now, do you think it will notice”

it starts to stand up from its crouching position

“...i think it will, yeo”

hongjoong finally turns around and you can see that, similar to yunho not too long ago, he is carrying a huge slab of intact snow in his hands

what’s different is that hongjoong is most definitely not smiling

you have a feeling that he is going to be putting a new definition to snowball fight

hongjoong approaches with his snow weapon

“snowballs?” he shakes his head mockingly with a frighteningly blank expression

“after today,” his gaze drops down pointedly towards yeosang’s nether region, “no balls”

san

you don’t need to rely on your past experience working in an underground casino for you to know what the odds of your current gamble are

you are a mouse walking into the lion’s den

the last time you were with crescent - the mafia gang you had been brought into and was supposedly your family for almost a decade - you were wrongfully accused as being a traitor and had nearly lost your life

now here you are, walking back into crescent’s base with your own two feet just a mere few weeks later

and yet, you are not afraid

your former gang does not know, but tonight, you are the dealer of this poker game

minsu, crescent’s mob boss, leers at the sight of you entering the small building

they do not have many affiliates, having kept their numbers small over the years, but most of them have gathered together for drinks tonight

you already knew this, though

you have chosen to confront them on christmas for a reason

“ahh, merry christmas, darling,” minsu drawls saccharinely, “has santa answered my wishes for a personal slut?”

his words do not register in your ears when your eyes involuntarily flit over to the back of the room

there’s a face sitting in the corner that haunts you

the day you were labelled a traitor, you had been accompanying your capo to make a trade deal with a relatively new gang

the boss of the gang who is currently sitting in the same room as the rest of crescent, comfortable smirk on his face like he wants to show you that he is where he belongs

you realise now that it was a set-up all along

there was no deal to be made and there was no emerging gang

it was - is - crescent against you

looking back at minsu now, you address him, “why did you betray me”

he pretends to look appalled, one hand perched daintily against his chest as his jaw drops

“we saw the way you were getting closer to choi san of ateez,” he spits out san’s name, “and after you betrayed crescent during the trade, you ran pathetically to his doorstep like a damsel in distress, which only proved our suspicions”

he states it so believably, as if your loyalty wavered and led to your own inevitable downfall

it’s all bullshit though

you and san have never interacted outside of the negotiations your gangs made with each other

without anywhere to go after crescent had backstabbed you, only then had you sought san’s help

“so what are you doing back here, darling?” minsu stands up

he stalks closer towards you with fake pity plastered across his face, “to beg for forgiveness? to beg for us to spare your little boyfriend’s life?”

the flicker of fury inside of you is quickly growing into an inferno at minsu’s mocking tone

but before it starts to consume you, a new voice enters the fray

“i don’t think we’ll be the ones begging by the end of the night”

a figure steps in and you hear the sound of metal buckles scraping against the ground as a limp, bloodied body is also dragged along

the person comes to a stop beside you before they toss the body in their grasp carelessly to one side

the familiar lilt of their teasing reaches you

“hey, sweetheart”

the inferno inside you smothers itself out at their words

“choi san,” minsu snarls, hackles now raised at the unforeseen addition of his presence

the rest of crescent also seem to become restless, shifting on the edge of their seats or making a move to stand up

because they’re not foolish

they know san’s reputation for ruthlessness, particularly when someone has wronged him

and by extension-

more footsteps resound behind you

-the rest of ateez

you may be a mouse walking into the lion’s den

but when you have poachers behind your back, it becomes your den

minsu’s face finally drains of all blood when he realises the deep shit he has landed himself in

and so do several others, it seems

you wince slightly in embarrassment when a handful of his men scramble up from their seats and push past the ateez members surrounding you to run out of the building

for a moment, no one dares to breathe as they watch you and ateez with trepidation

san simply raises a brow as his eyes narrow with disinterest

the sounds of the cowards’ feet striking the pavement once they make it out onto the street are suddenly replaced by the crack of gunshots and the distinct thump of flesh falling to the ground

from somewhere up high, yunho chambers another bullet as he stares down the scope of his sniper with impassivity

“anyone else want to give that a try?” san taunts

no one answers

hongjoong finally emerges from the flanks and almost immediately, the already-frigid atmosphere drops another several degrees

