#it’s not perfect but it will more than do!!!!!

[baepsays]

I FEEL THE RUSH ──── Gojo Satoru.

synopsis ────⋙ Instead of spending the very last summer vacation of your life like an average university student, you come back to your home town under unexpected and unfortunate circumstances; and silly misunderstandings lead to a blossoming summer romance.

pairing ────⋙ summer fling Gojo Satoru x reader

wc ────⋙ 15.2k (for a spontaneous silly fic i worte in 5 days idk how it got this long)

cw ────⋙ NSFW, MDNI, fluff, i mean some angst, mention of cheating, shitty ex, shitty friends, depressive episode, everyone here is rich af, teasing, banter, oral sex (f! receiving), car sex, flirting, lots of it, nothing else i wanna spoil lol, give it a read.

a/n: art by @/m0ryy , find the art here. the playlist that i used (very fun playlist ngl), also I'm tweaking the layout here and there as it just fits.

Summer is often dubbed the season of fruition, fulfillment, happiness, and new beginnings. Though for you, summer seems to be the season when you just never know what day it is. 

Days blend into each other, hours pass by, the sun never seems to set, and weeks seem to end way ahead of time. And your boyfriend, or now ex-boyfriend to be more accurate, finds it the perfect season to finally break up with you. After months of cheating on you behind your back with your own closest friend, it seems he finally found the nerve to get away with it.

After they were both done leaching off of you and betraying you, it was time to leave you behind. 

You wish you could say you were hurt. Broken and miserable. Well, you were miserable, not because of the recent circumstances. But rather than you being concerned about graduating, the dread of leaving behind the safety net of a tiring education system was daunting, to say the least. But at least it was there.

You don't really blame them for anything, but then you also do, though you knew when it started. When you found one of her socks in his room. Or when you smelled his perfume on her sheets. But you just never did anything; it sort of gave you leverage to not really input anything into these exhausting relationships without feeling like an asshole. A good excuse—that's all it was. 

Maybe your parents wouldn't understand these things so easily; maybe to them you are their heartbroken little girl. That is probably why they showed up at your apartment unannounced immediately the day after you told them about your breakup. 

And now you are in the backseat of your father's car, being driven back to the town you grew up in. Passing by the familiar ocean you always hated looking at whenever you had to drive back and forth. The vast, never-ending, salty mystery never made any sense to you. Probably why you never got around to learning how to swim.

“Are you alright there, sweetheart?” Your mother looked back from the passenger seat, only to hear you hum an unenthusiastic yes. 

“We're almost there. You know they renovated the club? You should come with us tomorrow. Everyone asks about you all the time.” Your father spoke without moving his eyes from the road.

“Sure. I will.” It didn't take much to appease your parents.

Simple-minded or privileged, whatever they were, you were probably worse. With all the comfort in this world, here you were, alone by choice. Left behind and soon forgotten. Which was never your intention; you just could not be what your parents, your ex boyfriend, and your friend's expectations wanted you to be. And therefore you are now taking steps backwards at a time in your life when you are to be sprinting forward.

Summer has always been the season most unkind to you, and you've never made it feel any less unappreciated. The animosity between you and the most beloved season cannot be that easily erased with a renovated country club, or the ocean, or some ice cream, or the wind that breezes by your windows at night, or twelve hours of sleep. 

But at the very least you can hope it does not burn you into the ground.

Every time you step back in your old room, a part of you wishes that your parents just threw everything out and made it into another sitting room or another gym. Then you see the posters of the band you and your high school friends once snuck out to see during your last senior year summer vacation, and it reminds you that maybe summer didn't hate you as bad as you thought.

Then the memories of the summer during your first year of college come back, how miserable it was. Locked in your small dorm, with your annoying roommate gone, yet her side of the room remained as headache-inducing as ever. Parents you could reach out to, as they were not even in the country, and you did not have it in you to ruin their vacation. High school friends who slowly drifted away and suddenly broke all relationships and the promises. All that was left was you and the miserable heat of the summer. 

Anything will always be better than that shitty dorm room, even the room you grew up in that haunts your dreams now.

Walking down the stairs, you found your parents enjoying the wind cutting through them on the patio. And as you passed the living room while looking out at them sitting by each other's side, without even looking where you were going, you realized that maybe you have not really forgotten what that sense of familiarity felt like being back home.

It hasn't even been half a day that you've been back in your childhood bedroom. It was already well past 12:00 AM, and you could still walk from your room to the kitchen with your eyes closed, half asleep. Even the sound of a car pulling up in your neighbor’s driveway, the teenagers giggling in a hushed voice, and someone's dog barking—everything felt comforting and just as it always sounded. It felt like home. 

It felt like you could finally open your windows, at the end of the day, and welcome the summer breeze as happily as your parents did. 

You wish you could say you spent your first few days back home more productively. Instead it was just a routine of waking up at either 4:00 AM or 4:00 PM. Making coffee, eating whatever could be easily grabbed, and then spending the rest of your day rotting away in bed.

This was summer. The summer that everyone longed for and idealized, for you it was days bending into each other. Until the urgency of the decreasing free days finally made you want to pick up your unfinished assignments and open those untouched documents.

“Alright, get ready!” Your father barged into your room unannounced with the amount of enthusiasm that made you kind of regret being back home.

“You have got to stop walking into my room like that.” You didn't bother to look up at him from your bed, keeping your eyes trained on the screen of your laptop. The poor thing has been running since last night without a break. All because you found some horrible show to occupy your brain for some hours and not let you think about anything. 

“Go get changed; we're going to the club!” With every step he took forward, the more you wanted your bed to swallow you whole.

“Why can't I just stay home—AND STOP OPENING MY WINDOWS, IT'S SO HOT OUT!” The sunlight suddenly poured in from your windows, and it felt like just from the looks of the shining rays of light, the heat outside could melt even when you were in the comfort of your nice and cold room, courtesy of the air conditioning. 

“DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME, YOUNG LADY! YOU'RE COMING WITH US!” 

And what is a poor little girl to do when her father is the one paying for her tuition fees and air conditioning bill? Certainly not going against what he asked for. She has to move her butt, take a shower, and change into a presentable sundress. To smile and nod at old neighbors she always found detestable.

You can only hope this white dress passes as presentable. Though there is nothing wrong with the dress, and sure, it is worn in, the cotton has softened significantly from when it was originally bought, which feels better on the skin than anything ever. The thin straps have become a little flimsy, and you genuinely believe the length has somehow shortened from above your knees to now where the hem lies on the middle of your thighs. But the pretty embroidery of flowers that ran all over the dress in a cream thread was what made this dress as captivating as it was.

The country club has never been a place you went with much enthusiasm. It was either about tagging your parents, running away from swimming lessons they forcibly signed you up for, sneaking into some empty room to take a nap, taking tennis lessons, or just simply sitting by the pool with your friends for lack of anything else better to do.

The worst part was always running into familiar faces, especially in such an exclusive place; everyone knew everyone. Especially when you're left by yourself at a table, like right now, sipping on some tea, only for just about any nasty neighbor to come up to you and make a few sarcastic comments.

“Oh my goodness! How have you been, honey? Look at you! It's like you're a fully grown adult now! But I still can't choose a pretty dress I see.” Oh, how you wish Mrs. Wilson would finally change for the better and stop running her mouth. And what is that even supposed to mean? You are a fully grown adult. Even though she will argue you're still the same petty kid from all those years ago. But you'd have to argue that you're a vengeful grown-up now. This is why you'll never see eye to eye with her.

“And you also look like you've aged a lot in these few years, Mrs. Wilson.” Her face soured just as quickly as it always did whenever she stopped to talk to you on the street back when you used to live here. 

“Your tongue is as sharp as ever, huh?” She smiled at you with the most faux politeness.

“Well, some things never change.” And you returned her smile with a similarly fake one.

Thankfully, your parents were done chatting with some of their friends. So you said your goodbyes to her with a tight smile and walked back to your parents. Not before you let out a little chuckle to yourself hearing her scoff behind your back.

“Oh, you met Mrs. Wilson, huh? I hope you were nice.” Your mother asked in a concerned voice, knowing your long, tumultuous history with her. 

Well, maybe you would've had a better relationship with her like the rest of your neighbors, who adore you! If only she didn't insult your fashion choices since you were a baby, and if her daughter didn't spend the entirety of high school trying to compete with you. Then maybe—actually never mind, you cannot be nice to a woman like her. 

“Yep, I was on my best behavior!” Your smile sure didn't say so, and your mother knew that too. At least your father understood your hatred for that woman. And thankfully he still does, given the fist bump he offered you. 

“You two are going to kill me one day. Anyway, we are going to the sauna. Do you want to come with us?” She sighed, tired of you and your father's dislike for the woman who happens to be a big source of your mother's neighborhood gossip.

“Sauna with you two and your friends? Absolutely not.” You'd rather sit in a scorching hot room full of old people who've seen you in your diaper, like any sane person.

“Alright, but the Getos wanted to meet you.” The Geto family lived right across from you. They happened to be your parents’ probably closest friends here. You and their son, Suguru, grew up together. You two have been childhood friends who always had a mutual respect for each other because of your mutual disdain for Mrs. Wilson and Summer. 

“I'll say hello to them after you guys are done or just drop by their place later.” You adored them the best out of all your neighbors. After all, they've been nothing but kind to you growing up. You've spent a lot more time in Suguru's front yard than your own. 

“Alright. We'll let you know when we are done.” You and your parents always had very different ideas about most situations.

“Huh? I can't just go home?” Where your parents wanted you to engage in some social and recreational activities, you wanted to go back to your bed.

“No. Either do something or come to the sauna with us.” At this point it felt like your mother just wanted you to be humiliated in the sauna more than anything.

“Sure, threatening your fully grown-up daughter is the best method of parenting.” The way you were sighing made you sound more like an angsty teenager than anything.

“If you were actually a grown-up adult, we wouldn't have to lecture you like this.” God forbid you get snarky and your mother lets you get away with it.

“Jeez, I'll find something to do.” No one can really argue with your mother, so guess you better find something interesting enough to do while your parents get cooked in the sauna.

“Don't cause any trouble, sweetie!” Your father said, loudly enough from behind you, that made you pick up your pace out of the dining hall. Twenty or seventy-two, they'll never stop embarrassing you on purpose.

“Not a kid, oh my god.” You speed-walked past the pool, full of teenagers and old people. Mumbling to yourself, like some sort of reassurance.

No one you know will ever call you childish or anything but mature. Except for your parents, they'd say you're still a kid. And maybe they are right; you don't really feel like an adult, nor do you feel like a kid. It's a weird limbo of being in your 20s, the supposedly best years of your life, just passing by in vain and emptiness.

The country club truly looked better than ever. The playground for the kids looked like it had been through some major improvement. The pool was now bigger; even the kids' pool was better than what you remember flapping around in. The path around the lake, by the garden, looked newly paved. And the golf course was just as vast but greener than ever.

But all of that did not meet the requisite of your interests. What interested you was beyond the pool, adjacent to the garden, and right before the golf course started. 

It was the tennis court where you spent the majority of your childhood, where you met Geto Suguru. And immediately decided you have to win everything where you face him off, because otherwise he will just tease you to death. You learned your lesson when you lost one friendly match to him the day you met, and that too only on the second day of your tennis journey. And suddenly the reserved new kid on the block was a smug little shit.

‘Maybe you never had to try hard enough, but you'll have to, if you want to win against me.’ Was what he said, if you remember correctly.

Since then you've been great friends. But it was either you tried not to compete against him or made sure to grind in secrecy to not give him even the smidge of a chance to tease you. 

You wish your friendship with Suguru stayed as it was when you guys were kids. Playing in his front yard, getting ice cream after school, going to the beach, and pulling pranks on Mrs. Wilson. You wish some things just never changed. But you can't really say you two are on unfriendly terms now or anything; you still get a text or call from him here and there, and you make sure to always text him back and call him if any opportunity arises. You've met up with him from time to time. And you often hear about him through your parents, and you're sure he also hears likewise. 

So it doesn't feel like you truly lost a friend to your shitty teenage hormones and the span of time. But you sure feel sorry for the both of you. Neither of you had a good time in highschool, it was very similar emotions you both were going through. But you two were dealing with them in your own unique and respectively different ways. Where he chose to completely shut himself away, you chose to try so hard to fit into places you never felt like you belonged. 

It was only after you came back home during Christmas after getting into college that you guys reconciled.

You are glad you met Suguru that day as a kid; otherwise, maybe you wouldn't have ever gone through with your tennis lessons. If only Suguru were there to race you to the pool, you'd have been a state-level swimmer by now. 

The tennis court was empty. In the heat of a summer afternoon, with the sun at its peak, it was obvious only a fool would be on a tennis court. Thankfully there wasn't another fool like you anywhere around.

And since the net was so nicely tied up, the equipment was there looking like it had just been cleaned, and you needed something to pass your time—why not take advantage of the situation? To check your rusty tennis skills and how well your new sunscreen worked. Whether or not you were about to come out looking like a sun-dried tomato depended on it. After all, summer will be here for a while, and so will you.

The neon green ball bounced off the ground and back into your palm easily, just as easily as it flew up in the air and then collided with your racket. It made a snappy sound as it spanned across the court. The ball went to hit the fence on the opposite side. You felt the sweat dripping down your temples, the ball rolled around on the ground, and you felt like something within you finally stirred up after a long while. 

The number of neon balls started to gather on the opposite side of the court, as well as around your feet, from a few missed serves. But it felt good to hear the sound of your heart beating with the sound of the ball hitting the racket.

But you can only serve a few bunches of balls in the air all by yourself without an opponent. So you tried to look for the ball-dispensing machine, which you never got around to figuring out, thanks to the always very helpful staff. But given the time, everyone must be busy serving or helping out for lunch. 

Yet you walked out of the court anyway to find someone to help you out with the machinery. And just behind the court, under a tree, just at the beginning of the golf course, you found a golf cart. To be more specific, you found a man leaning back in the driver's seat of the cart, with his hands behind his head, looking beat and exhausted.

He had a baseball cap covering his face, his white pearly hair was shining in the sun, and a single drop of sweat slowly streamed down his neck, along with his prominent veins, very cinematically. Even though you couldn't see his face, you could tell this guy was not from here; maybe he recently moved or something, or he was visiting for the summer and making some cash. Either way, you felt this intrigue bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you stared at his bulging biceps and the sheen of sweat at the end of his rolled-up sleeves around his shoulders. 

‘Get a grip, jeez.’ 

You had to warn yourself before walking up to him. Each step you took felt heavier than before; for some weird reason, now you are thinking twice about asking the hot golf cart driver for some help.

“Um, hey?” You finally reached beside the cart and leaned just close enough to his ears. And when your barely audible voice didn't get to him, you had to summon up the courage to speak up.

“Excuse me?” This time the guy jerked up in his seat. The baseball cap fell from his face to his lap, and one of his sleeves rolled down to cover up his bicep because of his sudden movements. 

“Yeah?” Now that you could get a clear look at him, you could feel the tightening knots in your stomach getting worse. Not only did his body look so much better up close, but his build also looked bigger than what you imagined from afar, and his face, oh boy. 

How to start? The root of his pearly hair was damp with sweat, coming off as a darker shade of something in between white and gray compared to the rest of his fluffy hair blowing in the hot summer winds. His eyes were squinted from the sudden change in lighting, but you could see the sunlight reflecting in his blue pupils. There was a layer of sweat accumulated above his upper lip, and you had to conjure up everything to not reach out and wipe it away.

“Hi, uh, I needed some help.” You pointed back at the tennis court behind you with your free hand, and the racket in your other hand came to cover the front of your legs, like some sort of shield from the unfamiliar worker’s eyes. Which made it no secret that they were raking up your body from toe to toe, probably wondering why the fuck you are playing tennis in this heat.

“Oh sure!” He quickly jumped off the cart, leaving the cart to wobble from the sudden movements and lack of weight. 

He took maybe three long strides, and he was already almost at the tennis court, while you were still standing with the empty cart, looking at the silhouette of his thick thighs in those basketball shorts. 

“You comin’?” He called out for you from the entrance of the court, flashing you a toothy grin, waiting for you to reach him there instead of entering the grounds all by himself. You quickly yelled a yes and ran up to him, giggling at your half-effort running. 

You walked into the court, choosing to blame the sudden rise in heat on the sun above your heads. He followed suit obediently, ending up in front of the ball dispenser. 

“So, could you help me start this thing? I don't know how to work this thing.” You explained to the man, hoping for some help.

“Alright. Let's see, did you try turning it on, or did it suddenly stop or something?” He crouched down on the ground to sit on his left knee on the ground. Looking around the machine and toying with the buttons at the side that you also pressed, you were also met with nothing. He inspected the machine further to find any other way to start it, even kicking it a few times.

“Yeah. This thing is definitely broken.” He gets up to now stand facing you, with his hands on his hips, defeated. 

You sighed, all disappointed, but then again it made sense why the tennis court was completely empty. He looked at your face for a bit, contemplating whether or not he should blurt out what he is thinking about offering.

“Uh, I could play against you instead!” He walked up to the rest of the equipment under the shade and picked up a racket and spun it in his hands. 

“Are you sure? I'm not interrupting you, right?” You were happy to hear his offer, but you also didn't want him to get scolded by his boss or something.

“Oh please, it's my pleasure!” Maybe this was part of the service. 

“Alright then, you serve.”

“Gladly.”

 You threw the ball across the net at him, and he caught it without any hesitation.

He slightly bent down to position for his serve as you walked up to your post and got in position as well. He made the ball touch the racket three times before jumping up in the air and served the ball like an experienced and in-practice player. The ball flew right by your head and hit the ground outside of the boundary.