“a gang of members who have no qualms betraying their own will only end up destroying themselves eventually,” he calmly approaches minsu, who shuffles backwards in response

hongjoong continues, “as much as crescent isn’t worth my time, i don’t really feel like waiting for that day to come”

before anyone can react, he swipes a glass bottle from one of the tables and swings it across minsu’s head

the latter stumbles backwards in shock with a hand flying up to stem the blood flow coming from his temple

ateez do not need a further command

all at once, the members jump forward bloodthirsty for vengeance, save for san, who grabs a chair that mingi has quite literally tossed a person off and brings it over for you to sit on

he winks as he quips, “we’ll probably be on santa’s naughty list this year, but maybe if you just watch you’ll get away with it, sweetheart”

san knows you can hold your own in a fight, but he also knows that your ribs are still sore and bruised

so he waits until you sit with a laugh before he turns around to face the others

he doesn’t really care about most of the crescent lackeys

he knows hongjoong and the rest of ateez will wipe them out fine

who he really cares about is that bastard who pretended to lead the fake gang

and that motherfucker minsu

san is going to make them regret hurting you

san is going to make them wish they were never born

he advances towards them with deceptive calmness

minsu is slumped against a table, still licking at his wounds pathetically

he’s only alive because none of the members have bothered with him

san leaves him for the time being and takes out a dagger as he advances upon the nameless member who had duped you

easily evading the man’s frantic punch, san responds by slamming the hilt of his dagger against the other’s temple

the man goes crashing down and minsu tries to scramble away from them in fear

“i would cut your tongue off, since you spew so many fucking lies,” san grips the man’s jaw hard enough that his fingers turn white, “but i don’t want to touch your filthy mouth”

instead, san drags the dagger across the gang member’s throat

blood rapidly gurgles out of the wound as the man’s fingers make futile attempts to grasp san’s hands, but very quickly, he attempts to stem the blood flow instead

but a fence can only hold a dam back for so long

san shoves him aside and lunges for minsu

“your turn,” san smirks

whipping out his pistol, san flicks the safety off and shoots minsu’s hand as the latter lets out a primal shriek of pain

san shoots again, this time at his other hand, once more, through his calf, once more, through his stomach

minsu swears to the high heavens in between wails and howls, begging for san to stop

“what did i say,” san places a foot on his stomach wound and pushes down, “it wouldn’t be me or my sweetheart begging tonight”

minsu’s animalistic cries are silenced with a final gunshot

san exhales and makes his way back to where you are still seated to reassure, “you’ll never have to worry about crescent ever again”

“thank you, san,” you sink into his embrace

you’ll thank the rest of ateez later, but for now, you focus on the man in front of you

“i said that i would protect you, didn’t i, sweetheart?”

he gathers your face in his hands and thumbs the round of your cheeks sweetly

you nod in his grasp, blinking up at him through your eyelashes

“i want to kiss you,” san suddenly confesses, “can i kiss you?”

a teasing smile tugs at your lips, “it’s christmas. shouldn’t you kiss me under a mistletoe?”

san looks up to check, as if he really thinks that a mafia gang’s base would have mistletoe hanging from the ceiling

when he confirms that indeed there is not, his eyes wander around the room for a substitute until something appears to pique his interest

you watch as he unsheathes another dagger from his belt and points it in the direction of minsu’s body

“i can cut his foot off,” san tells you with determination, “then we’d have a minsu-toe”

amidst the last of the fighting amongst the room, someone overhears and chortles at san’s words

“i can’t believe you,” you let out your own laugh

“so…” san beams, “is that a yes?”

“fuck the mistletoe,” you laugh as you pull him forward, “just kiss me already”

and kiss you he does

mingi

for the first time ever, you think you hate the snow

even if it’s christmas eve today and it’s the first snowfall of the year

you had been prepared for a peak in business at your little bar, the mist, but with the sudden onset of heavy snowfall and a rapid drop in temperature, you’ve barely had any customers

admittedly, you are used to slow business considering there is a much larger bar, the chilli peppers, just across the street

but not even your few, regular customers have shown up today nor for the past few weeks

you’ve scanned the outside of your bar several times already, each time unfruitful as you are met with an empty street save for the falling snow and soft glow of the streetlamps

sighing, you decide to look out once more before making yourself a mixed drink when you spot a figure walking up to your doors

your breath hitches when you recognise who it is

it’s him

the handsome stranger who, you suppose, is not really a stranger anymore

it has been almost two months since he first took refuge in your bar while being chased by another gang

his visits since have been rare and infrequent, but they will always span late into the early hours of dawn when he does

“hey,” mingi softly greets you as he steps into your bar, a shy smile adorning his face

your stomach flutters as you stand up from your stool, “mingi, hi, hey, i wasn’t expecting you to come today”

you internally cringe at your own words

you hope he doesn’t pick up on the connotation that you wait for him to come on other days

he peers around hesitantly at your words, “should i, uh, go?”

one of your hands reach out in his direction before you even realise what you’re doing

“no- i meant,” you lick your lips, “it’s a nice surprise”

mingi’s shoulders relax

“i heard some areas lost power because of the snow,” he starts to explain, “so i thought i’d come to check on you- your bar”

your heart grows warm at his seemingly nonchalant words

fighting back a blush, you gesture around your bar, “well, i still got power-”

just as it fizzles and dies

the steady hum of the heater in the background of your bar also halts, creating a world of both darkness and silence

startled, you jump slightly

you can hardly see him in front of you as your eyes struggle to adjust to the gloom, yet mingi’s hand naturally finds your searching ones

he slips your smaller hand into his, gently squeezing and rubbing a thumb over your knuckles as he soothes, “i’ve got you”

you let out a nervous chuckle, not because you feel awkward but because it feels so natural to be soothed by his touch, and he reciprocates with his own soft laugh

“well,” you look up at him, “looks like business is closed for the night”

his eyebrows knit together in concern, “are you sure? i can call someone to get your power back up and running. i know a person”

he scratches the back of his neck as he continues to ramble, “or they could probably fix your whole area…yeah that’s a better idea, wouldn’t want you getting singled out or anything”

you’re not sure whether to be endeared or to be impressed by his connections

“you can do that?!” you gawk

mingi blinks twice as if to say, you can’t?

laughing, you shake your head and pat his hand that’s still holding yours to tell him that it’s okay

“i wasn’t getting customers anyway,” you reassure

selfishly, mingi is glad that you weren’t busy

because it means that he can have you all to himself

“do you want to stay for a bit?” you offer, “it’s probably not safe to leave with all the snow”

mingi is a member of a mafia gang

snow is the least of his worries

but he nods solemnly in agreement anyway

he thinks that his heart cannot squeeze with any more fondness at your concern until you carefully tug him forward by the hand to lead him up the stairs at the back of your bar, murmuring that there’s another step and the doorway’s a little low

it doesn’t matter that you’ve seen him being pursued by other gang members, or that he smells like gunpowder and has a pistol hidden on him - you still look out for him and mingi has to fight the urge to pull you into a hug

instead, he grips your hand a little tighter under the guise of not knowing where he should be stepping

in reality, he wants to make sure that he can keep you steady should you be the one to trip

usually, when the power cuts out like this, you will simply bury yourself under your covers until you fall asleep

but it seems like it’s a common occurrence now - when mingi is by your side, sleep is easy to forget

so you take him to the small room you’ve leased above your bar and it is as though you have both rediscovered the innocent joys of life

hushed giggles are shared as you rifle through your storage and take turns lighting up the stubborn candles you have found

you nudge him as he nudges you back over where to scatter the candles around the room for maximum brightness, both of you falling into another bout of laughter when a particularly hard nudge ends up snuffing the candles in your hands

mingi takes out his phone and creates a playlist of cheesy christmas songs that he lets run in the background

grabbing your hands, he twirls you around the cramped space of your living room as you flush with joy

you shyly let him lead you through his silly little dances, but very quickly, you are both spinning and jumping and swaying barefoot to the music as the candle flames flicker in tandem all around you

the excitement teeters off slowly as the playlist transitions to slower instrumentals and you realise that without the heating on, your room is starting to become freezing

mingi is first to notice, attuned to the way a quick shiver racks your body

“come here,” he says, arms already moving before he can think better of it

he grabs the blanket that covers the back of your small couch and throws half of it over himself, one arm extending the rest of it so that he can wrap it around your form too

mingi slowly rubs his hands up and down the sides of your arms as he shuffles the two of you over to sink down onto the couch

you have to remind yourself to keep breathing, even as his every touch leaves behind a trail of goosebumps and electricity

“better?” he asks after a while

untrusting of your voice, you nod instead whilst clearing your throat, trying not to chase the feeling of his embrace when he retracts his arms from around you

silence falls upon you two

it’s not uncomfortable

but with the lack of noise to distract you, you are acutely aware of his close proximity and the warmth that he emits from your side

“it’s pretty, isn’t it,” he muses, gaze focused on the falling snow outside the window

“it is…”

…with you here

“you know what they say about the first snowfall of the year?” he nudges you softly

you chew on your bottom lip

shyly, you offer, “that if you confess your love it becomes true,” at the exact same time mingi says-

“that you shouldn’t eat the snow for the first hour or two”

you quickly cough and splutter out a question to cover up your statement, “h-how come?”