“Surely you didn't call me here to lose to me, did’ya?” A smug smirk stretched on his lips. And it irked you. In a different way than Suguru, sure, you still wanted to beat his ass in the game, but it did more for you than just aggravate you. That tightening sensation in your abdomen was back. 

“No, I called you here to eat shit.” But god forbid you let yourself lose a match against some smug smart ass.

“Oh, ho ho, feisty, aren't we?” He chuckled at your shit talk. You sure didn't look like the type to shit-talk in that pretty white dress, with the wind flowing by you, asking him so politely to help with the ball dispenser.

He didn't get a time to register when you even served the ball; he was expecting another sharp reply. Instead he somehow managed to hit it back, and this time the ball stayed in the air for a while. Until you rushed forward and jumped up in the air and pushed the ball down with as much force as you could, one of his knees bent, and he slid forward to get the ball. Unfortunately, his focus went from the ball to you—the way your pretty white dress hugged you and how the skirt flipped up in the air when you made that jump, exposing more of your thighs and a glimpse of your also white panties and the little lace trim on them. This need started to brew within him, and he couldn't pinpoint what it exactly was; he is not some horny teenager, after all. And so the ball crossed the net and hit the ground, making his efforts useless. 

“Huh, so you're not just all talk.” 

“I am not the one running his tongue here.”

“Uh huh? We'll see who's left tongue-tied at the end then.”

“Yeah, you'd know more about that, since you're losing.” 

And with a chuckle from him, you were in your position, legs spread out, racket in between your legs, ready for whatever he's about to throw your way.

Let's say you were far from tongue-tied even though you just lost.

“No, you were clearly out of the boundary there.” You walked up to the net, ready to swing your racket at him.

“Alright, alright, don't make up things now like a sore loser.” His racket fell out of his hands and landed on the ground as he walked towards the middle of the court. Meeting you behind the net. 

“Sweets, please, you just could not keep up with me; it's ok to admit defeat.” That smile on his face, you wanted to smack it off, but not really.

“This one doesn't count!” You pulled the racket up to his face, not even cognizant of what you were doing at this point, blinded by the fury from your loss. “Alright, sure. Rematch then?” He grabbed the head of your racket and pulled you closer towards him; the net clung to your body, and you could feel his body against yours, with the barrier of the tennis court net between you two.

And you wish you had something to say. But you were finally tongue-tied.

“Satoru!” 

Both of your heads turned towards the source of the voice, ever so familiar to both of you. Thankfully the distant silhouette of Suguru walking up to the court finally had you push away from the stranger's body. This guy you've known for mere hours, apparently named Satoru, suddenly had you at your wit's end. And somehow you had thanked Geto Suguru for interrupting your game, a first for everything, truly.

As Suguru walked up to the both of you, his usual furrowed eyebrows shot up to see you standing there looking clueless, with a racket in your hands. And he rushed his step a little more to get to you.

“And what are you doing here, huh?” His hands reached out in a fist. Which you gladly bumped in acknowledgement, and he instantly pulled you in for a hug. With one arm around your shoulders and another on top of your head, patting it, like he always did.

“Should've told me you're visiting. I saw you like months ago; you weren't even here for Christmas last year.” Suguru kept blabbering with you in his embrace, finally letting you go when you tapped on his chest to let you go for some air.

“You have to lose this habit, Sugu.” You two pulled away with a smile on your faces, glad to be running into each other after a while. It has been just texts and calls for the last few months, since your degree absolutely fucked you over, and so did your boyfriend and your friend. 

“So what, you're here with your loser boyfriend?” Suguru placed an arm around your shoulders, and his smile started dimming down as he saw your genuine smile getting replaced with a tight, awkward one.

“Yeah, oh god, about that.” You explained to Suguru the whole situation with your ex-boyfriend and ex-friend, as his face started contorting in rage. 

All the while, Satoru stood behind you two, leaning on the net between the courts; your hushed voices were barely audible to his ears. But one thing was clear to him: his best friend and this pretty stranger he just met a few hours ago sure had a great bond. The sort of friendship where even when you don't talk for months, you can see each other and hug instantly and spill your guts without any hesitation. Somewhere he felt a little envious, or left out maybe, unsure what it exactly was. The fact that his best friend had someone besides him whom he relied on so heavily, or the fact that you were smiling at Suguru with such ease. But then again, he literally just met you, and he's already getting ahead of himself. He doesn't even know your name yet.

Once you were done calming down a very angry and cursing Suguru, offering to beat up your ex, you finally noticed Satoru leaning on the net. And your eyes lingered on his, staring into each other's eyes, with something dense between you two, beyond physical and comprehensive explanations.

Suguru finally realized Satoru's presence, the reason why he ended up here anyway. And walked up to him, who was still staring at you instead of shifting his focus to Suguru. You felt pinned to where you stood, incapable of any movements under his gaze.

“You dumbass, you said you were going to take a break for a few minutes, and you disappeared for hours!” Suguru smacked his forehead, and finally his focus shifted from you as he got busy pouting and rubbing his forehead. So you used this opportunity to walk up to the benches to grab your bag, take out the water bottle, and check your phone. But even then, Satoru's gaze discreetly followed you there while also trying to give Suguru his attention. 

“Oh, come on, it wasn't thaaaat long, and your parents left for the spa; why would I stay there and get my ass beaten up by you?” So there was another person beside you who would rather back out than go against Geto Suguru; it was somewhat comforting to know.

“Alright, sure. Anyway, how come you two are here? Together?” Suguru looked back at you and then again at Staoru.

“Oh, I was looking for a staff member, and he was just out there. Honestly I did not expect a golf cart driver to be much help to me anyway but—”

“Woah, wait, sweets, what do you mean?” 

He stood up straight and had to cut you off. Because something about what you were saying told him that there was a bit of a misunderstanding here.

“And I was going to say this earlier as well: should you be speaking to a club member like this?” You walked up to the both of them and stood beside Suguru, looking a little disappointed at Satoru.

“Huh?” Genuine confusion poured out of his voice.

“I mean, as an employee here, you should—”

“Wait, wait, wait. So you actually think I work here?” He pointed a finger at himself and looked at you with confusion and dejection. So you've fucked up the calculation here, it seems. 

“Oh, this is hilarious to me.” Suguru chimed in, hands folded over his chest, enjoying the mystery of Satoru's identity unfolding. Smirking to himself, enjoying his best friend's humiliation.

“I mean, you look like it. With the white polo and shorts and those sneakers with socks. In this weather, on top of it.” You tried to contain your smile while describing his outfit; it looked exactly like what some of the part-time, non-uniform-wearing employees wore to come off as more friendly.

“SEE! I told you, you look fucking stupid, Satoru!” Suguru’s voice shot up, and he pointed his index finger at Satoru in an accusatory tone. One you knew oh so well, the ‘Hah! I told you so!’ tone, and you felt bad for throwing Satoru in a situation you've hated being in in the past.

“I thought it was a good golf outfit, ok? I’M SORRY!” Satoru, in return, comically gestured at his attire to make a point for Suguru. If this whole exchange wasn't so funny, you'd have felt really bad for him.

“Yeah, and then you sucked at it on top of your horrible outfit. His father is so good at golf you'd think he'd be good as well.” Suguru looked at you, trying to put up a picture of Satoru's poor skills regarding anything golf.

“Shut up. Also, you have a lot to say for someone who made the same amount of holes as me.”

“That's because I am tired.”

“Excuses.”

Suddenly you were now a key witness for a whole crime that was about to take place; it felt like they were about to throw hands any moment. Fortunately, your phone, along with Suguru's phone, buzzed in your respective pockets. And even before checking, you both knew it was your parents. 

“They're done, so should we head inside?” Suguru placed the phone back in his pocket after checking the text. 

You nodded and gathered your bag to meet up with your parents and the Getos, along with the two men you ran into through a series of unexpected happenings. On the way, Suguru introduced you and Satoru to each other. You gave Satoru your name and a gist of how you grew up with Suguru. In return, you got to know that his full name was Gojo Satoru.

“I mean, I sort of know you already.” His side slightly bumped into yours as Suguru led you two into the building. You tilted your head in confusion, not sure where you even ran into someone this outstandingly gorgeous and then forgot about him. That's not possible; he doesn't have a forgettable face, even for someone like you who forgets people's names and faces really quickly. You were sure if you ever saw him, you wouldn't have forgotten him. If you ever walked past him on a busy street, even then you'd remember him.

“Well, Suguru talks about you sometimes, so it feels like I kind of know you already.” 

You didn't know what was the cause of the fluttering sensation in your chest, the fact that Suguru cares about you enough that you get brought up in his conversations, or the gorgeous smile that Satoru threw after what he said, or was it simply what he said? 

There have been plenty of times someone said they felt like they'd known you for a longer time than how long they actually knew you. And it always irked you to think someone you don't even know thinks they know you, presumably, well enough. Yet in this case you didn't feel that, maybe because he's Suguru's friend. But this wouldn't have been the first time you didn't like one of his friends, so that was not the case. 

Maybe he was just some strange exception.

On your way back home, at dinner, after dinner, during breakfast the next morning—all your brain was occupied with was nothing but Gojo Satoru. 

I mean, what choice did you have left when your parents wouldn't stop singing his praises? Truly simple they are. The whole story about how you thought he was a staff member was a hit. That, accompanied by some flirting with your mother and some bad dad jokes with your father, and now suddenly he is their favorite person ever.

If there was a tier list, surely it's Gojo Satoru, then Geto Suguru, only because he has broken a lot of your windows while playing catch as a kid, and lastly you. And you cannot argue with them. The man sure has his charms and knows how to use them. 

Now that you are just standing by your window, with no one to influence your opinions or thoughts, you cannot help but go back to thinking about that man. For once you wanted to open your windows during the day, in hopes of catching a glimpse of something. Or someone, but you were still too stubborn to admit that to yourself.

But you still were fortunate enough to find what you were exactly looking for. 

Satoru was in the Geto residence’s driveway, right across from your house, visibly clear from your windows. In a tank top that had a Sonic X logo in the middle, which was soaked in sweat and soap water. There were bubbles around his forehead, and his bangs were clumped up and wet. The sheen of the off-white car covered in soapy water reflected an angelic light and all the colors of the rainbow all over him. It was flashy and ridiculously expensive-looking, most probably imported from somewhere, flashier than most of your neighbor's cars, but it really suited him. 

There was nothing remarkable about what he was doing; he was washing his car. And yet, to you it was somehow the most fascinating thing you've seen since you came back home, or maybe in years. 

The shape of his muscles was making outlines in his tight-fitting, drenched top. That silly Sonic X logo somehow made him look cuter. And all it did was make your eyes drag upwards from there, towards the platinum chain sitting on his collarbones. It lay flat around the curve of his neck, and the taut muscles there, as he moved his arms back and forth to clean the car, the chain moved along with his movements. Bouncing off his skin to sit curved on his collarbones again and again.

His teeth grazed his bottom lip from time to time, but his eyebrows and eyes did not show any signs of frustration. How he was just standing in the sweltering sun, in a soggy tank top and shorts clinging to his body, soap all over him, hair semi-wet in that said water and sweat—it was beyond you. But you just could not look away from him.

But maybe the intensity of your eyes reached his skin better than the sun. He looked up from his car, right towards your house, and after a second, his eyes found your window. And also you, standing in the window, shocked to be found caught red-handed, not doing anything bad, but also nothing you were proud of. 

Satoru's unoccupied hand moved up to wave at you with a sweet smile. And you malfunctioned. Instead of waving back at him like a normal person would, you hid behind your curtains. With a heaving chest, you stood there until you felt the heat rising up your body, going down. When you peeked outside, still hiding behind your curtains, you saw him leaning down on the car, with his arms folded under him, head tilted and eyes still directed towards your windows. 

Now you certainly could not just come out and wave a hi back at him. So you did the sensible act of ducking down on the floor to crawl all the way to your door. You remained on the floor until you could shit your bedroom door behind you, and when you did so, your back went against it. For some support to get back up on your two feet, and even then it felt like it was impossible. 

Your heartbeat was racing, and your entire body was burning up in a blaze. 

Out of precaution, your windows remained shut for the rest of the day. And you kept your face buried in your pillows, trying to process the sudden influx of emotions that you were feeling. Unfamiliar and few feelings that people usually feel way earlier in their lives, and yet here you were, early in your twenties. It was not your fault you wasted the majority of your college life on some guy whom you only kept around because you were too scared. Too scared to be left behind and forgotten, you just did not want to be lonely. Even if that meant surrounding yourself with people you knew didn't give a shit about you. It somehow worked in high school, so naturally you thought it'd work out in university.

And now, slightly more mature and a little more comfortable with your own company, you found a strange guy who made you feel strange things. 

It was a strange day altogether. Since you offered to accompany your parents to the club without being pressured. Even they were caught off guard, but there was no way they were about to fumble this with snarky comments. They will save it to throw them at you later at dinner.

It was a pleasant Saturday; if you ignore everything that happened by your window, a perfect day to go out to brunch instead of your usual coffee and toast breakfast before bed rotting. And after the events that happened earlier, you needed to get out, feel the warm wind blowing right in your face, and maybe forget how embarrassing the whole exchange was, if you can even call it that. 

“Oh goodness, fancy running into you guys!” Your mother suddenly spoke out, looking towards the door behind you. 

A part of you was too busy and too delighted by the waffles in front of you to mind your mother's words. While the rest of you already knew who these people could possibly be. Even though you reassured yourself that the Geto family usually doesn't come here on Saturdays, you were still dreading the possibility. And here you were, stumped and with a mouth full of waffles, about to be embarrassed for the second time in a day in less than 12 hours. A new record! 

Chimes of good mornings came from behind you, first in Mr. and Mrs. Geto’s voices, then Suguru's voice, and lastly a very cheerful greeting by the one person you did not want to see today. Everyone was chatting as usual as they took a seat at your table. You also said your greetings to them, trying to not make eye contact with Satoru at all costs, even when you could feel his eyes on you as he sat down directly opposite to you. 

“What a rare sight to see Miss holed-up-in-her-room.” Mr. Geto jokes. 

“These days even vampires need some sun.” As stupid as the joke was, Mr. Geto came down with a boisterous laugh. He has always been an easy audience to please, or maybe it's his bias towards you.

“You two and your stupid jokes.” Suguru grumbled beside you, never a big fan of your and his father's sense of humor.

The table fell into an easy conversation. You caught up a bit more with the Getos, as you didn't get to see them after lunch the other day. And your parents seemed more fascinated by Satoru. Honestly, it was surprising to see your parents having this much interest in an individual your age, other than Geto Suguru. What was weirder was how well Satoru just got along with them, talking about whatever nonsense that is the stock market and business. You presume that his family is some big-shit conglomerate, surely. He found common ground with your mother about his fascination for art, even going as far as naming her art pieces that are his favorites. What a strange, strange man. 

You have had an array of people around you over the years—friends from school, college, and some neighborhood friends—and none of them ever got along with your parents this well, except for Geto Suguru. They couldn't stand your high school friends, they warned you about your college friends, and they never warmed up to your boyfriend. You never officially introduced him, just that they unfortunately visited at a time he was also dropping by. Maybe you were wrong; maybe even they picked up on how miserable you have been regardless of a shitty boyfriend or not, given how much they visited in the last 6 months.

And now that you are back here, at this noisy table, this feels alright. It felt like home, and it felt safe, around people you care about. With the addition of a man who just aroused weird feelings within you, weird and incomprehensible. But it was also just a summer; it'll pass, it'll be gone in mere weeks. 

It was just a normal and nice Saturday brunch until you felt something creeping up on your legs. It didn't feel like an insect or something; it was distinctly the shape of someone's toes. And the only possible answer to who it might be was sitting right across from you. His face was turned towards your father, with his eyes occasionally drifting to the corners to take unnoticeable glances at you. The way one of his hands was placed on top of the table and his other was perched on top of the back of his chair—no one could suspect anything unusual about him or what he was doing right under this table.

“You ok?” Suguru asked, seeing how suddenly you froze up, occasionally twitching in your seat. His toes were trying to map out the plain field, which was your legs. They tangled themselves in the strap of your sandals, which wrapped around your ankle, pulling on them tentatively and snapping them right back lightly, but the sensation could only be described as so good. 

“Yeah. Just tired.” Suguru didn't look like he bought your excuse, but he was never someone to get involved in your business if you didn't want him to, so he went back to the book he was reading. And who honestly does that at a busy table like this? Anyway,

As Satoru's foot glided upwards, from your shin to the side of your knees and right between where your legs crossed. To prevent any further invasion of his foot. Yet you could still feel his toes scraping against the skin over the front of your thighs. Trying to dip between the gap where your thighs pressed together. And it didn't really try to probe in between them, just going up and down there, teasing you, barely giving anything, with hints of everything lying thick in the air. 

And it was frustrating to sit there and take it all and to not let your legs open up themselves willingly. What was more frustrating was just when your legs were about to fall apart and open up, after trembling on their own, pressed together, to aid the feeling pooling in the bottom of your stomach, he swiftly pulled away his foot. 

All while talking to your parents like the most ideal man out there. Like he is not trying to get in between their daughter's legs. The audacity of this man really amazed you, looking at the smile on his face, it's impossible even for the gods to realize what a sinister man he is. And honestly, these are the people you always have made sure to stay away from; cunning and charming was not something you were equipped to deal with. 

But that scheming smile and those side glances across from you, boy, were fun. 

“What is wrong with you?” You managed to corner Satoru before heading home. Making up some dumb excuse about leaving behind your hat (which you didn't even wear) to catch him before he could get to the men's restroom. Let the others wait for the two of you, thinking you were busy doing your own thing, while here you were trying to interrogate Gojo Satoru.