“the snow absorbs all the bad stuff in the air when it first falls”

the grin on his face makes you think that he may have heard your answer after all

slightly embarrassed, you avert your gaze and fumble for something to say

mingi saves you though

he points at the clock that has just ticked past midnight

“merry christmas, y/n,” he says tenderly

“merry christmas, mingi”

you relish in the moment, not wanting this night to end

“did you have anything you wanted for christmas?” you ask him

he hums in affirmation, slowly mulling over his next words before he answers, “there was someone i wanted to see”

he’s looking ahead, and from where you’re sitting next to him, shoulders brushing with each slight movement, the warm glow of the candles accentuates the sharp slopes of his side profile

you’ve noted this before, but in this moment mingi is beautiful

“did…did you get to see them?” you’re unsure why you’re holding your breath in anticipation

he doesn’t answer straight away

there’s a beat of silence

then he’s slowly turning his head with a gentle smile

“yeah,” he breathes out, looking at you with his soft, round eyes, “yeah, i did”

with your rosy cheeks and bashful expression, mingi cannot help himself

he confesses

“and i still am”

wooyoung

wooyoung very naturally reaches across the counter with the barcode scanner so that he can align the laser with your id badge

he hums happily as your employee discount is applied to the bag of chips he is purchasing

at this point, you don’t even bat an eye

he has long made himself at home in your convenience store whenever you work the night shift

“so,” wooyoung says as he finishes ringing up the price, “why are you working on christmas eve?”

you tilt your head, confused

“why shouldn’t i be working on christmas eve? and why aren’t you working? don’t you need to manage all your lackeys at the boxing rings?”

“no? because it’s christmas eve? everyone takes the week off,” he frowns as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world

you didn’t realise the mafia celebrated christmas too

apparently you say that out loud, because he is suddenly crossing his arms

…a little too defensively for you to take him seriously

“i didn’t know you were the mafia police,” he grumbles, “you gonna pull out a handbook and tell me that section 3.2 bans christmas for the mafia?”

you chuckle as you attempt to appease the childlike fire in his eyes, “sorry, you guys just seem like-”

you think better of your words and pause

“seem like what?”

“nothing”

“what? tell me what you were going to say!”

he pounces on you, attempting to bite your forearm as you squeal and relent

“you guys seem like the type to beat santa up, not celebrate his existence”

he stares at you

you stare at him

“you have three seconds to run,” he tells you

and run you do

filled with glee, you dash out from behind the counter and weave through the narrow aisles in a circle, wooyoung hot on your heels with his own matching shrieks

you both collapse in a fit of uncontrollable laughter when he suddenly switches direction and you end up running straight into his arms

sitting on the dirty floor of your convenience store during the quiet hours of night, your eyes teary from how hard you and wooyoung are laughing, you do not think there is a better way to spend your christmas eve

“i get paid almost double for working today,” you explain when you have both settled back behind the counter, sharing the bag of snacks he paid for earlier

you toss a chip in the air for wooyoung to catch as you continue, “plus, i can’t just take holidays when i want to”

it bounces off his forehead and he fumbles to catch it before it hits the ground

“why not?”

“because my boss won’t let me”

“oh. that’s it?”