“I would like to think everything is perfectly fine with me.” He simply smiled at you, with either of his hands on his hips.

“No, I know you are fine—I mean—that you are—you know that is not what I am talking about!” It was all utterly cringe-worthy, the way it slipped past your lips, making you wish to bury yourself.

“Yeah? Maybe I am more interested in talking about how fine you think I am.” He walked a step closer to you, making you take a step backwards.

“Don't twist my words.” You dig your index finger into his chest, somehow his hard yet supple chest. You take the step forward that you backed away from, but he did not budge from where he was standing.

“Why would I? I’m not the one playing games here now, am I?” Satoru's head tilted to the right, and his face dipped slightly downwards to look you properly in the eyes. And when you had no answers to give, was it that you were lost about what he was exactly asking or lost in his eyes? It cannot be said for sure which it was.

“So why did you ignore me this morning?” At first you were dumbfounded about what he was even talking about, then the embarrassing moment you had by your windows came crashing down on you.

“I—I don't know. What do you mean?” You did your best to look him in the eyes while also trying to lie through your teeth.

“I mean, when you were checking me out this morning and when I waved at you, you just ignored me!” His eyebrows frowned a bit, and his lips jutted in a pout. If you were not digging a mental hole to bury yourself out of embarrassment, then you'd have rather shamelessly just admired how adorable he looked. 

“It's just that, I was—” “You were…?” 

“I was looking at the car you were washing! Yeah! It didn't look like, uh, what the Getos drive, so... yeah.” You've made bad excuses before and lied like a pro even, yet in this moment you felt like a criminal trying to get away from being convicted. 

“Uh huh? You liked my car then?” Satoru narrowed his eyes at you, and his hands, which remained on his hips this entire time, added to what his eyes were saying—liar. But you nodded a yes with a tight smile, and suddenly instead of interrogating him, you were the one being interrogated.

“What color was it?”

“Huh?”

“My car. What color was it?”

For the love of everything, you could not remember what the hell the color of his car was! Sure, he could've asked you what the color of his shorts was, or the logo on his tank top, that mole under his left eye, or the dip between his collarbones, or perhaps the exact hex code for the color of his eyes—but he had to go and ask you about that stupid-ass car. 

You knew you were fucked, and he knew he had you cornered. For that one step you took forward a few seconds ago, you now had to take two steps back, while he took three steps forward. Your whole charade was up, and your petty crush on your childhood friend's best friend was about to be aired out, and you were about to be embarrassed into the ground. You were sure this is it, but thank God for Geto Suguru, for once in your life, maybe. Your true angel in disguise!

“Oi! What’s taking you two so long?” Suguru asked while walking towards you two through the hallway, at the end of which you were being interrogated by Gojo Satoru.

“Oh! Satoru got lost, so I was helping him! It’s fine now. Let's go!” You enthusiastically said while walking towards Suguru in a hurry. Because if you spent another second around Satoru, you'd lose your mind. 

You pushed Suguru’s back to make him walk away from the hallway, because another second here and he would start interrogating as well. So you pushed a reluctant and suspicious Suguru from behind, leaving a disappointed Satoru to follow your two’s lead outside. And mumbled to himself while looking at your back—

liar.

Since then, you did your best to avert the topic of conversation whenever Satoru tried to bring up your wandering eyes. Being in his close proximity was hard, especially when Suguru was not there. So you made sure he was always there when you were getting involved with Satoru. And yet there were always these moments that made you remember why you sometimes just cannot stand Suguru and his audacity.

“Y’wanna go to Lewis’ party this Saturday?” Suguru casually raised the question while still looking at his phone. Ignoring whatever silly flirting you and Satoru were doing, mostly him looking at you with heart eyes and you getting red like a beet at his little comments here and there. The horrible summer sun was already in the middle of the sky, and the tennis court itself felt like a frying pan. 

So here you three were, drenched in sweat and clad in shorts and loose shirts, sitting under the apricot tree near the tennis court, pressed between the two men. The same tree under which you found Satoru, made assumptions in your head, and dubbed him as a hot new cart driver.

“He still does those?” You looked at Suguru while ignoring Satoru’s finger poking your cheek from your other side. 

“Yeah, he still does, every summer. The dedication of that guy.” Suguru scoffed to himself and finally put his phone down to look at you after quickly throwing Satoru a side eye. 

“Who is this guy?” Satoru’s head suddenly was right beside yours; his body was basically leaning into yours.

“Just some guy we went to school with; he throws these big parties every summer. He can be pretty douchey, though.” Suguru paused a second to think to himself before looking between you two and continuing with a smirk. 

“Yeah, and this hotshot here dated him in high school.” Suguru’s hand landed on top of your head, slightly shaking it and patting it. And your own hands went to his wrist to shove it off you with a scoff.

“Oh please, it was like 5 months or less.” You rolled your eyes while leaning away from Suguru's hands; they can mess anyone up easily. “And it was nothing. Just some stupid summer fling.” 

You looked over at Satoru briefly to gauge his reaction while simultaneously trying to ignore Suguru's teasing. It was honestly never the best idea to date the local party thrower; it meant everyone was up in your business. It was rough after the breakup, because not only did random people come up to you asking questions and being rude, but Lewis chased you around for another two weeks persistently. Thankfully he never had the best attention span. 

You looked at Satoru with eyes that said, ‘please do not think I have bad taste!’ 

It was a lot to ask of Satoru when he did not even know the guy, and you did not know why you felt like you had to justify anything. After all, aren't you two just friends through a mutual connection? It did not feel right to watch Satoru stare at you and Suguru with a blank face while Suguru teased you about some stupid high school ex. But it also didn't feel right for Satoru to feel this bubbling jealousy within him, hearing about your old relationship with this guy you might potentially see tonight, whom you've known longer than you've known him.

“No, I get it. Sounds like a fun guy, huh?” Satoru's tone from earlier flattened just a notch. Not really noticeable to most people, but you and Suguru knew. You've known Satoru for barely a week and a half, and you've come to notice little changes in his voice almost the same way Suguru can notice them. The difference is, you use them as a cue to change topics to something that'll lift his spirits, while Suguru doubles down on things.

“Oh, the most fun guy ever! He threw gummy bears in his pool and timed himself on how fast he could fish out as many of them using just his mouth.” Suguru’s back went against the tree bark in a fit of laughter with a thud, remembering exactly what finally gave you the ick to break up with him. A mouthful of pool water and half-chewed gummies. 

“Yeah, I am going to sit this one out. You guys have fun.” You rolled your eyes at Suguru, who was still laughing like a maniac, and stood up while dusting off your skirt.

“Huh, why? ‘ Cause he might try to smooch you with a mouth full of gummies and pool water again?” And Suguru was back to laughing like it could be a threat to his lungs.

Without any more words, because there were none to defend yourself for dating a frat guy and expecting an intellectual and respectable relationship out of it. You walked away after waving Satoru a goodbye and ignoring Suguru, who was by that point on the grass, tired from giving himself a one-man comedy show.

“She was looking forward to going out this weekend. Do you think she'll be ok?” Satoru asked Suguru while his eyes were trained on you walking on the grass. 

“Yeah. She will be fine.” Suguru knew you better than him, so Satoru should barely doubt his words, but he couldn't help but needlessly worry when you didn't even look much bothered about the party other than the fact that Suguru just outed your dating history. 

“If she's not, you can always check on her.” Suguru stood up and, similarly to you, dusted his shorts before extending an arm towards him. 

Satoru did not say anything more to that, just grabbed onto his hand and stood back up on his feet. There was a silent understanding in the air that Suguru knew whatever Satoru was feeling. Suguru’s hand went up to his shoulder and placed itself there with a sharp slap. Satoru looked to his right and saw Suguru's eyes sharp and unforgiving, not his usual sly, half-smiling, kind eyes. 

“If you do anything stupid or hurt her, it's on sight.” Satoru let out a wheezing laugh and placed his own hand on Suguru's shoulder while looking him in the eye. 

“You got it.”

That's all they needed to speak on this. Any more, and Suguru would punch him square in the jaw unprovoked. It was not that Suguru was expecting him to sweep you off your feet or anything, and he knew Satoru was far from some prince charming. But he respects you two and trusts you, and despite his lifelong protective urges towards you, you were now a grown adult who was more than capable of making her own decisions, and he wanted to respect that. As long as Satoru didn't do anything stupid. Like that recent ex of yours, because when you go back on campus after the vacation, you might hear a thing or two about his fucked-up face or a neck collar. 

Not that it had anything to do with Suguru, surely.

In the blink of your eyes, almost three weeks have gone by since you came back here. And two weeks since you met Gojo Satoru. 

It was already Saturday night, and you were rotting in your bed as usual, trying to forget about the party that you truly had no will to go to. But somehow you could not help but let your mind wander there. Wondering how many people showed up, whether Suguru and Satoru were having a good time, and if Satoru found someone other than Suguru to talk to there. Which you assume he definitely did; he practically befriended everyone on your street, he is a favorite of the retired people at the country club, and he just blended right in with everyone.

It was one of those few summers you will be looking back at with a fond smile. All the parties you three crashed, all the nights you snuck away to the beach in Satoru’s off-white Maserati, all that weed you three burnt away in your room, the day when Suguru was cleaning up the garage and found the little inflatable pool in which you two used to play. It was hilarious for everyone to see three fully grown kids smooshed up in a little kids’ pool, splashing water at each other. 

You have come to love the little watermelon plant that spontaneously shot up from the ground in your backyard, exactly where you three were shooting watermelon seeds with your mouths to see who could get the furthest. You got the flimsy little plant a support stake and made sure to water it every day because you did not want it to wither away in this summer heat. 

Speaking of the summer heat, it seemed as though the weather started getting hotter from last night. When usually things cooled down after the sun set, everything your skin touched was sweating if the air conditioner was not on. And given the occasion tonight, you figured it was best to spend the entire Saturday at home. In the comfort of your bedroom, behind locked windows and doors, with the only source of light and noise being your laptop. 

That was until the wind outside your windows started picking up. It made you feel some relief that it was not going to be a streak of horrible hot days. 

The wind swung by your windows, making swishing noises and rattling the glass doors to your balcony. It made you want to shift your focus from the mind-numbing show playing on your screen to whatever that was going on outside. The swinging trees, sharp wind, dark red hued clouds in the night sky, Satoru trying to climb over your balcony railing, spark of lightning and faint sound of thunder-

Oh, wait, let's backtrack. Did you just see that correctly? Was Gojo Satoru trying to climb into your balcony? Because who else could be in that baby blue cotton shirt and bouncy tuft of white hair? 

You rushed out of your bed, in your short shorts and tank top, probably as old as the eye bags that started to form under your eyes when you got into university. But you could not bother about that, or the crumbs of chips all over your top, and your unkempt and unbrushed hair. You just needed to get to Satoru in time before his wobbling body fell from your balcony and broke some bones in his body. 

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” You grabbed onto his hand and pulled him towards you, then helped him jump over your balcony railings. 

“Climbing your tower, Rapunzel. Even though your hair looks more like a bird's nest than a rope.” He flashed you the whole set of his teeth at the end of his joke. Teasing you, trying to elicit a response out of you, as always.

“I will throw you off my balcony.” You deadpanned in return, ready to push him off, with your hands on his chest, pushing him ever so lightly to not actually make him lose his balance on the edge. He flew to catch yours and held onto them as he erupted into giggles, and the wind blew by his hair, getting it all over his eyes and face. And yet he still looked effortlessly gorgeous, as if that's exactly how it was supposed to look.

“Ok, ok, I just came here ‘cause I got bored at that party; the gummy bear guy lost his edge. It was just people pretentiously gathering around the pool and going, ‘Oh! Are you studying there? I am going here!’ and Suguru fled with some girl, so here I am.” Satoru sat down on the floor of your balcony, with his back against the railing. And pulled you down to sit right in front of him, facing him, with hands still held in his. 

“Also just missed ‘ya.” He said it with such ease and nonchalance, like it was the most obvious answer. It was just a simple little line that crossed more lines between you two than anything, boundaries that must exist in a friendship. All just gradually blurring out of existence. 

“Y’wanna go to the pool?” He says to break your train of thought to get rid of the questions and silence in the air. 

“You were just complaining about people gathering around a pool.”

“So? It was more of a critique of the crowd than the pool; the poor pool has seen some things—leave it alone!”

At this point your hands, which were in his grip, were forgotten. It was like the most natural thing. It feels as natural as pushing your glasses up on your head and forgetting about them.

“Ok, ok, but you want to swim in our pool in this weather? Also, I don't know when my parents last got it cleaned.” Since you came back, you've never once used that thing, and you were never exactly there to see when your parents’ pool boy came around to clean it. 

“Not your pool, silly!” He bounced your hands with his, making a ripple of movement in your entire upper body. “Then?” “I meant the one at the club.”

You just blinked and watched him. With a smile on his face, he did not look one bit hesitant about his suggestion. And honestly, his idea made you want to rather check out how clean or not your pool is instead of trespassing on the property where your family was a regular.

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that without turning on alarms?” 

“I know the security code.” Your narrowed eyes did not look convinced with his answer. 

“How even—” “I play billiards with the general manager.” It did make sense for a social butterfly like Satoru himself to befriend the most terrifying guy in the entire club. The general manager was quite the grump; he was a nice old man. He helped you out of the pool once when you almost drowned because you wanted to join your then high school friends instead of being upfront about not knowing how to swim. The general manager later, when you seemed stable enough, scolded you while drying off your hair with a towel.

“That old man who is always annoyed at every living, breathing thing?”

“Yep. He said, I remind him of his late husband!” Which wasn't far off the mark; the general manager’s husband recently passed away from what you heard from our parents, leaving him to be more annoyed at everything. And Satoru had a similar, blasé positive energy radiating off of him. 

“So you seduced him!?” You jokingly said before pulling your hands out of his and moving to sit beside him, similar to him, with your back to the railing, knees under your chin, and thighs close to your chest.

“Nope. The only person I am trying to seduce is you.” Satoru’s head tilted to the side, and he kept looking at you. Recently, since he caught you checking him out while he was washing his car, his words and actions towards you have gotten bolder.

“Well….you should try harder.” You tried to lighten the tension in the air, which was now at least two or three degrees colder and felt suffocatingly hot, until he spoke up, still staring right into your eyes, with a faint trace of a smile on his lips, “I will.”

There was nothing more left to say after what he said, nothing, not even a joke to retaliate against the frustrating tension hanging heavy between you, making it impossible for you to breathe normally around Satoru.

“So! You're coming with me, or should I kidnap you?” You wish you could say no, but there was no refusing Gojo Satoru; that much you've learned about him clearly in these last couple of weeks.

As you looked out of the glass of the front window, exactly where the headlights of Satoru's car fell, on the side gate of the country club, only accessible by the employees. And yet here you were, getting dragged out of the soft leather seat of the car to sneak through that door with Satoru. Follow his steps closely from behind as he leads you to the pool by dragging you by your hand.

Without any word, Satoru let go of your hand once you two stepped on the paved concrete around the pool. Going straight to strip down to his boxers, his back muscles flexed with each step he took towards the pool. And some of the cold water in the pool splashed on you as he dived inside.

“You comin’ or what?” Satoru then intentionally splashed some water your way, absolutely drenched in the chloride-smelling water. 

“This is as far as I go.” You walked up to the edge of the pool and sat down with your legs in the water. It made you flinch at first, surprising you how quickly the water cooled down since the sun set. The water started to feel nicer around your skin as you watched Satoru do several laps in the water. 

He looked magnificent. One second he was at one end of the pool, and in the blink of an eye he was on the other side. It was easy to lose sight of him; he used the water to his advantage like a pro, which made you wonder if he did swimming back in school. How else was he able to hold his breath underwater so long that it had you worried enough to not notice his silhouette coming up to your legs and dragging you in the water?

“What are you—” You would have slapped his hands instantly off of your thighs if you knew what he was actually up to when they slithered up on them. Instead you were now in the cold chloride water, in Gojo Satoru's arms, trying to grab onto his shoulder and locking your legs around his waist.

It took you a few good minutes to acclimate yourself. With the cold water, and the feeling of drenched shorts and shirt, and especially the feeling that came from being in his arms. You could feel his body radiating heat even in the cold water and the vibrations that rumbled in his chest from laughing at the state of you, a clueless cat thrown off-guard in water.

“You, you're so dead.” His laughs only became deeper at your threats, and his arms tightened around your waist.

“Oh, c’mon, a little water never did anyone harm.” Satoru finally stopped laughing and just smiled at you; his gaze could not remain just on your eyes—they wavered. His pretty blue eyes scaled your face as if he were an archaeologist who just found a new artifact. 

And under the scrutiny of his eyes, you could not continue the banter. It was agonizing to have the little 3-inch gap between you two; it felt more like 3 miles. So you couldn't help but close that distance. Satoru had similar ideas, as he met you halfway through. 

His lips were everything and more that you ever imagined and dreamed of. 

They were soft, and they tasted faintly of those fruit candies he always crunched on: oranges, strawberries, lemons, and pineapples. And overall he oddly tasted of summer. Like the embodiment of everything you ever wanted from an ideal summer. As his lips slotted themselves with yours with more assurance after the first few pecks to measure the boundaries he could step on, you could feel the giddy tingles back in your stomach, shivers that prickled the back of your nape and ran down your spine, when his tongue pushed against yours. 

The hand that crept from your waist to your ass and pushed you up in his arms, your arms tightened around his neck, and one of your own hands went up his nape to his hair, the ends of which were now drenched in the pool water. And you wondered how you've been living without this, without kissing him silly the very day you met him, light tan and sweat covering his body, and just a cap to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. 

“Hey! Is someone there!?” 

You pushed away from him in a snap when the voice reached your ears. You had to push Satoru away by his shoulders to stop him from chasing your lips from the lack of their warmth on his. 

When the guard blew on his whistle, that's when his eyebrows shot up. You placed your index finger on his lips as you saw them part so his voice wouldn't confirm the security guard's suspicions. And he nodded his head once to let you know he won't. 

In a swift few seconds, Satoru swam to the edge of the pool, with you now in both of his arms, like a princess he needed to cradle close to his heart to keep her safe—you found it silly. The platform in the pool on which he was standing was barely five and a half feet deeper than the surface of the water. It was absolutely possible for you to walk to the edge by yourself, but you liked being in his arms. Even if the wiser thing to do in this situation would've been to separately make a run for it. 

Once you two were out of the pool, he grabbed onto your hand in one hand, took both of your shoes in another, and his clothes under his armpit, and then made a run for it. You both ran barefoot on the concrete and crushed the dewy grass under your feet.

“HEY! YOU TWO! STOP RIGHT THERE!” The guard tried to shine his flashlight on you two.

“Don't turn around.” Satoru said while dragging you two towards the main entrance, avoiding the pebble path, and instead running across the prohibited grass fields. 

It was the most invigorating rush you've felt in years. 

Satoru did not stop his car until he was far enough from the country club. He parked his car by the riverbank, turned off his engine, and finally lay back in his seat with an exasperated sigh. You two sat staring ahead towards the river, then towards your sides, when your eyes landed on each other, and neither of you could hold back your laughter. 

It was the most natural thing to be here with him, in your drenched clothes, him in his boxers, in his expensive-ass car, laughing like you two did not just commit a crime, one moment; and in the next moment you're on his lap and kissing him hungrily. 

It was so good. 

There was something about the cramped space, especially how his car was built; there was even less space compared to other cars—something that you usually get annoyed at, especially when you end up in the excuse of a backseat because of Suguru and his stupid long legs, but this time around you did not mind it. 

You did not mind when his hands roamed up your back, hot and dry, a clear contrast to your wet and soggy clothes. It felt like everything had slowed down, from the cars on the road down to the gravity, and it was just you and him, against each other, lips slotted together like two perfect pieces of a puzzle, tongues exploring every little crevice in your mouths, and hands all over one another. You could feel his cock growing under you in his soggy boxers, incentivizing you to move your hips in a slow rhythm. He wasn't even sure anymore if it was wet from the water or just his precum. You could not take your hands off his shoulders nor out of his hair, and he could not take his hands off your ass and hips. It was addictive, and in the humidity of the summer night, it was more than enough to drive you crazy. 

Desperate to feel more of him, more of his skin, you tried to take off your t-shirt while still kissing him, reluctant to take your lips off of his, even just for a second.

“Wait, sweets-wait.” He spoke in between your lips and pushed himself away from you. Without any explanation, he opened the doors on his side and went out of the car and pulled you out as well.

He haphazardly opened his back backdoor, pushed his front seat forward to make more room for the two of you, and lightly pushed on your lower back to make you get inside. Which you did, and finally took off everything on your upper body, then laid down on the seat and held yourself by your elbows, waiting for him to get in as well. 

“Get in here.” You asked him, as you moved forward, to pull him inside the car by his neck, and your lips were back on each other. Your hands traced the shape of his cock over his boxers, and you tried to take off his boxers and slip your hands inside.

“Uh-uh, you first, sweets.” You didn't really understand what he meant by that; you just stared at his pretty smile and trusted whatever he wanted to do. But you couldn't have guessed what he did next. His right hand grabbed the back of your knees, and his other hand was on the seat for support. With flawless movements, your back was flat against his car seat, and he was in between your legs. 

He started from your temples, soft lingering kisses on your eyes, the tip of your nose, a peck on your lips, and on your jaw. Then he went on to suck and bite all around your neck, with every intention to leave marks visible to anyone who tried to stare at you longer than ten seconds, which was generous in his opinion. 

“I've been itching to get my hands on these pretty things.” His hands got a hold of your tits, squeezing them, fingers teasing one nipple while the other felt salient attention from his mouth. As his mouth swirled around your areolas, and his teeth bit down and pulled on your nipples while maintaining clear eye contact with you, you could feel the wetness between your legs dripping down your slit.

“Ugh—Satoru, ah, fuck.” You didn't really have anything to add, other than the moans and grunts that left your mouth. And his hands remained on your hips, rubbing up and down in soothing movements, as his lips continued to kiss downward once he had his fill of teasing your tits and was satisfied with the amount of marks he left behind on each mound and the valley in between them. A true scenic masterpiece in his opinion. 

He stopped right above the waistband of your shorts before pulling them down with careful and calculated movements until you lay bare before his eyes. “Hah. No panties, huh?” He placed his mouth above your pelvic bone, right before your clit, and you could feel his mouth stretching into that very familiar devious smile on your skin. 

“Sato—” 

Your words remained in your mouth, and instead you let out a sharp yelp as his tongue took a long strip of lick from under your navel down to your clit. It was an awkward position to be stuck in, half bent, back almost hitting the ceiling of his car, one knee on the floor of his car, between his legs, and his foot was pressed against the door. But nothing bothered him more than the lack of your taste on his tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You kept on chanting as your hands went to get a tight grip in your hair, almost pulling out a patch of white pearly hair, as his tongue continued to swirl around your clit. And the hands around your hips moved down to your thighs as they tightened around his head, holding a deathly grip around them but doing nothing to loosen them, probably digging his nails deep enough to leave marks and broken skin. 

“Oh, I've fucking dreamed of dying between these pretty things. Fuck. Do your worst, baby.” 

You wish you were the one wrecking him, even if he insisted he was the one blissed right out of his mind, between your legs, tongue teasing your pussy lips. One look at your face and anyone could tell who was absolutely fucked here. There was nothing imploring about how he dove right in like a starved man at your mercy. His teeth pulled your lips open to lick a long and anguished strip down from your clit to your now twitching hole. And in went his tongue.

Burning hotter than the summer sun, you were a puddle on his lips, like a melting popsicle. 

“Sht—shit, shit. Ugh, ah, AH!” 

Each one of your moans was returned with the vibration of his own grunts and moans, which ran through your core, making it worse for you to hold onto any semblance of sanity that remained intact. And it was hard to do that when his left hand was kneading your abdomen, and his thumb was rubbing away on your clit, and his right hand was digging into your thighs, pulling them up on his shoulder, all the while his lips sucked away every drop of arousal your cunt dripped, and his tongue poked around your walls.

“Please, Satoru, just—just please, want—no, need you inside.” You took one of your hands from where it was in his hair, which was now almost dry, and placed it on top of his hand on your abdomen. And without even moving his face, his fingers intertwined with yours and held onto them for his dear life as he finished giving you the first of the many orgasms for tonight. 

“FUCK, Sat— AH, ah.” And you had nothing more than broken moans and words stuck in your throat to let out. 

It was only when he was done lapping up everything with nimble licks that his hand let go of yours, which was shaking and almost numb. “Not just yet, sweets; gotta stretch you out properly.” 

And the fingers that were just tangled with yours were now inside you. You were simply so out of it that you didn't even realize when his tongue got replaced with his finger, one at first, slowly mapping out the shape and ridges of your walls from within. Then two more to stretch you out well enough to accommodate him. 

“There!” Your eyes rolled back in your head, and your head went back as his fingers found that one spot that almost drove you right over the edge in mere seconds. 

“Here?” His head tilted as he pulled his fingers halfway out, teasing you even in this state, and saying things like he was the pitiful one in this equation. What a liar. 

“Satoru, for fuck's sake!” Your hands flew to cover your eyes as your back arched off of the car seat; if it weren't for his right hand and shoulder holding you down, you would've probably fallen off.

“You surely know how to ask nicely for what you y’want.” You could see him smiling like a little shit between your legs when you took your hands off your eyes and instead dug your nails into his expensive car seat. Not like he minded.

“Will you just let me cum, Satoru?” Your tone was faux sweet, wavering at the mercy of his fingers turning inside of you.

“I need you to beg properly, baby.” 

Satoru’s instructions came out as a matter-of-fact; his smile disappeared and left behind the piercing cerulean eyes, boring into your soul.  

“Pleas—please, please, Satoru, let me cum.” Never in your life have you ever begged for anything like this; this was a first, and you could not be more glad that it was Gojo Satoru in between your legs, eliciting these embarrassing sides of you, instead of someone else. 

And his smile returned to his face, and his fingers went right to work. It took him no more than two minutes to have you come undone on his fingers for the second time since you two ended up in his car. And there was nothing but exasperated breathing in the air, which Satoru assumed was probably more humid than the air outside, when he saw the windows fogged up. It made him chuckle to himself, thinking how cliché this was. But given the state he has gotten you in, he can't waste any more time before you pass out from just two orgasms. So he sat up and got rid of his underwear, finally feeling less suffocated.

“Don't have any condoms, sweets.” Satoru caressed the side of your face, making sure you didn't already pass out. He had no intention of pressuring you into anything; one word and he is cleaning you up, getting you some water, and driving you home to tuck you in your bed and cuddle you to sleep. 

“Don't fucking care…… on birth control.” He chuckled at your scrambling and slurred words before he maneuvered you so that one of your legs was on his shoulder and the other was over his thigh, around his waist. He rubbed the head of his cock in your folds, getting whatever leftover juices that he could not lick clean all over his cock. 

“WILL YOU JUST GET INSIDE?” You could not just tolerate any more of his teasing, so you had to take things into your own hands. Literally, as you moved one hand between the both of you and pushed his tip inside you, that was enough to have you flat on your back, unable to initiate anything else. Satoru also leaned forward from the sudden sensation of your slippery warm walls. 

“Ah, fuck, don't rush it, sweets.” His whimpering was not helping you any more than the burning stretch you felt from just his tip. And he could tell from how your mouth fell open and the nails that dug into his seats harder than before. So he gave the both of you a second to adjust. It was no easy job to acclimate to the heat that you offered; it was dizzying, but he welcomed this heat over the burning sun. 

“I’m goin’ in.” It was only after you gave him a late nod that he pushed the rest of him inside of you. And both of your yelps and grunts remained in the car. But surely if someone passed by, either one of your moans was enough to make them figure out the obvious. 

Once he was inside, you assumed the never-ending dizziness that you felt around him, the rush of accidental touches, and heavy breaths—it'll all come to an end. Unfortunately, nothing really stopped; instead, there was something worse, something hotter and more imprudent between you two now. Each thrust of his hips and the kisses that he placed on your legs: everything was incinerating. And you wanted it all; it didn't matter if it was forever or a week, you needed this summer to never end. 

“Ah—so good, sweets, so good to me.” Satoru kept on placing kisses around your shin, your ankle, and your knees, even leaning slightly down to bite down on your thighs. While his other hand pushed down on your abdomen, you felt his cock going in and out of you, and it was all so surreal—the warmth of your walls, your drooling mouth, the whimpers that left your throat, and those glazed eyes that refused to look away from him. And he didn't want this moment to ever end; he didn't want to pretend like every passing touch of your skin didn't burn him alive, that he could live on from here on forward without having you in his grasp.

“I, I’m coming, ‘toru.” 

“Fuck, sweets—come with me. Please.” 

He dropped your leg on the seat and pulled you on his lap, even while he still remained buried within you. In those last few minutes, he didn't move his hips with the same fervor as before; you two just grinned at each other, chasing your highs, the rush of having each other all to yourselves. With his face buried in your neck, kissing everywhere, down from the column of your neck to your jaw and finally to your lips, his arms around you tightened. And your nails dug into his shoulders as your tongues tangled with one another again, and this time you could taste the remnants of yourself in his mouth. As you both broke away from the kiss, with a single string of aliga connecting you two, all it took was one look for the both of you to come simultaneously. 

“Fuck… fuck, fuck, sweets.”

“I know—I know, Satoru.” 

And you two came together, holding onto each other for your dear lives, kissing one another into some other worldly ecstasy. You could feel his cum shooting up and pooling inside of you, and he could feel you twitching in his arms, your walls tightening, getting warmer with his cum dripping down and slipping out between you two. It took a while for you to come down from the high, and yet neither of you was willing to let go.

“Are you ok, sweets?” He asked while placing feather-light kisses on your shoulders while nudging your head slightly that remained steady on his shoulder. 

“Mmhmm.” You did not have anything in you to utter a single comprehensible sentence. And Satoru knew that well enough to not push you any more; he chuckled to himself and let himself enjoy your company like this for a little longer. And he told himself a few minutes more, and then he'll properly clean you up and take you home.

While you drifted away into sleep, with a matching smile on your face, you told yourself how different this summer has been. And how, despite the disgusting heat and humidity, you never wanted this summer to end. To have one another in your arms, with reciprocity, and with the same rush that made your head silly that day you met—it was so good. 

And you wanted the best out of this summer.

a/n: dividers by @/omi-resources. pictures from Pinterest, art by @/m0ryy

lmao ik i have two big wips in the works rn but lol when i saw moryy's art my mind just suddenly flooded with this plot and i was already singing rush by Troye Sivan in my head for the last few days lol ok and i have like 4 exams tmr bye i gotta cry and study.

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @teddytoru @cuntphoric @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @soupicidesquad @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi @emochosoluvr

[reignpage]

Why They Would Cheat On You

Gojo

He got bored. Of course, you were never just a toy to him. Having been friends for a while, he truly enjoyed your company more than you’ll ever know. You’d gone through a lot together, had each other’s backs more than times than he could count, and you understood him better than anyone. He owed you a lot. Perhaps that was why he didn’t reject you when you finally confessed your feelings, why he let it go on for so long, and why he didn’t realise that what he felt for you wasn’t love but, rather, loyalty. 

She wasn’t anyone special, just a girl he thought was cute. So was the other girl, and the one after her. They were all cute. Nice enough, too. It was never an ego thing, he thinks, but it was nice to have people look at him like he’s a god, rather than just, ‘Toru who’s late to the date because he was off saving people. Again.’ Or ‘Toru who doesn’t text for days because he forgot about your existence, since, you know, he’s saving people. Again.’ 

You asked him, ‘Why? Why would you do this to me?’, when you found out. There was a calmness to your voice and it was so familiar, his lip twitched. He never wanted to hurt you but surely you knew that it was never going to be a forever thing, that just wasn't how things worked in your world.

Having no answer he could give you, he instead offered to stay as friends. You were appalled. He could tell when you did that eyebrow twitch you always did. It was cute. You tried to slap him. His infinity was up. And both of you went your separate ways, wondering how long it had been like that.

Geto

He no longer needed you. You were a resourceful person; he respected that. Loyal, intelligent, strong, you were everything he needed to start his mission. Unfortunately, your loyalty came with strings – you wanted love. Needed it. And well, he wasn’t exactly opposed. You weren't terrible company and he did enjoy his time with you. Long walks, light chatter, a warm body, obedient pet, it was all perfect… until you eventually grew complacent, started taking on roles far exceeding your rank simply because you thought your connection with him equated to a partnership, and dared mutter some useless thing about abandoning your posts together to live a quiet life. 

You didn’t understand. 

She did, though. She never reached out first, always waited for his time, his approval, and prioritised the work over everything else. It was all he wanted: someone who shared his vision and could appreciate the future he’s trying to build. 

You caught them in the act and he did resent the tackiness of it all — it wasn't his style and was so far beneath him. But you had to find out eventually, he supposed. When you left wordlessly, he moved her in faster than you could even pack your things up.

He never thought about you again, not until you were there on the battlefield, on the other side of things. Kind smile was met with a sneer and he didn’t blame you, not even in his final moments.

Choso

He liked the attention. At first, he was so happy you were attracted to him and that you wanted to go on a date. Ecstatic even. Having you as his girlfriend was fun! He had someone who shared his interests, who was patient and understanding. You were sweet and kind too.

But then it stopped being fun. You’d nag him to clean up after himself, tell him he shouldn’t eat this and that, that he should hang out with his brother less because that’s all he did and you missed him. He didn't understand why you did since you lived together, though he didn’t dare argue that. Being a boyfriend was a lot of work; it was like he was doing everything wrong. You wanted flowers but you didn't want to have to ask so how was he supposed to know when to get you flowers?

You wanted space when you were down but then you'd get mad at him if he didn't chase after you. He had to guess what you wanted for lunch every single time when he just wanted to eat. It was tiring.

She was your best friend. She always gave him so many compliments, looked at him like everything he said and did was so interesting, so funny, whereas you didn't have that spark in your eyes anymore. You only thought about the laundry, the mortgage, and the cost of the things you used to like. It was nice to be understood – she had your qualities but none of your burden.

You didn’t even get angry when you found out. Just told him the lease is under your name so he can find somewhere else to live. It’s odd though that when he turned up to her house, she didn’t answer the door, or his messages. The two of you just disappeared from his life.

Toji

He needed some cash. That thing between you was never serious. You were lonely and he didn’t have a place to live. And man, you took him in faster than everyone else. Guess you were really pent up. For a while, you were managing well – had a steady job, big enough house, and a car. And sure, you nagged him about his bad habits but you always let him get away with nabbing a couple hundred from your wallet, so it was fair game.

Your body ain’t bad either, better than lots of the women he’d slept with, cleaned well too, which was a rarity amongst the people he hung around with. He put up with all the sex, the fixing things up round the house, and all the hand holding and cheesy matching couple fits, or whatever, ‘cause you kept him fed. Yeah, he had it good.

Then, you lost your job and became a real pain in the ass.

She had money.

Pity actually arose in his head when you begged him to stay, to give you some time to figure things out, and promised you’ll do better, give him more than he’s ever had. God, lonely women were pushy. And as much as he’d love to stay in one place, he couldn’t handle how clingy you were. Such a turn off.