“tHaT’s iT? shut the fuck up,” you shove a chip into his mouth as he sniggers

he excuses himself to make a quick call, so you take the opportunity to finish off the remainder of the snacks

hah.

this time, when he walks back in and sees the empty packet, he does bite you

and he makes you buy him another bag as compensation

(honestly, he should be buying you snacks because if you’re honest, you’re pretty sure he has enough money to buy your store and the whole chain)

you’re sharing the second bag of chips - read as: wooyoung being petty and hogging the snacks - when the store is suddenly plunged into dimness for a split second

you look up, blinking as you watch the lights flicker once, twice, and then completely die out with a fizzle

there’s still enough light coming from the frozen section as the standby generator kicks in for you to make out the inside of the store and wooyoung’s raised eyebrow

then the door chimes, alerting you to the arrival of customers

…or not-customers, you suppose

honestly, you should really be used to this by now

two men saunter in with shoulders squared like they own the place

you take one look at their balaclavas and the pistols in their hands and deduce that, “they wouldn’t happen to be some of your friends, right?”

wooyoung steps a little closer to whisper back, “nope”

“well, fuck. you going to do something about them or what?”

“are you kidding me? they’ve got guns”

“you’re part of the mafia. you’re telling me you don’t have one on you?”

he has the fucking nerve to flirt with you as he flexes his arms

“the only guns i got are these bad boys”

the men point their guns threateningly and wooyoung has the common sense to pipe down, both of you raising your hands cautiously

“get in the car,” one of them snarls

wooyoung moves after a split moment of hesitation, arms still raised as he walks towards the door

he looks back at you to see if you are following along, as if you two are taking a walk in the park and not being kidnapped at literal gunpoint

you’re going to roundhouse kick his head off once you make it out of this alive

his stupid gang better be real good at finding people

the kidnappers usher you and wooyoung into the back of a car, a very nice one you must say

it’s spacious and well-cushioned

at least the trip to whatever warehouse or abandoned building they take you to will be a comfy one

the door locks click and you hit the headrest behind you when the driver steps on the accelerator

“jesus christ! can you drive any faster?” wooyoung yells

you jerk your head sideways to look at him in horror

what is he thinking, provoking the armed men like that?

the man in the passenger seat must also share the same thought, because he whips his head around dangerously fast to stare at wooyoung

oh shit shit shit-

he raises a hand

he’s going to shoot wooyoung-

and pulls off his mask

“that’s not what you were saying when you called us 15 minutes ago, wooyoung”

“san?!” you screech in recognition

“hi again, darling,” san greets you with a sweet, dimpled smile, as if everything is okay

the driver also takes off their mask and he looks at you through the rearview mirror as he introduces himself, “hi, i’m mingi!”

you are absolutely incredulous

“you staged a whole fucking kidnapping for fun?”

wooyoung looks overjoyed, “so you can enjoy christmas eve!”

you’re not sure whether you want to laugh or cry at the ridiculousness of the situation

“you do realise the police are going to interrogate me, right?”

“don’t worry. jongho has connections with the police,” san reassures you

“what about the security footage?”

“hongjoong jammed the feed so there’s none,” mingi pipes up

“my boss is going to find out when he comes to check the morning shift”

“nah,” wooyoung waves away your concern this time, “he’ll be out of commission for a solid week or so”

now that catches your attention

sighing, you pinch the bridge of your nose as you close your eyes and ask very calmly, “what did you guys do to my boss?”

wooyoung lets out a weak chuckle as he presses himself a little closer to the car door; a little further away from you

“yeosang may have, uh, knocked him out”

at your silence, he scrambles to redeem the situation, tugging at the end of your shirt for forgiveness, “we made sure to give your boss a pillow for his neck while he’s out cold!”

“you’re insufferable,” you tell him, starting to feel exhilarated from the whole situation

“just for you,” wooyoung puckers his lips teasingly

you sigh to conceal the smile that is starting to creep onto your face, but you are weak for him and he knows, so you don’t pull away when he laces his fingers through your hand

“merry christmas eve,” he beams at you

there’s the faint sound of someone gagging

wooyoung’s adoring gaze doesn’t leave you, not even as he kicks the back of san’s chair hard

you laugh, truly happy and free, “you know i’m still going to get fired for this, right?”

there’s silence

“well,” wooyoung contemplates

and for a split second, you think he is going to offer you a solution for the mess he made

but then again, what did you expect from wooyoung

“does this mean we get to spend christmas together then?”

jongho

jongho has one hand in the pocket of his slacks

his stance is relaxed, even as his other hand aims the gun at the police officers in front of him

they cower despite the abundance of money piled on the table before them and the stars and service strips that decorate their uniforms

after all, what use is dirty money and corrupt power in the face of death?