Guess he'll have to try his luck elsewhere. Again.

Nanami

He needed to feel like a man again. Your marriage was perfect. A literal fairytale. He’s never been happier and he was doing it all with his dream woman. When did things fall apart, he couldn’t say for sure, but he did know why: you wanted to give him a big family. It was all you wanted, the one thing you thought you needed to give him in exchange for all the love he gave you.

The doctors told you it just wasn’t going to happen and you were so stuck on the idea of doing it naturally and having your very own children that you didn’t listen to any of the times he vowed you were more than enough. Sex was planned around your ovulation period. You didn’t touch him outside of that, shrugging him off when he’d lay kisses on your shoulder or cheeks. When you did have sex, you weren’t even there, just counting down the seconds until he could cum inside you. You wouldn’t even bother taking off your clothes, much less foreplay. It was like he was making love to a corpse. 

She was warm, young, alive. He never thought the new associate would take an interest in an older, more worn down man like him, but she flirted like the ring wasn’t on his finger, and eventually, he did stop wearing it; she didn’t like the feel of it on her skin. 

You were distraught when you found out, clinging to yourself and sobbing. You repeated, again and again, ‘I knew it. I knew it.’

Like a switch had been flicked, he begged for you to forgive him, promising that he’ll do better, that it’ll never happen again, but the damage had been done. Leaving your ring with him, you went away, last he heard, to your hometown, rekindled some lost thing with someone you once knew. You never did have any children.

And he never remarried.

Sukuna

He never promised otherwise. For a human, you were actually interesting, or rather, he found you interesting. All the things you showed him made him feel things, things he never got to experience and never saw the value in doing before. That was probably what he liked so much about you – your ability to entertain. And he thought for as long as you fulfilled your purpose as his new object of interest, he’d be satisfied living a quiet life, but all humans do is disappoint. And change. Soon, you were lecturing him about the sanctity of life, admonishing him for being cruel, scolding him like a child. Fuck, humans are annoying. One day, when he had killed someone you were close to, he tried to explain that they deserved it, that their spirit reeked of ill-intentions but you flinched. 

She didn’t. In fact, the filthy little thing liked the things he did to her, even wanted him to go further. Now, that was entertaining. He didn’t even realise how bored he was getting with all the ‘make love’ bullshit you spewed; going slow was never his style. Neither was vanilla missionary with all the fucking eye contact. She never looked at him with disappointment every time he acted out, not even when blood reached her shoes, or when she was covered in it. 

None of the women who’d offer themselves up to him did. 

So, when you found out and that was all that filled your eyes, the sight took him aback, just as your cries did. He didn’t ask you to stay but he thought, in that one moment you hesitated, that maybe you expected him to.

Pathetic.

[mywritersmind]

WIN FOR ME - OP81

summary : In which, you start to realize how much your boyfriend really does respond to praise and test his limits on multiple occasions

listen up : a sweet and sexy request <3 smut!! p in v. praise kink duh! some smau!! hot texts from a hot man. my first oscar fic wowza i hope u like

words : 777

⋆｡‧˚⋆

It started off simple, congratulating Oscar on little things, complimenting his haircut or his shirt… completely normal things for a girlfriend to say.

You noticed his mood shift after a particularly steamy night. Muttering the words, “So good for me…” while you looked up at him from between his legs. He came right then and right there, flushing immediately when he realized the amount of time he lasted.

Oscar thought it was embarrassing, you found it hot.

The second time was when things started to really heat up. You both sat in his drivers room, watching him change with a little too much excitement, knowing he had to go out and drive so soon.

“You've gotten bigger.” Oscar practically falls on his face when you say it, standing up quickly, his fireproof half on.

“Sorry?” He chokes out.

You nod innocently, “Your back. All that time in the gym is paying off.”

He turns to the mirror, flexing his back which is faced towards you as if you’re not already wet. “You think?” He slides his fireproof down, covering the skin you want to mark so badly.

“Yeah. It’s hot.”

He’s on you in seconds, his mouth against yours and his hands grasping at any sliver of exposed skin on your body.

You weren’t lying when you said he was big, he towers over you, your hands grabbing the back of his neck as if your life depends on it.

He holds your hips tightly, pulling you closer to feel him against you. “Fuck Osc- You’re so perfect.” You mumble into the kiss, bringing out a whine from him that goes straight to your core.

You grin against him while he kisses you harder. Oh this will be fun.

⋆༺

⋆༺

He’s in a suit, you’re in a dress. You’re by far the most good looking couple in here. ‘Here’ as in the giant theater where opera performers prance around the stage.

Oscar had been invited and at the time, it felt rude to say no. Now, when the man who invited him disappeared across the room, you felt less bad about distracting your terribly bored boyfriend.

It’s been a few weeks since you started intentionally playing into Oscar’s praise kink and… wow. He’s always been great in bed but shit- it’s like you switched something in him.

Slipping your hand onto his shoulder and leaning in close you whisper, “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

“Y/n…” He whispers back, not turning his head to look at you.

“I’m still sore.” You bite your lip when you see his jaw clench. “Just couldn’t stop, huh?” He’s still silent, besides his breathing growing heavier. Your hand slips to his upper thigh, covered in fabric more expensive than your rent. “That’s fine. You make it easy to go again with.”

“I know what you’re doing.” He bites out just as a satisfied smile breaks across your face and your palm meets his groin.

“Yeah and you like it.” He grabs your hand and in a second, you’re both exiting the row with no regard for the people you pass.

Oscar looks on, his hand gripping your wrist tighter as you exit the theater. The first bathroom he sees is the one he drags you into.

“Excuse me there’s only one allowe-” a poor worker tries to stop you two but the lock sounds behind you and the feeling of the cold door meets your back.

Before you know it, your dress is bunched around your waist and his hand is down your panties. He loves getting you off, the look on your face when his fingers curl into you is engraved into his memory.

You make that same face now, your head tilting back as you let out a moan. “Osc- I need you. Now.”

“You’re so beautiful.” He kisses your neck while you unzip his pants, “This dress- I knew I wouldn’t make it through the night.”

“Thank god for that.” You say just as he aligns himself with you, pushing in without a second thought. You both moan this time, not caring about your surroundings, just the feeling of skin against skin. “So big-”

“So tight.” He mumbles, moving slowly at first. “Mmm…”

“Please.” You groan as he picks up his pace, his head falling onto your shoulder as he breathes heavily. Nail scratching against his back, your panties ripping, Oscar slamming his hand against the door before moving you to the sink… it’s a blur of pure adrenaline and sex, one that ends with lace in his pocket and you practically limping out of that bathroom.

⋆༺

[dollbrbie]

soft sex was something dabi didn’t know he craved until he met you. you were so sweet to him despite him knowing he didn’t deserve it - not from someone like you.

and even if he knows he shouldn’t involve himself with you, that you shouldn’t be with a villain like him, he can’t help but be greedy as he leans his cheek in the palm of your hand, craving your touch.

when he finally had you led bare for him, looking just so perfect that dabi can’t help but feel like he’s not worthy of someone like you, he feels his hands tremble slightly while caressing your soft skin.

“you’re so beautiful..” he mumbles, completely enamoured by you, “what’d i do to get so lucky, hm?”

he doesn’t want to ruin you, he wants to make love to you. he wants to show you how much he adores you as he makes you feel so good that you’ll be whimpering his name and muttering the sweet praises he craves - telling him just how good he’s making you feel.

his thrusts are long and deep, savouring every ounce of pleasure he can from you with his eyes closed and his lips parted. you feel amazing with the way your velvet walls flutter around his cock whilst sucking him in. dabi’s heart feels something it hasn’t before when he realises you want him just as much as he wants you, flaws and all.

he can’t help but attach his lips to every part of your body as he thrusts in and out of your glossy pussy, looking up at you through heavy lids as he worships you - littering your body with gentle kisses that make you feel so appreciated. dabi was surprisingly amazing at showing you that.

and when you finally reach your peak, legs shaking and your back arching, dabi can’t help but revel in it. his thrusts grow sloppier and more eager - wanting nothing more than to feel you come undone from his cock. with the way you walls tighten around his shaft, he feels his own orgasm hit with a choked moan, though coming out as more of a whine, from his lips.

he just loves filling you up. it’s more of a territorial thing for him, loving the way it drips from your swollen pussy as your chest remains heavy from the overwhelming pleasure you just felt. it reminds him that you’re really his, and you’re really letting someone like him make love to you - to make you feel an unimaginable sense of pleasure.

he can’t help but feel like the luckiest man in the world.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[my-castles-crumbling]

tension - may 19 - jegulus - black brothers - @black-brothers-microfic - word count: 346

“Aw, c’mon, guys! Give it a chance! Imagine if you two got married someday?” Sirius whined, eyes wide and pleading. “We’d all be related!”

“I’m already sad enough to be related to you. Plus, I’d rather die than marry him,” Regulus said flatly, narrowing his eyes and looking at James, who chuckled and rolled his eyes. “He’s obnoxious, Sirius. And he’s got all the smarts of a flobberworm. No offense, of course, Potter.”

“None taken, dear Reggie. It’s okay to be secretly threatened by me. I take it as a compliment,” the taller man grinned, making Regulus grimace.

“But the tension, guys! It’s so bloody obvious!” Sirius continued, gesturing between the two men, “And opposites attract, I mean, look at me and Remus! You two are perfect for each other!”

“I still question Remus’s tastes on that one,” Regulus muttered under his breath while Remus laughed. “But if you insist, Sirius, look–” He stood, strode over to James, and grabbed his jaw with one hand, connecting their lips before the other man could protest.

For one breathtaking second, he was floating. All he could feel was James. Their breath, intermingling. His tongue, trailing lightly on his lower lip. His presence, so close, but far too far away. All he wanted to do was climb on top of him and melt into his arms.

Then, he pulled away.

“Nothing,” James said triumphantly, grinning and crossing his arms.

“Same,” Regulus agreed, crossing his arms as well, fighting to regulate his breathing.

“You two are such idiots!” Sirius exclaimed, looking like he might actually throw a fit. “You’ll see someday! I’m right!”

It was only after he stormed out that both Regulus and James relaxed, arms falling to their sides, and Remus whispered, “So you still haven’t told him yet? Gods, how long have you two been dating, now?”

“Two months,” Regulus smirked, leaning forward to steal a much more passionate kiss from a very-eager James, licking into his mouth and revelling in the taste. He pulled back and grinned at Remus. “But torturing Sirius is just so fun.”

[acid-ixx]

Getting hyper fixated on the loving family series i was wondering if you could write a scenario in which the reader is kinda forced to appear at an event where Bruce is and he and the rest of the family watch as the reader shows up with Clark and Jon with a beautiful suit/dress (preferably a suit but either is okay) and the outfit so stunning the rest of the room can’t help but stare in awe and the batfam has to sit there and watch while the reader is living their best life and perhaps some smug attitude from Clark as Bruce notices some not so hidden love bites on the readers body. And death glares from the bat siblings as Jon is being super cuddly and loving with the reader to purposefully rile up Damien and the others???

all eyes on the prize p.t. 1 (a loving family, an unpalatable desire two-shot)

ft. yandere superfam x gn! neglected spouse reader x yandere batfam

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist !

— a/n: implied nsfw between clark and the reader but no actual smut scene. also, interpret the reader as any gender!!! i personally put them in a suit cause it's not only classy but it's a very flexible and stylistic choice when it comes to fashion. clark is described as way larger, broader (due to kryptonian genes) than the reader but not taller, same with bruce, but i still tried to keep the reader as neutral as possible when it came to their appearance.

being the affair partner of a pulitzer price winning journalist was no easy feat.

being recognized by fans of his in public and having to sign their favorite articles of his was an alright task for you, having candid photos taken without your knowledge at every small outing you have with your little family was a fate you've already prepared for, even bump ins with other aspiring journalists who wish to live under clark's shadow, hearing them ramble about their passions on the side of the street whilst begging you to promote their own written entries to your partner was at least tolerable—

because those instances were far more easier to cope with than an upcoming gala.

because at least those moments still guaranteed your mental stability since all you really had to worry about were deranged conspiracists with no real power over you — over clark and his naturally protective kryptonian instincts which easily signals him to drop off his current missions and to swoop you in his loving arms whenever he senses you're truly in trouble — who can only ever type in newer theories that are quickly disputed by the fans who were always in favor of your current affair over your miserable marriage from months ago.

so yeah, it was safe to say that over the course of the months where you were safely tucked in your new home life, back when bruce and the others weren't aware of your affair; you'd never really had an excuse to worry about anything else.

really, clark's strong hands wrapped protectively around the expanse of your waist whilst he flies you around metropolis on one of your little dates, alongside jon convincing you to take him out to buy another tub of ice cream were enough assurances that your domestic life right now is all a perfect bubble that could never be popped by whatever bullshit the wayne's might've planned against your little family could ever do.

really, you thought you were so cunning.

— but a charity event hosted by the bruce wayne in acknowledgement for the daily planet all of a sudden? a gala you're sure would guarantee the presence of your ex-family, aware of the infamous affair you had with clark kent?

a gala where your new family was required to attend, not just for the sake of publicity, but because the invitation contained thinly veiled threats admitting that clark might — or would — lose his job if he didn't bring you along?

an invitation sent to him a week prior, that he'd kept hidden from a cabinet you rarely open. to which he thought you wouldn't notice his skittishness for the past few days, except your human intuition begged your intrigue, to investigate upon your partner's sudden source of stress.

so here you are now. breathless in the middle of your bedroom, stunned as you feel blood rise to your head.

and as much as clark comforts you through his warm chest covering your entirely shaken body as he softly coos on your neck, warm breath fanning against the sudden cold washing over your body; as much as jon tries to reassure you that you've nothing to worry about as his tiny, yet strong hands, tries to pry off the crumpled piece of paper in your grip, reeking of bruce's favorite cologne you'd always have to endure when sleeping in the same empty bed of his back then, as much as conner jokes around right beside you, holding your arms and helping your levitate with his telekinesis in case you might collapse from the shock— as much as your family tries to feed your disillusioned thoughts that everything is okay, even they couldn't deny the cold, hard truth: you all are attending the wretched gala either way.

the company's head passing on the message that clark and, in implied provocation and extension, you, are going to be the star of the show was enough of a guarantee that your family had to be there.

the ornate, black box laced with silken ribbons of your favorite color, laying upon the simple, white bedsheets of your shared bed with clark, its fancy design clashing with the simplicity of your bedroom and standing out, lid slightly ajar, revealing a decadent pair of pearl earrings – no doubt real, and expensive and taunting – and the infamous diamond encrusted ring you thought you'd thrown away was enough of a mockery, enough of a warning that there's more than just rivalry between clark and his old friend—

but a simple statement that even if you managed to temporarily dislodge your old family away from your life, even if you'll push and shove away at your ex-children's attempt of communication with you, even if you wrote off your last name as kent; you ultimately still belong to the wayne's.

and that's enough of a statement which brews a bitter storm inside of clark's heart. makes him want to retaliate, not with a physical fight against the bat, no, he doesn't want you to worry your pretty head anymore than the cruelty his old comrade had already done; but with his own little statement against bruce in this gala, with his own twist which he knows will floor his rival's jaws to the floor once the scheduled gala will come the day after.

for now, though?

he gestures conner with a look, one he often shares to the other kid of his: where he wants him to take jon elsewhere, preferably far away from the house, and leave you two couples some space to think through your choices.

one that says, "i'll have this handled," without so much a word uttered, as conner nods in reply before ushering jon with the same look and a gentle promise that they'll play some games overnight in his apartment instead. jon, as hesitant and oblivious as he is to let go of his tight grip on your shirt, pouts and releases his hold, but not without flying to kiss your dampened cheeks and whispering: "you'll be alright, dad/mom. we'll keep you safe."

then they both leave within the flashing seconds.

when your confused, downward gaze, eyes lined with a fresh wave of tears shifts to the scene in front of you — the family working in tandem with no verbal cues — just right before you could even question clark what he's planning; he shushes you, kissing the crown of your head with the softest smile he could plaster upon his face, a mask ignoring the cruel urge to fly over to gotham, redirecting the rage, transforming it into the adoration he feels for you at this moment, at every passing moment.

at least in the safety of your bedroom, his ultimate prize is still in his arms: willing and gilded in a way bruce could never earn.

he'll make sure the man knows of this the next day.

for now, he turns you to face him as his hand directs itself to the back of your waist, squeezing reassuringly, his other palm cupping the fat of your cheeks, swiping away the salty trails until his thumb and index reaches your bottom lip, pinching lightly. you stare back at his slightly squinted eyes, no doubt capturing you in slow motion just to embrace every little feature of yours, and hold on to his broad shoulders, relaxing from your hold.

but it's you who still doesn't calm down, it's you who still needlessly worries. and clark doesn't like it when his sweetheart thinks of anything else if not him and your family.

not the wayne's.

"what now, clark?" you graze the furrowed crease of his brows with your thumbs, massaging. he hums, laughing at your antics of helping him relax, then leans in to peck your lips, exhaling heartily when you pout at his refusal to reply.

what you didn't notice, though, were the hands suddenly wrapped around your thighs, your thoughts too messy, mind too slow, to comprehend your back pressed against the mattress and the fancy box discared on the rug with a gentle thud.

his breath tickling the core of your ears was the first thing you sensed.

"what now, you ask?*

both your clothes were discarded faster than the heat crawling up your face and the shivers running up your spine.

his mouth made immediate work on your neck all the way to your collarbone, sucking your vulnerable skin until it turns into deep shades of purples clashing with yellow. he bites a little harder when you squeak and tangle your fingers on his messy curls, then teases you with skilled fingers kneading your inner thighs.

he pins you down, you can feel the hairs of his chest pressing against your bare ones, and yet you don't push away, finally realizing the implications of his actions. what he intends for bruce to see, for the world to see.

"—i say we need to show bruce what he's been missing out on this whole time."

a longer, more passionate kiss was enough to set the deal.

the flash of the ever-so insisting paparazzi were as overwhelming as you can expect.

loud, insistent, buzzing with energy at the latest gossip and questions enough to hurl even great thinkers into a mind numbing spiral. they picture your every move, record your every reaction, and twist words spoken into their spit-encased microphone into delirious titles for the media to digest.

yet as invasive as they were, it was one of the legal ways he can obtain your pictures without you or clark suspecting a thing or two for these past few months; living in your own space without doubting if your private life was as private as you'd thought it'd be.

what with damian sneaking off and hitching a ride with jason on his motorcycle just to watch you from afar, standing right outside your apartment with baited breath, going as far as picking your locks and entering just to get a whiff of the life they'd miss without you? or tim hacking through surveillance cameras in areas you frequent, capturing every little smile of yours and pasting it in a bulletin board as a means to gain inspiration? all in the guise of needing you alive—?

suffice to say he was grateful for the media's thirst for drama. it gave off less suspicions, made it so that superman doesn't feel the need to be following his tail after unneeded circumstances where his own children had been caught in the same space as you in public.

it helped track you down: the constant headlines mentioning your name, vicki vale and a bunch of other no-named journalists would often be caught in the spiral of keeping the internet interested in the tale of your affair.

their performance was satisfactory.

and yet it doesn't dismiss the fact that because his life had always been centered around yours — and in his due ignorance, his missed priorities, it was he who was also the reason as to why you left the safety of your manor — that also meant his involvement in the internet's latest drama.

he always has been, but sometimes, even he gets tired.

bruce wayne can handle the element of crime, can help sweep off blood-soaked streets, fund the countless hospitals rattling with new patients of the villains he had dealt with, pay for students' debts, and rehabilitate victims of the corrupt system—

but he can never control the public and their opinions.

especially when it came to him and his... ex-spouse.

bitter as the title tastes on his tongue, right now, he feels their prying eyes swarming his body as he stands by the high arch of the entranceway, sculpted body illuminated by the moonlight stretching across the horizon, reflected by the dangling chandeliers casting a sickening orange light; quite frankly, the warmth of the colors doesn't bring comfort upon the anxiety creeping right beneath his skin.

he can hear the gossip and expectations for what is to come, the crowd's own speculations all but mere background talk to him as he focuses solely on the countless of familiar faces passing between thick, mahogany doors, initiating greeting with every entering folk; a false smile plastered on his weary face, a controlled crinkle of his eyes, overly saccharine hello's burying the barely disguised disinterest in their brief conversations before another wave of people come in.

the earpiece tucked in his right ears are flooded with anticipatory conversation about when or if you're going to arrive.

he can't deny his own patience waning as his eyes scan the countless piercing ones amongst the crowd, singling out his children making talk with other guests as a way to pass time.

tim's entertaining the guests, used to the constant socialization required due to his upbringing, he emits a hearty laugh at someone's joke: light, yet empty at the seams. duke tries – but fails – to follow his lead, adjusting to the change in scenery; he pretends to be shocked by the drama occurring between the socialites, sneering under his breath at their ridiculously obvious bragging about another new, undeserved property bought, preferring to focus elsewhere.

damian's doing well under dick's guidance, making an actual effort to disguise his contempt for the crowd, communicating with some and faking awe, yet whenever he scoffs openly, dick subtly glares at the smaller child as warning which prompts him to shut up momentarily. meanwhile, jason is properly hidden behind the sculpted columns, hawk eyes assessing every known guests and providing updates to the family in the comms for suspicious activity.

barbara chose to fancy herself in the batcave, with access to the security cameras plastered on every corner and outside the venue's premises. steph and cass are together, munching on the buffets and assessing which pastry dish is the best, they ignore the other guests trying to talk to them whilst they play with the fancy clams displayed in the corner of the table.

all of them, committing to their own, unique way of passing time—

and yet they all share the same, disinterested gaze as bruce.

choosing to return brief eye contact with him, raising their brows, as if they're all asking the same question:

"where are they, bruce?"

(because, after all, the only purpose of this gala, and their willingness to cooperate with one another without bickering, is to finally share the same space with you after months of silent treatment, months of your lack of cooperation for a counseling session between troubled couples with bruce, months of being held in another man's arms, littered with kisses that aren't his own, spending moments with another child— superman's, no less. and under his protection and attention, you are no doubt invulnerable for any opportunities of kidnapping. at least, in this event, even if it's just for a temporary moment. for confirmation, maybe, that you're safe and sound and happy and thriving without them, and that maybe they'll be glad that you chose clark and his family over them).

them and their undeniable sin of ignoring you.

sure, they should've been glad you left and never turned back. he should've been grateful that there was one less person worrying over him.

(but he knows, deep down, bruce knows it in his sick, twisted mind that it's never what they wanted. bruce knows that they needed you).

so when you finally entered the fray, it was no denying that they all felt the same, compelling and magnetic pull that you've always had — that they chose to turn their backs on, that they discovered all too late was something they yearned for — garnering all of their sporadic attention into one singular being: you.

"oh my god, bruce... they're..."

gorgeous? quite the eye-catcher? the moment everybody's all been waiting for? the reason why this event was hosted in the first place? there's no need to voice out the obvious, no denying that more than anything, you weren't anything less than desirable for the eyes of many.

god, he gulps and feels the parchness of his throat, feels perspiration sliding down his adam's, sinfully he admits that his hunger for you tonight might've multiplied.

his shaky blue eyes share a brief, yet cutting contact with yours, at your dismissive ones staring at him before it ultimately returns to your partner— and he feels the same spark he's felt all those years ago, the same gluttony, the same green envy at every person who shares a close relationship with you prior your marriage to his.

then he remembers why he's willed himself to turn his back on you: you're the reason why bruce forced himself to avoid you— he was afraid, unprepared that the moment you stepped into his life, that if he felt your skin's electrifying contact with his, if he heard that fucking voice of yours tempting him to take a break from being the bat and instead spend a night with him in bed, in your arms, if he feels so much of your warm breath hitting against his bare skin? he might lose himself in the plot; given up his entire life just to feel your body fused with his.

he knew the risk, he wasn't simply ready to take it, wasn't ready for the domesticity of it all.

and now he realizes, his life's always been devoted to you. and also, he's ultimately fucked up his chances of bringing you back into the family without complaints.

"you'd think they change for the worse or so, but no... they're still as charming, bruce— just better now. look, nobody's taking their eyes off of 'em, and they even bought the little kid–"

"— fucking hell. bruce, if you don't move your ass to greet them right now, i'm going to—"

dick's momentary lapse of amazement was interrupted by a series of swears from jason. sworning at him too, probably, about his ultimate talent for fumbling his best asset, about him losing someone so hellishly tempting, about why he's glued to his place, stunned to even plaster a welcoming smile when he hears your polished, black pointed shoes clacking across the marbled floors.

but he doesn't focus on their blurring words and conjoined awes. he doesn't even take his eyes off of your own fingers intertwined with clark's, the silver wedding band he's seen in the pictures still attached to your ring finger, instead of the diamond ones he's sent over to your apartment as a means of apologies.

his attention doesn't waver at all, not when he's too busy losing his breath over... you.

not when he zeroes in at the sickening sight before him—

dazzling as you were, adorned with a loose, white shirt – unbuttoned, just to give bruce and the crowd around you a glance of your clavicle – peeking out of the layered, gray vest, a blazer draped over your shoulder, and a tie sits loosely at the base of your outfit to complete the simple look; as if that would distract everyone from the sight of the fresh love marks littering the entirety of your neck all the way to the exposed clavicle. as if the sight of your slightly swollen lips doesn't suggest that you've probably made out with your affair partner before even entering the premise, not when he can already pinpoint the equally, if not more, bitten lips of clark and your favorite gloss unwiped from the side of his mouth.

fresh, newly gifted marks for the world to see. bruce can picture it, your heated flesh bitten and sucked over and over again the night prior to the event. how clark could easily conjure sweet noises from the back of your throat, how he must've known, must've burnt the taste of your saliva, sweat and salty, pleasured tears into every pore of his tongue until all his appetite caters only to you.

and you're wearing the same damn lapel pins. one of your favorite flowers that he's seen his own comrade wore before in a similar event. it's not just his own rival claiming you, it's you openly showing everyone that you've already been taken.

clark and his children, not yours – he can accept being cheated on, but he'll never allow you the comfort of replacing your own children – conner and jon, stand beside you, sharing the same colors for his own outfit. the man's nose held high, way too high for a man who pretends like he didn't just snatch off his own damn spouse right behind his back.

yet all he could do was squint his eyes, glare profusely, ignore the hastened thumping in his heart, the green envy flooding his vision. teeth clenched in controlled irritation, he's positioned perfectly so the camera's wouldn't easily capture his reaction, but even then does he feel the need for a mediocrum of control, but he can't. he can't control the visceral urge to pull out his kryptonite reserves hidden temptingly inside the batcave; he can't deny just how crazy you're already driving him despite having never felt your own touch for a long, grueling time.

he only snaps out of his stupor when you're only two strides left. when the light hits your sparkling eyes and reflects your obviously lovelorn gaze at the man whose biceps you wrap your hands around, who returns the gaze with a deeper intensity until your attention ultimately shifts to your own husband in front of you.

suddenly, the deafening whispers hollowed itself out.

suddenly, your eyes become dull and lifeless under the chandelier's warm glow.

not unforgivingly bitter, not even a hint of rage— but empty and unthinkingly cold, like the wick of a candle fully blown out. like the silence right after a wave of fireworks.

a warmth that yields, reminding bruce of your love that burned away for year without anymore fuel to sustain it. unrequited, like the presence he never graced you with.

decades worth of training and fighting on the cruel streets of gotham could never prepare bruce for the hammering beats of his chest, it could never quite dull down the feeling of heartbreak encapsulated in one single, desolate stare. he's sure clark could hear his own hastened pulse, his eyes flicker quickly to his own friend's victorious, yet still worried gaze; but nothing else quite matters other than your own swollen lips struggling to make out words and the subtle furrow of your brows at just what to say to the man you thought you'd never see eye to eye.

you look so perfectly dolled up despite being so disturbingly marked up from head to toe.

nothing else matters right now other than having to greet them like normal, he convinces himself, except the fact that he could feel his own sweat running down his flushed neck and his own teeth biting down his lower lips, and his squinted eyes drifting lower and lower from your eyes all the way down to the pridefully displayed hickeys.

nothing else matters, except for bruce's own thoughts meandering on his own fantasies of just what your body would taste like once he's sought out to forcibly take you away from clark's arm and back into his own.

nothing else matters, other than the thoughts of possibly wanting to give you another child when he sees you momentarily distracted by jon pulling on your blazer and whispering about his boredom, only to be lightly scolded with a gentle graze of hands atop his curly hair, or conner's grumbling from beneath his breath about just ditching the greetings and flying off to the buffet, only to be met with your fluttering laughter and a pat on his back, whispering into the boy's ears— that bruce can't pick up with just his hearing, he reminds himself to go over the camera feed soon to enhance the audio, just to hear that lovely voice of yours — words enough to make the metahuman surrender for just a moment; the scene awefully reminds him a lot of the way his own mother used to tell him off with just a loving hush and a pinch of his cheeks—

goodness, you're everything his own children need right now. a guiding light, a dutifully great figure to discipline their rebellious attitudes.

and he gulps, then suddenly, the slacks he chose to wear just feels a tad bit tighter. suddenly, he's grateful that he chose to wear something more loose tonight.

"pleasure to see you, too, bruce." instead of your voice greeting him, instead of bruce finally having to hear you for the first time outside of the cameras his family has set up or hacked all throughout the places you frequently visit, it's clark's voice which breaks through the immersion when it should've been yours greeting him.

"what's up, mister wayne? how's life in the manor without my lovely parent, huh?"

conner follows through with his unwelcoming, all too lighthearted, all too mocking with his question before clark could even silence the young, all too passionate boy's unneeded comment, as if shoving bruce's mistake right in his face would prove something.

it's enough to irk him, really. he really has to remind himself to hold off on the kryptonite, for now.

and right now, all his focus should be on at least charming you enough tonight to convince you to return to your rightful family, as he ignores both clark and conner's greetings, immediately aiming for your wrist to bring it up to his lips.

your surprised yelp doesn't deter him from kissing your knuckles deeply while keeping eye contact with you, the abundance of cheers from the comms attached in his ears doesn't either.

all that matters right now, is that he has his eyes on the prize, and he's not willing to give it up any further.

a/n: firstly this first part is dedicated to both @luffyadolover and @neerathebrightstar !! since it's the former's BIRTHDAY !!! and if you're reading this, i wish to greet you with the happiest celebration with the yummiest cake and hopefully this fic is enough to make u even happier too !! and for the latter, neera, i'd love to thank u for ur unwavering support and talking to me and allowing me to yap about my own series' ! thank you both for your love, mwah mwah 🩷 <3

otherwise, leave comments please ? 🥺 my confidence in my writing has been at an all time low sadly, though i admit that i loved writing about bruce go from angsty to horny to straight up both. this was supposed to be a short fic, why did it suddenly become really long erm??? the second part will be posted tomorrow night !! for context, i always post around 12 to 4:00am at gmt +8 since i'm most active at night !! love y'all ! don't forget to leave remarks since i love reading through them it's like my main motivation.

taglist: @imjustasimp132 , @mimiiiiiiiiisstuff , @chericia , @queenofspades403 , @naina326 , @neerathebrightstar , @lilyalone, @nickey-diano , @tsuniio , @ssak-i , @kore-of-the-underworld , @lollipoppersposts , @peptox , @kdjhubby , @weirdcore-fantasy , @thypplover , @asdfghjklgayblog , @prince-nikko , @phoenixgurl030 , @antionwithadrawingpen , @circe143 , @ferchu0406 , @kittzu , @yuyuzi-ling , @moonieper , @esthxio , @ryuushou , @nickey-diano , @ssak-i

[batsovergotham]

₊ ˚ ⋅⠀୨ৎ 𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑬𝑫 𝑱𝑼𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝒀𝑶𝑼.

𓆰❦꫶ུ⃛𓆪    —#2 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗖! 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗬𝗦𝗢𝗡 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗠𝗨𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗤! ↳"𝘏𝘐 !!!! 𝘉𝘌𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘐 𝘔𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘔𝘠 𝘙𝘌𝘘𝘜𝘌𝘚𝘛, 𝘑𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘞𝘈𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘛𝘖 𝘚𝘈𝘠 𝘏𝘖𝘞 𝘔𝘜𝘊𝘏 𝘐 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘞𝘙𝘐𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘎, 𝘐𝘛𝘚 𝘚𝘖𝘖𝘖𝘖𝘖𝘖 𝘎𝘖𝘖𝘋, 𝘓𝘐𝘒𝘌 𝘏𝘌𝘓𝘓𝘖??? 𝘈𝘕𝘠𝘞𝘏𝘖!!! 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘖𝘍 𝘊𝘖𝘜𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘺 😛😛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘙 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙 𝘏𝘈𝘉𝘑𝘚𝘏𝘌𝘋𝘑𝘕𝘚𝘑𝘚𝘉𝘋. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 >< 𝘛𝘏𝘈𝘛𝘚 𝘈𝘓𝘓 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌 𝘜𝘜𝘜𝘜 𝘔𝘞𝘈𝘔𝘞𝘈𝘔𝘞𝘈𝘔𝘞𝘈"

｡𖦹°‧➵ pairing - comic!mark grayson x reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ summary - mark wasn’t expecting anything when he walked in, just a normal night. instead, he finds you in lingerie. safe to say, dinner’s forgotten, and he’s on his knees before you can even say hi.

｡𖦹°‧➵ content notice - MDNI (18+ only), nsfw, oral (f receiving), dom!mark

The message is simple enough, casual, playful, completely unassuming.

“Dinner’s in the oven <3”

Sent. Delivered. Read. That little read receipt flickers on and a breath leaves you like it’s been knocked from your lungs. Now it’s real. Now there’s a ticking clock. Mark is on his way.

You’ve got the music low, warm honeyed synths pouring through your speakers like a slow, lazy drizzle of syrup. It vibrates the walls with a sound you can feel in your thighs. You cross the room barefoot, soft pads of your feet sinking into the rug like you’re walking through molasses. The scent of something faint, sweet, floral, clings to the air. You. You smell like candlelit sin. You’ve moisturized every inch, from the curve of your calves to the hollow of your collarbone, like preparing a canvas for masterpiece-level ruin.

The lingerie, God. It’s lethal.

Sheer black mesh wraps your body like it was tailored for cruelty. It whispers over your skin, delicate as breath, and yet it makes you look like a weapon. The cups barely hold anything in, more an idea of coverage than actual fabric. Bows ride the curve of your hips, begging to be pulled, ripped, savored between teeth. The straps dig delicious little lines into your shoulders where you’ve been adjusting, readjusting, trying to find the perfect fit, the perfect bait.

Your hands tremble as you press them to your thighs. You don’t know why. Or maybe you do.

This is new territory.

You’ve pictured it, fantasized about it, imagined it in the shower with your head tipped back and water pounding like heavy hands, but imagining it and orchestrating it are two separate things entirely. Right now? You’re not sure if you’re the seductress or the sacrifice.

You practice again. Over by the wall, you lean, shoulder against wall, spine curved, head tilted like you just rolled out of a dream and walked straight into the room. You drop your gaze, then flick it up. Bedroom eyes. You hold it. Try to hold it. Break into a nervous laugh.