pathetic

their pleas for mercy fall on deaf ears

several gunshots ring out, followed by the thud of bodies dropping to the ground

elsewhere, you notice that it’s nearly time for you to clock out

it’s christmas eve and you are not spending a minute longer than you need to here in this hellhole

double checking that your badge is somewhere in your bag, you make a move to leave the police station when there is a sudden influx of noise

pagers beep, phones ring, voices shout

your ears perk up to catch the conversation and you hear the same few names leaving the lips of the police officers around you

the blood coursing through your veins freezes

because you know these names

these names have been burned into your brain, only recently, but still to the point where you can see them clearly whenever you close your eyes

they’re all officials in positions of high power, spending their days in air-conditioned offices and not actually doing anything apart from accepting bribes

but the thing that truly links them together - the secret that quite possibly, of the people in the station right now, only you’ve discovered through your connections - is that they are all involved in covering up the death of an officer five years ago

your father’s death

jongho and his gang have made sure that your father’s murderer has paid the price with his own life-

“all killed?!” you hear the police of chief gush with disbelief

-as have the corrupt officers who buried your father’s case, so it seems

a sense of calm settles over you

the clock tells you that it’s now three minutes past the end of your shift

the news is not a bad note to end on before your two-day christmas break

you sling your bag over your shoulder while the rest of the officers continue to speculate with nervous energy

the police force had no qualms turning their back on you years ago, so neither do you on them

you leave

when you make your way home, back to the modest apartment you now share with jongho, you are greeted by the smell of a cooking meal and the warmth of the blasting heater

you enter the open kitchen whilst removing your scarf

jongho is there in his suit, his coat slung over the back of a chair, tossing an assortment of diced vegetables into a pot of boiling soup

his sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows and you feel your throat go a little dry when the muscles along his forearm flex as he holds up the chopping board

you notice there are streaks of dried blood across his sleeves

and you would be concerned about the blood if this weren’t such a common occurrence

you know now that it’s never his own

when he notices your quiet presence, jongho turns to look at you the same way he always does whenever you come home from work

like he can never quite believe that you’re here with him after so many years apart

he greets you, smiling with anticipation, “did you like my christmas present?”

your mind flashes back to the frenzied panic at the station just earlier

“that was you?” 

the smirk you receive is more than enough of an answer to your question

“you didn’t have to, jongho,” but despite your words, you walk over appreciatively into his outstretched arms

“of course i did,” he shushes you with a deep kiss as his arms wrap around you tightly. “nobody messes with my girl”

his words send a hot rush right through your body

the corner of his lips quirks as he feels you squirm a little in his hold

“cop or not,” he nudges your head to the side so he has easy access to nip at your throat, “you’re mine to protect”

you fist the front of his shirt in an attempt to hold back a needy whine, instead, letting out a shaky breath that does little to hide how affected you are

in a last-ditch effort to take control of the situation, you take a step back and reach into the side pocket of your uniform to pull out your handcuffs

“too bad this cop is going to arrest you for murder,” you joke

jongho cannot help but smile at the cocky facade you put on when your cheeks are so clearly flushed

he brings his wrists together in front of him and offers his hands to you

“are you going to frisk me too, officer?”

when you swallow, now silent, jongho continues, “i might be armed with something that could…destroy you”

a shiver of excitement runs through you and it doesn’t go unnoticed

he steps forward to close the gap between you both, one hand reaching for the handcuffs hanging loosely from your grasp

jongho pauses when his fingers touch the cool metal, waiting for you to look at him properly

you see his eyes darting between your own as he searches for any signs of discomfort or hesitation

can i?

you let go of the handcuffs so that they are in his hold alone

yes

his gaze turns predatory almost immediately

“my turn,” he rasps lowly

he flips you around so that you face the kitchen counter, grabbing your arms and holding them behind you

you are pliant under his touch, but you cannot deny that it turns you on when he is a little rougher with you

jongho cuffs your wrists together and he waits as you tug on them experimentally

you feel the flutter of his fingertips dancing around where the metal surrounds your wrists