Ugh.

Okay. Try the couch. One knee up, the other leg stretching back like you’re lunging your way through a paperback romance cover. You twist at the waist, arch your back, and freeze.

Too much? Not enough?

You check yourself in the mirror. The cut of the lingerie reveals more than it hides, your nipples show through the mesh, firm and aching in the cool air, and when you turn to the side, you see how the bow just above your ass jiggles when you move. You toy with it. One tug and the whole illusion would fall apart.

There’s a part of you that wants him to unravel you with adoring hands. But there's another part, darker, filthier, that wants him to tear this thing off your body like it offended him. Teeth, nails, heat and hunger. You don’t know which part wins.

You pace.

Mark’s not even here yet and you’re already soaking, thighs sticking as you move. Anticipation has teeth, and it’s gnawing slowly at your insides. You're playing it cool…trying to play it cool, but your pulse is a warning siren in your throat.

You check your phone again.

No new messages. Still read.

You whisper his name under your breath, like conjuring him. Like magic. Like blasphemy. Your voice sounds broken already.

This was supposed to be simple. This was supposed to be a “surprise him at dinner” kind of thing. But now it feels like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, lingerie fluttering like a flag in a storm, and if he walks in that door and looks at you the way he does…

You’re not walking away untouched. Or upright.

You glance down at your legs again. Shaved. Smooth. Glistening. Your hand drifts across your stomach, down to the space between your thighs, where the mesh barely forms a triangle of coverage. You could touch yourself now, prime the pump, so to speak. Make yourself drip for him. But no. You want to be undone by him, not warmed up before the act like some polite hostess.

A creak outside makes your head snap toward the door.

Is that him?

Your heart slams into your ribs like a fist through drywall.

You strike the pose again, wall, not couch. Simpler. Softer. More vulnerable. You breathe in deep, hold it, and try not to shake.

Because if it is him…

It swings inward slowly, like the start of a movie scene right before everything changes forever.

Mark steps in, oblivious. He's halfway through a sentence, voice low and gravel-edged from the strain of patrol and whatever bullshit Cecil’s dropped in his lap tonight.

“Yeah, I told you, if the Flaxan’s come anywhere near the city again, we’ll—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because he sees you.

And everything in him just stops.

Mark Grayson, flight-slick, suit clinging like a second skin, dripping faint steam from the chill of altitude, he halts in the doorway like he’s walked in on an act of God.

His mouth parts. A flicker of breath escapes him like it was punched out.

His eyes rake over you in stunned silence.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

You're posed just as you practiced, one shoulder against the wall, leg bent slightly, hips cocked, mouth soft, lashes low, like you’re dreaming him into being.

The lighting bathes you in this soft, erotic glow, the mesh of your lingerie gleaming with hints of sheen where the low light kisses it. The bows, the sheer, all of it perfectly calibrated to look like temptation handcrafted by the devil and dipped in sex.

Mark’s phone drops from his hand.

It doesn’t clatter, doesn’t thud, it just falls, soundlessly. His whole body is static-stiff. His brow furrows like he’s rebooting from the inside out.

His lips barely move. But you hear it.

“...holy fuck.”

It’s adoring. It’s broken. It’s filthy.

Like a man kneeling at the altar of his own damnation.

He steps forward, slow, like the floor might give out. Like you might disappear if he gets too close too fast. His eyes are wide, dark, devouring. The blue in his irises flickers, catching the light as his gaze trails from your face, to your collarbones, down the valley of your breasts barely held in place by sheer black mesh, and lower still.

Your thighs shift and he sees it, how your body reacts before you even speak.

His breath stutters.

“Are you…” he swallows, “...is this for me?”

You tilt your head, slow, catlike. Your lips curve, not a smile, not exactly. It’s hunger wearing the mask of invitation.

Mark’s jaw clenches. You watch his hands flex at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to touch you, to grab you, to shake the truth out of you with bare hands.

But then he exhales and laughs, soft, stunned, ruined. “You planned this.”

You don’t answer. Just shift slightly, and the bow at your hip trembles.

He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Too pretty for your own good.”

His chest heaves, muscles flushed, still marked with faint lines of battle grime and sweat. There’s a smear of something across his shoulder, ash? Blood? You don’t care. It only adds to it.

He steps closer, slowly. “You know what you do to me?” he murmurs, voice a hoarse rasp now. “You have any idea what you look like right now?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. Your heart beats too loud in your ears.

He’s in front of you now. Not touching. Not yet.

His fingers hover at your shoulder strap, then graze your jaw, slow, almost trembling.

“This…” he says, dragging his gaze over you like he needs to memorize this vision before it combusts. “This isn’t fair. I just fought a ten-story space monster. I’m—fuck—I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’m—”

He presses in. Just a little. His breath fans against your cheek. You feel the tension rolling off him like heat waves.

“…and now I just want to hold you there, kiss every sound out of you, and fuck you so good you forget everything but me.”

His voice breaks near the end. Like he means it. Like it’s a promise, not a threat.

His hand moves lower, knuckles grazing your collarbone, then trailing down the centerline of your chest, pausing just above the mesh-covered peak of your breast. His thumb strokes just under the curve, not quite touching your nipple.

You shudder.

His eyes flick up. “Still nervous?”

You nod, just a little. Honest. Breathing too shallow.

His smile is soft, wolfish. “Good. That means you care.”

Then he finally, finally, leans in and kisses you, slow and devastating. Not a peck. Not chaste. His mouth opens over yours and he devours the sound you make like he’s been starving for it. His hands cup your face like you're fragile, but his body presses forward with heat, pressure, a low grind of his hips that lets you feel just how not fragile he is.

You’re not ready. You thought you were.

But he’s already peeling your mind apart with just his mouth.

And he hasn’t even touched the bows yet.

Mark drops. Not in slow motion. Not in ceremony. Just drops.

To his knees.

One second he’s standing, towering over you with heat in his stare, and the next, he’s on the floor like you prayed him there. Still suited, still panting from the patrol, still dripping adrenaline and sky-dust and want. Wide-eyed. A man hollowed out and filled with nothing but you.

He exhales and crawls forward on hands and knees like the distance between you is an ocean and he’s starving to drown. His palms hit the floor with soft, deliberate thuds, and every muscle in his back moves like a wave under that skin tight suit, rippling with purpose.

Your legs part without conscious thought.

Because of course they do.

His hands reach your thighs like they belong there. Like he's gripping a lifeline. Strong fingers splay over the curve of your skin, his thumbs dragging higher, higher, until they hook into the straps of your lingerie and tug, just enough to make the mesh groan against you.

“For me?” His voice is surprised. Wonderstruck.

Then he bows his head.

Not with words at first. But with lips. With tongue. With soft, trembling exhales that tickle your skin before the wet heat of his mouth sinks low, slow, seeking, tasting.

His kisses start at your inner thighs, one, two, a third, like he’s mapping constellations with his mouth. The first is soft. Chaste, almost. The second lingers. The third? It burns. Lips pressed firm into your skin like he’s imprinting himself there. His breath hitches, hot and needy, as he noses in closer to the dark stretch of lace between your thighs.

You twitch.

One hand grips the underside of your thigh, spreading you further, holding you steady. The other trembles as it drags fingertips over the front of your panties. He traces you through the sheer, wet fabric, pauses, presses his nose to it.

He inhales.

And groans. “Fucking hell.”

“Thank you,” again, whispered against your folds like devotion. “You didn’t have to—” His voice breaks, lips ghosting along the seam where the fabric clings tight. “—but you did. For me.”

And then, then, he tongues you through the lace.

Not teasing. Not slow.

He flattens his mouth and presses, hot and eager, licking you through the soaked barrier, letting the taste bleed through. The fabric darkens. Your knees wobble. His hands shoot out, gripping your hips, anchoring you as he moans into your cunt.

That sound, muffled and desperate and completely undone, makes you gasp.

He doesn’t stop.

His nose nudges your clit as his tongue moves lower, dragging slow, obscene strokes along your slit. The lace muffles nothing now, soaked to transparency, letting every detail of your heat reach his mouth. His hands tremble against your skin. His body rocks slightly, rutting the air like he’s grinding against the floor.

“God, I missed you,” he groans, voice raw with need. “Didn’t know how bad… not until right now.”

He licks again. Harder. Deeper. His tongue presses and wiggles against your entrance, making the lace dig into you, a rough contrast to the soft wet drag of his mouth.

You buck. Moan. Hands fly to his hair. He growls.

“Hold me there,” he pants, looking up at you, eyes glassy with hunger. “C’mon. Use me. Just—fuck—let me thank you.”

And you do.

Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging him closer, grinding your hips against his mouth as he feasts. He shifts, tears the fabric aside with a low snarl, rips it, baring you completely. No more barrier. No more restraint.

His tongue dives in. Slick. Greedy. Groaning into your cunt like it’s salvation.

He mouths at your clit, messy, fast, wild, and then sucks it in, lips sealing over it, tongue flicking rapid fire.

Your knees give.

He catches you, holds you, never stopping. You sob his name, barely coherent. He moans into you, frantic.

Your thighs tremble in his grip, and you feel the desperate clutch of his fingers locking you in place like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing that matters. His breath hitches against the fabric, hot and damp. Every slow swipe of his tongue through the soaked cotton is filthy, focused, insistent, the sound wet and intimate enough to make your spine arch. He presses in harder, nose smashed into the gusset, inhaling deep like he’s trying to taste you through every sense he’s got.

Your hips twitch. You try to shift, pull back, just a little, a breath, but he growls low in his throat, a vibration that echoes through the ache between your legs, and clamps down. One arm snakes tighter around your waist, the other curls under your thigh, spreading you wide, tilting your hips up, just how he wants you. Your knees are barely holding. His tongue flattens, presses, grinds slow and heavy over the damp seam, pushing the soaked panties into you like he’s marking territory.

And you’re soaked.

It clings, obscenely wet, and he groans into it like your taste is making him drunk. Then he finally does it, fingers hook the lace and tug, not aside, but down. Off. Gone. He tosses them somewhere behind him, already forgotten, and then he’s back in before you can even suck in a breath.

There’s no teasing.

His mouth seals over your slit, tongue plunging, desperate and relentless, and your head tips back with a cry that cracks into a broken “ahhnnnn—fu—Mark!” because it’s too much. Every stroke of his tongue is filthy, unhurried but deep, drawing slick sounds that make your ears burn like he’s trying to drink from you, lap it all up and never come up for air.

You’re panting. Drenched in sweat. Nails clawing at his hair, his scalp, anything to ground you because you’re flying apart.

“Fuck—fuck, Mark, please—”

He moans into you, nose grinding over your clit now, tongue pumping faster, deeper, and you swear to God you see stars. Your thighs are shaking. You try to warn him, stuttered breaths and whimpers that fall apart the second his lips wrap tight around your clit and suck, hard.

You shatter.

Orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your whole body locks, jerks, then convulses, and he doesn’t stop. His mouth is still on you, drinking you down like you’re divine, licking through your aftershocks, and your body keeps twitching, overstimulated and raw, but so good.

You’re whining now, hips wriggling to escape and needing more at the same time, and he finally lets up just a little, lips slick with you, chin drenched, eyes wild. He looks up like he’s on the edge of something dangerous, and he grins, smug, flushed, utterly broken.

“Dinner?” His voice dips, soft and steady. “You really think I could sit through dinner with you looking like this?”

Then he dives back in.

You're still gasping, your body trembling with aftershocks when he goes right back in, no hesitation, no mercy. His tongue parts your folds again, and this time it’s slower, richer, like he’s savoring the taste of you now that he’s cracked you open. Your hands are limp at your sides for a moment, twitching uselessly, and then you’re back in his hair, dragging your nails across his scalp, trying to grip something, anything, because it’s too much.

You’re already sensitive, every nerve ending raw and electric, but he doesn't give you a second to breathe. His lips find your clit again, too fast, and when he sucks it into his mouth this time, your hips jolt and you scream. It’s not a moan. Not a whimper. It’s raw, open-throated, desperate, your voice cracked and high-pitched, almost hysterical with overstimulation.

"F-Fuck—Mark, I—I can't, I just—"

You try to twist, to push at his head again. You collapse back, legs wide open, shivering, pinned by the sheer force of his mouth.

He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

His tongue circles your clit now, slow spirals that have you sobbing into your own shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. The pressure in your gut is building again way too fast. There’s no climb, no gentle crescendo, just a sharp, impossible spike that tightens and tightens until it snaps. You come again, violently. Like your body was waiting, aching, begging to do it the moment he started again.

Your thighs clamp around his head, shaking, your entire body locking up. Your voice is hoarse, choked out through gritted teeth as you thrash, your orgasm tearing through you like it wants to break you. It’s a flood. A hot, soaking rush that makes his groan deepen, hungry and savage, and you can feel his tongue still working, licking, sucking, drinking everything down.

"Fffuck—!" You choke on it, the pleasure so intense it hurts, and the only thing keeping you grounded is the feel of his strong arms under your thighs, his fingers bruising your skin as he holds you open and devours you.

You don’t know how long it lasts, seconds, hours, forever, but when you finally slump down, boneless and twitching, you’re soaked in sweat, flushed all the way down your chest, and still pulsing with the remnants of that shattering high.

Mark finally pulls back.

His face is a mess, slick with you, flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with need. He licks a slow stripe up the inside of your thigh and groans like he’s tasting victory. His voice is low, almost slurred with hunger.

“Shit,” he breathes, lips brushing just beside your soaked skin. “You come so fucking pretty for me.”

Then, his eyes lock with yours. “I’m not done.”

Your legs barely hold you as he stands, lifting you like you weigh nothing, mouth still slick from what he just did to you. He doesn’t bother asking, just hauls you up and slams your ass onto the edge of the kitchen table with a sharp grunt, the wood groaning beneath the impact. A dish clatters and spins out of the way, forgotten. His eyes are locked on yours, pupils blown, chest heaving.

“God, baby,” he breathes, shaking his head with a smile. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

His hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, sliding up your ribs, thumbing under the edge of the ruined lingerie clinging to your damp, flushed skin. It’s stretched, wrinkled with sweat, straps torn, curling where it barely hangs on. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just yanks one side wider with a ragged rip, exposing one breast while the lace rides high on your hips, bunched at your waist like a flag of surrender.

“Keep coming like that,” he murmurs, half-laughing, breath warm against your cheek. “I swear I’ll marry you again just so no one else ever gets a chance.”

He fumbles with his suit open one-handed, yanking them low enough for his cock to spring free, thick, flushed, leaking. The second he’s bare, he’s already on you. One hand spreads your thighs wide, and then he’s there, pressing in thick and slow, the head of his cock stretching you open in one heavy, greedy push.

“Fuck—” You hiss through your teeth, head falling back as the burn of it rolls through you, slow and deep.

He doesn’t rush. Not now.

He drives in, inch by inch, jaw clenched so tight you can hear it. His hands hold your hips like handles, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above the bone, guiding you down onto him like he’s fitting you onto something sacred. When he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt, you both groan like you’ve been starved for centuries.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes, voice unsteady. “You feel so good—always so fucking tight for me.”

He doesn’t even strip the lingerie all the way. He likes it on, likes seeing what’s left of it after you’ve both torn through it like animals. One twisted strap still hugs your shoulder, the bra pulled just under your breasts, half-cupped by lace that clings damp and sheer. He watches it bounce with every roll of your hips, hungry and unblinking.

Then he starts to move.

Not frantically, not yet, but slow and deep, his thrusts measured like he’s tasting every inch. You feel every vein drag, every inch push slick and snug inside you. The table creaks. His hips roll in slow waves, grinding deep, grinding mean, and the friction has your toes curling in the air.

He watches you come undone with a grin that looks half flushed, half adoring.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Haven’t even started fucking you yet.”

He starts building pace, just enough to keep you panting, moaning, rolling your hips to meet him. You grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, head thrown back. He changes angles, pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hard, and your body jerks with the impact.

“Ahh—Mark!” It tears out of you, loud, helpless.

“Yeah?” He’s panting, sweat slicking his chest. “That’s what you want, baby? Just wanna get ruined on the table like this? Can’t even wait for the bed?”

His words make your stomach knot, your pussy clench around him, and he groans, biting down on his lower lip to keep from losing it.

Your orgasm’s coiling again. God, you’re close, right there. But you’re not the only one. His thrusts get sloppier, his grip tighter, the rhythm starting to falter, but he pulls out suddenly, curses through his teeth, and grabs your hips to still you.

“Fuck. I’m not—gonna finish—not yet.”

He yanks out with a guttural curse, the head of his cock dragging soaked and swollen against your entrance as he steps back just enough to breathe. You're panting, strung out, thighs twitching, still open on the edge of the kitchen table, folds glossy and dripping. Your pussy clenches around nothing, so fucking empty it makes your whole body flinch. The second he catches your hips trying to grind down on air, he grins, sharp, hungry, a little wild.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You’re dangerous, you know that? The way you feel—what you do to me…”

You squeal as your back hits the table, your legs flying up, but he doesn't let you land, he guides you, hands under your thighs, wrists strong as steel, dragging you down with him as he sinks onto the floor and plants himself flat on his back. His cock is already standing, hard as fuck, flushed dark, wet from you, twitching up from his pelvis like it’s begging.

“You feel how ready I am for you?” he murmurs. “Come sit on it, sweetheart.”

You scramble, shaky and breathless, lingerie half-off, one strap falling down your shoulder, the bra cups crooked, barely holding on. Your thighs straddle his waist, the position spreading you wide, making everything ache. You grip his cock and line it up, he shudders, the muscles in his stomach twitching, and you sink down on him with a sound that’s more animal than human.