“is this okay?” he asks, voice gentle again

you reassure him, “yeah, more than okay,” before you emphasise your words by grinding your ass back against him

he tuts with a chuckle as he stands steady behind you, allowing you to use his rapidly-hardening cock for stimulation while his hands rest on your waist

it’s not enough though

“touch me, please,” you breathe out

“please, who?” he teases, hands sliding up and down your sides but never adding any pressure

your thighs clench because you know exactly what he wants

“please, officer,” you beg

“see, that wasn’t so hard,” jongho whispers right into your ear

the buttons on your uniform blouse are suddenly undone and in one swift motion, he yanks your bra down to expose your breasts

his fingers find your nipples easily, familiar with every inch of your body, and you let out a gasp of pleasure when he pinches them

he pins your hips against the countertop with his own, clothed bulge pressing firmly into you

your cuffed hands scrabble to find purchase when he nudges your legs open with his thigh

but then all of a sudden, his heated touches and wandering hands disappear

the whine you let out at the loss of his presence is almost pathetic as you twist your head around to look for him

“give me a second, baby, i just need to,” he steps over to the bubbling pot of soup and twists the knob down on the stove, “adjust the fire”

you bend forward onto the countertop, exposing the wet patch that you are sure has started to show on the crotch of your pants

“jongho,” you start to beg again, “i want to cum”

“i know, baby, but i don’t want to burn our house down and i want to make sure i get to feed you dinner,” he strides back to you in two quick steps

“now that that’s sorted,” he turns your body around so that you’re facing him, “i think it’s time for my appetiser”

he swiftly tugs your pants and panties down, kneeling to tap on your ankles lightly, a silent request for you to step out of your clothes

he tosses them to one side before his hands come back up to grip either of your thighs so that he can spread your legs

you brace your cuffed hands against the edge of the countertop behind you

it’s not the most comfortable position to be in, but then jongho is using his fingers to spread your pussy apart and your ability to form any coherent thought leaves your body

he blows lightly on your clit, enjoying the way you flinch at the sensation

“look at you,” he drags a fingertip at an agonisingly slow pace through your folds, “already so wet when i’ve barely even touched you”

he holds you still when you try to grind down on his finger

“use your words, baby,” he grins up at you with a smug expression

“i need y-”

he cuts your words right off by attaching his lips to your clit, drawing out a strangled cry of pleasure from you

you feel the long-awaited stretch of your pussy as jongho foregoes one finger and plunges two digits straight into your hole

“fuck!” the curse slips out of you when he sucks and licks your clit in time with the thrusts of his fingers scissoring in and out of you

he curls a finger and your knees very nearly buckle from under you, your back arching as jongho groans against your pussy and continues to abuse the sensitive spot he has found

a pressure starts to build in your core

“i’m close,” you manage to choke out

you miss the moment jongho briefly removes his lips to glance to his side, replacing his mouth with a thumb to rub harsh circles against your clit, before he tells you, “not yet, baby”

“i can’t, jongho, please, let me cum,” you plead

“wait, hang in there a little longer. i know you can,” yet despite his words, he shoves his fingers up harder with renewed vigour

you almost sob from desperation, “wait for fucking what?! your dick isn’t even in me!”

“just a little longer, baby,” he reassures you as your thighs shake around him

you can’t do it anymore

you have to cum

you have to-

“cum,” he simply says, before reattaching his mouth to your clit

your orgasm rips through you and you cannot do anything but tremble and shudder under the administrations of his tongue and fingers

jongho holds you through it all, milking out your orgasm until its very last waves-

just as the timer on the stove goes off

“what the fuck?” you blurt out

your mind is still hazy from pleasure but you’re pretty fucking sure he just timed your orgasm with the stove

jongho licks his fingers with a brazen smile and then goes over to peer into his pot of soup

after he gives it a final stir, he turns the fire off completely and places a lid on the top to keep it warm

you watch, rendered speechless

except when he turns back around, you stay silent for a completely different reason

he eyes you hungrily as he strips his tie and unbuttons his dress shirt

“round two, baby”

he grabs your cuffed hands and guides you towards your shared bedroom, then fishes out the keys from your blouse

you welcome the feeling of jongho unlocking your handcuffs for a moment of rest

settling against the head of the bed, you watch as jongho fully sheds his shirt and lets it drop to the ground

he unzips his slacks and his cock springs free, the bulbous head a tantalising pink as he easily strokes himself to full erection

your pussy clenches desperately around nothing in anticipation and jongho watches your own arousal leak out

he gathers your wrists together once more and pins them above you, handcuffing you to the headboard as you completely submit to him

jongho leans over you and encases your smaller frame with his muscular build

his voice is low and teasing

“you have the right to remain silent,” he says as he aligns his girthy length with your entrance, “but i doubt you will”