“Fuck—please—yes—need it—”

He fills you again, slow but deep, your body stretching, swallowing him inch by inch. It punches the breath right out of both of you, makes your mouth fall open in a silent scream as you bottom out and stay there, shaking.

“Oh my god, Mark,” you whimper, hands braced on his chest, fingers curling against hard, sweat-slick muscle. His abs contract every time you rock your hips, grinding slow, dragging your clit over his pelvis with each tiny, desperate circle.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, voice low and thick. “Take it. Just like that. You’re doing so fucking good.”

You ride him slow at first, your thighs burning, pussy fluttering with every drag, wet sounds obscene, your bodies soaked, tangled, flushed. The lace is twisted, digging in, the straps falling from your shoulders. He grabs one, pulls it taut, uses it to tug you down hard as your hips slam down onto his cock with a wet slap.

“You feel that, baby?” he murmurs, voice thick and warm. “You’re soaked for me… fuck, it’s perfect.”

Your pace stutters. Your nails scrape down his chest. You can’t think, can barely , rock, grind, grind, the tip of his cock hitting that spot inside you with every bounce. Your clit drags over his abs, catching on the ridges, and you moan high, breathless.

“F-Fuck—s’so deep—feels s’full—”

“Just like that,” he breathes, hand firm on your hip. “I can feel it—you’re close, aren’t you? You gonna soak me again?”

“No—no, not yet,” you gasp, voice shaking. “I can’t—I wanna—”

“Use me, baby,” he whispers, breath catching. “That’s what I’m here for. All of me—for you.”

Your hips slam down harder. Faster. The table groans behind you, chairs tipped over, the whole room fogged with heat. Your pace is desperate, frantic now, bouncing on him like your body’s trying to shake the orgasm loose and just can’t, it’s right there, throbbing behind your ribs, rising like a scream in your throat.

He grabs your ass with both hands, squeezing so tight your skin dimples. He thrusts up into you as you come down, meeting you, matching your pace. The slaps are deafening, wet and violent, punctuated by his groans and your cries.

You stay right there, teetering on the edge, shaking, riding him like you’re possessed, your body clenching so tight around his cock he can barely breathe. He’s gritting his teeth, head thrown back, sweat rolling down his temple as he holds out with every scrap of control he has left.

“You keep riding like that—fuck, baby—you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

Your thighs burn, your knees ache, and you don't care. You're riding him like a demon possessed, like the table under you isn't still rattling from earlier, like your pussy isn't already overstretched, dripping, swollen. You're soaked, hair stuck to your forehead, sweat dripping between your tits, and you’re making noises, wet, raw, ruined things that barely sound human anymore.

Mark is underneath you, flat on his back on the goddamn kitchen floor, staring up at you like you're something he hallucinated. One hand’s braced behind his head, the other’s digging into your ass, fingers spreading you wide as you slam down on his cock. You grind, bounce, twist, your soaked folds catching on every ridge, your clit grinding into his stomach with every rough pass of your hips.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathes, holding your hips steady. “I can feel you shaking, baby—keep going.”

“I c-can’t—” Your words stutter, cracked and breathless, your thighs seizing with every downward slam of your hips. “Mark, I—fuck—oh my God, it’s—”

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, like it breaks him a little. “I’ve got you, baby. Let it out. Let me keep you like this.”

You can’t even deny it. You’re riding him like you’re trying to get bred, like your body wants it, needs to be filled again and again until you're split wide and stuffed full. Your cunt’s fluttering around him with every drag, pulling tight as a fist, milking him even though you haven’t finished yet, and it’s killing him. His mouth drops open, eyes rolling for half a second as he groans deep from his chest, the kind of sound that makes your pussy clench and your nails dig deeper into his chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breathless, eyes fixed on your face. “You’re so full… still taking me so well.”

His hands slide up your sides, grounding, guiding, as he lifts into you with slow, deep precision, just enough to make your breath hitch and your eyes go wide.

He leans in, lips close to your ear now.

“You love this, don’t you? Being mine like this…”

You sob, half from the impact, half from the way it hits just right, slams into that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your moans break apart into pure noise.

Your whole body’s shaking now, thighs trembling, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you lean over him, your hands splayed wide across his chest. You start to fuck down harder, more erratic, your hips snapping forward, backward, your pussy slapping down with such filthy wet claps that it sounds like you’re getting fucked by a goddamn machine.

“Uhhn—uhh—fuuhck, Mark, I—” You can’t finish. You can’t do anything but bounce and grind and sob into the heat of his skin, your voice breaking every time your clit drags across his abs.

“You’re so close,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. A soft groan leaves him as he presses in deeper, slower. “You gonna come for me like that? Let me feel all of it?”

His cock’s twitching, veined and thick, buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach, and your body’s barely hanging on. You’re grinding now, desperate, staying down on him, rocking your hips in fast, brutal little circles that send aftershock after aftershock wracking up your spine.

Your orgasm doesn’t sneak up on you. It doesn’t whisper or ask permission. It tears through you, your whole body jerking, back arching, throat ripped open in a raw, high scream. You shake, muscles clenching tight around him, spasming in waves that won’t stop. Your cunt squeezes him so hard he gasps, the sound punched out of him like he’s been hit.

“H-Holy fuck—fuck, fuck—” Mark’s voice is strangled, broken. “I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m coming—”

He thrusts up once, hard, then locks his arms around your waist and holds you down, keeps you fully seated, his cock buried to the root as he cums with a deep, choked groan that vibrates against your collarbone. You feel it, every hot pulse of it, thick and wet, flooding you, leaking back out around the base of his cock, so much you can feel it running down your thighs.

Your whole body shakes through it, grinding helplessly even as you come down, trying to wring every last drop out of him. His cock twitches inside you, oversensitive, and he moans again, softer, more desperate, his breath panting into your skin.

Collapsed in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs, your chest heaving against his, your cheek squished into the curve of his shoulder. His cock’s still buried inside you, softening slowly, but not all the way, not with how your pussy keeps fluttering, twitching around him like it doesn't know how to let go.

And Mark… groans.

A low, filthy sound from deep in his chest, rumbling against your skin as his hands run up and down your spine. His fingers are gentle now, tracing along your back in lazy circles, slipping beneath the twisted remains of your lingerie. What’s left of it is clinging damp to your ribs, straps twisted under your breasts, the cups skewed like they gave up halfway through. 

He kisses your shoulder. Then your collarbone. The underside of your jaw. Slow, messy, lingering presses of his lips to every bit of exposed skin he can reach without moving you off his chest. You feel his cock twitch again inside you, still, and that makes you laugh. Or sob. Maybe both. Your body doesn’t know the difference anymore.

“God,” he whispers, mouth dragging across the side of your neck, “you’re unreal.” Another kiss. Then one to your cheekbone. One to the tear-track drying near your eye. “You always cry like that when you come that hard?”

You give a weak, breathless whimper of a laugh, twitching when your oversensitive clit drags across the ridge of his pelvis as you shift.

“Shut up,” you mumble, hiding your face in his throat.

He grins against your temple, lips pressed there as he wraps his arms tighter around your waist, still holding you down, still buried inside you.

Then, a beat. A long, drawn-out sigh from both of you.

And softly, he murmurs, “…So… dinner?”

You snort so hard your whole body jumps, and he groans again as your pussy flutters around him, tight and reflexive.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I am dinner,” you mumble, voice muffled in his skin.

He pulls back to look at you, brow damp, lips crooked into a cocky, half-sweet, half-devastated smile. “Then dessert’s next. You’re not going anywhere.”

And he means it.

You burst out laughing again, and he winces when your pussy clenches in rhythm with the shake of your body. “I hate you,” you gasp through laughter.

“I love you,” he shoots back, hands cradling your hips. “So much that I’m not even mad about—”

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

“…That.”

You both freeze. Your eyes go wide. His face contorts slowly in horrified realization.

“The oven,” you whisper.

“THE OVEN.”

Suddenly he’s scrambling, trying to lift you without pulling out, which just doesn’t work because he’s still half-hard and you’re still hot and full and every shift sends a wet squelch between your thighs.

You both groan in unison.

“I told you we should’ve just ordered takeout,” you grunt, arms wrapped around his neck.

“And I told you I was starving.”

“Oh my god, you’re impossible—”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He carries you anyway, up from the kitchen floor, still buried inside you, both of you dripping down his thighs.

He makes it four steps toward the hallway before he sways and groans. “Okay. Fuck it. Shower first. Or couch. Or floor, again.”

You clutch his shoulders, whimpering when his cock twitches inside you again. “Bed. Bed. Bed or I’m gonna melt.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, voice hoarse. “Good. Melt on me.”

You don’t remember if you make it to the bed, or the couch, or if he fucks you standing in the hallway with your back to the wall, hands tangled in his hair, your panties thrown in the corner.

But dinner definitely burns. And neither of you cares.

[tangyneon]

Thinking of clan leader!Gojo who cannot seem to decide if he wishes to hate his newlywed wife or adore her until the point of madness.

Clan leader!Gojo who has always abhorred the concept of marriage. He's a force of nature, a deity walking amongst the seas of mortals—he can never be bound by rules or by duties—the least of all, by some notion as archaic as that of marriage. The man simply laughs—much more of a scoff than anything else—when the elders (a handful only, whom he has left unscathed by his rage) tell him of a girl and how a wedding with her clan will assist in stabilizing the Gojo clan, maybe even the Jujutsu society, and bring a breath of fresh air into a world filled with smoke in the wake of the havoc wrecked by Sukuna.

Clan leader!Gojo who shows no response other than a derisive laugh, no matter how many times his clan elders pester him to agree to their demands, disguised poorly as requests. (Sometimes, Gojo repents he did not kill them all.) But then, The Strongest might be The Strongest but he is only a human being at the end of the day—and his fight with Sukuna has left him more scarred and tired than can be seen by one's naked eye—it is hardly a surprise then that he lowers his defenses for just one day, and the crafty old men of his clan utilize that moment to get him to bow and bend to their wishes.

Clan leader!Gojo who somehow finds himself getting married (read: lowkey forced into getting married) to you. And, pissed beyond what words can convey and extremely eager to get his freedom back, the man resolves to hate you like there's no tomorrow—so much so that, there will be no option for you except to leave him and return to your clan, lest you wilt and die in his stifling company.

Clan leader!Gojo who never sees his masterpiece of a plan fail, but as quite some things in life are destined to do, it backfires immediately—miserably, almost magically.

Clan leader!Gojo who never expects his bride to be so... un-hateable. You are dutiful, deferential and well-mannered—simply everything an elder will expect the wife of the Gojo clan head to be. It's a no-brainer why those old geezers chose you to be the leash on Gojo's neck. But, boy oh boy, isn't it too difficult to hate you even when you're a perfect symbol of all the tenets he has deemed to be his life's bane.

Clan leader!Gojo who just cannot find one flaw in you so that he can start loathing you for it. You are not cloying. You are not overbearing. He has never seen you once seem starstruck by him. Nor has he ever seen you see him as a ladder to reach some place higher. You do not even make a face or roll your eyes at any of the innumerable facets of his personality, the way many others do and have always done. You... are merely a presence, nothing more and nothing less, in the plane of Gojo's life—and no matter how much the man tries, it is awfully tough to hate someone who is doing nothing but just existing.

Clan leader!Gojo who then resolves to ignore you if he cannot make himself hate you—a goal rather easy to attain when the person one's trying to brush off is merely existing—only to realize just how wrong he's been. You are not, in fact, just existing. You, his wife of not even one half of a year, are existing and enchanting Gojo—all in the same breath. (And the worst thing is—you don't even seem to be aware of it!!)

Clan leader!Gojo who finds himself drifting towards you—no matter just how much he actively tries not to. What you are doing then is of absolutely no importance. You might be scrolling on your mobile, or reading some book, or talking with the staff, or just walking past him while humming the tune of a song from decades before either of you were born—regardless of anything and everything, he finds himself wanting to follow you, wrap his arms around you, nuzzle into you and maybe—if you do not mind—trace the curve of your neck and the line of your jaw and the flesh of your lips with his mouth—

Clan leader!Gojo who never lets such thoughts form—no, fester—for long in his mind. But even while fighting them, he knows he is waging a war he's doomed to lose—but that doesn't mean he is going to give up fighting!!

Clan leader!Gojo who, thanks to his personal emotional storm, finds himself developing a sometimes-warm-other-times-cool demeanour towards you. He has always been a touch temperamental, but in this moment, he sees himself becoming moody—something he couldn't have guessed would occur to himself—not even in tens of thousands of years. Yet—yet, yet, yet—this observation doesn't distress Gojo as much as the unruffled way you always handle his mood swings—you make his brows furrow in concern and confusion more than anything else he has ever encountered.

Clan leader!Gojo who watches you not even bat an eyelash when he does not speak with you more than a few cursory phrases for several days at end—only to burst into your quarters, one fine day, and ask a multitude of questions about your childhood, simply because he has been too curious about you to stay away for one more moment. Gojo does not catch any show of excess emotion from you even when he's leaving on a mission for nearly a week and informing you only fifteen minutes before he is to leave—you only frown for a beat, then ask him if he has packed everything properly, if you need to help him or not—and you show the same normal degree of emotions when he returns after a fortnight instead of a week, but with a new diamond necklace he spotted while he was on the trip, and he bought it because he was of the opinion it'd suit the dress you bought some time back—even in this case, you only frown once before he shows you the necklace, and you study it for a second, before accepting it with a small smile and a sentence of gratitude—and that's it. You take everything about him in stride—very literally, everything—both him choosing to sit kilometres away from you at the dining table, and him not letting you be without him, without his hand resting on your back, for even one fraction of a second, at the public events. You just are beside him; and you just let him be—unbothered if he's beside you or not; you just check if Gojo is alive, if he's alright, if he's eating well, if he's sleeping well—and that is pretty much it.

Clan leader!Gojo who wishes—from time to time (all the time), in the dead of the night (throughout the day and the night)—that his wife's concern for him was not pretty much it.

He wants more of it. He wants more of you.

Your husband, clan leader!Gojo, who would probably never admit to this but the man wants—both literally and metaphorically—all of you. Each and every inch and ounce of you.

(If only Gojo does something about this, about himself, and sends for you from your quarters, assigned by him, to his rooms—if only, if only, if only.)

© tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || masterlist.

[sangunary]

Sillouethe Of Your Soul.

BatFam x Neglected Reader.

SYPNOSIS: How could anyone missed something they've never had.

WARNING: NOT FOR SENSETIVE PEOPLE OR WHO HATE GORE. (Daddy issue incoming)

Some abuser never realised the extent of their actions nor do they try to understand the person they have hurt, they relish in being in power to chain an angel on Earth with them so they won't feel so envious of it's wings.

Some don't realise their own abused, the harsh word that left wounds deep inside their sweet angel's heart, their silhouette ligures around the house but their soul were never present... They do not understand that their own actions have consequences that hurt more than themselves.

You were abused in the silent ways, no one to cheer you own, no one to help you sleep, no one to love you.

You would watch a family so happy and perfect just that they were your family and you felt like watching as their perfection together formed an art while you watched. Just another audience watching a beautiful art.

"She was an angel"

Bruce began as he sit inside his office that left somewhere empty now... The guy who he was talking was from CPS conducting an interview after your death.

"I should have realised... she wasn't a bird like the rest, she was an angel who just needs some encouragement to fly"

Bruce was better at nursing helpless birds than an angel. He's been a father for more than he could remember but he never took onto consideration on how some kid's aren't all birds and he gave up so soon... After he realised he could nurture you like a bird.

"I would watch her silently, I couldn't realise what I was doing wrong... I didn't knew how to raise a bird like her and I realised something was wrong with her."

You would sit there at the side quietly as the rest of the family played around treating you like a ghost. Their playful banter and smile never reached yourside, you were treated like a guest at your own home.

"I kept trying tho, I pushed and pushed trying to force her to open her wings... Like the rest of the family, but it wouldn't budge"

Bruce would watch as he ordered you to do certain thing's that no one else had to, doing everybody else laundry, extra studies, outside tuition and even excluding you from certain family function.

He knew you weren't strong enough to be a vigilante, that's why the rest of your siblings have a hard time being near you... Your life were different. You were just too 'odd' to be include as a family to them.

"I never knew how much it hurt her..."

You could barely hold back your tears sometimes, everyone get the idle father but to you he was never a father he was just an instructor... Who clearly have favourite.

"I told Alfred to stop making food for her... To learn how to survive on her own, she was already weak I thought I was helping her survive"

You would stood there your eyes looking into the abyss, everyone had their plate on the table yet yours was missing. They did not asked or have a single concern as they happily ate their meal... As your flesh began to decay.

Every Christmas you were gone nowhere to be seen but everyone carried on their life like you were never there at the first place.

Your bones were crushed, your blood being drained slowly as their smile and laughter taunt you.

Why? Why would you ever missed something you never had?

You've spent your whole life without them. Why would you suddenly need them, they were heros... They were obliged to love everyone but you were being singled out.

"I don't know why she didn't scream when they dunk her head into the water"

The brutal scene of your death, some thugs decided to kidnapped you for money but when they realised your family nor the bats were coming they used you to fulfill twisted dreams.

Your wrist was red and some soft skin were pelling off. Tears, sweat and snot on your face as you begged God to save you.

Tim got kidnapped before and he was saved before an hour.. You've been down here for six hours, bruised and broken.

You thought for once that your family would show some mercy and come but they didn't, left you behind in the hands of two merciless people.

For six hour straight you've been beaten, they dunked your head into some cold water and before you could passed out and just let go they would pull your head back.

Your clothes were torn and dirty, your body was aching and there was a fine line of cut on your neck as blood wouldn't stop spewing out of it. Your fingers were mostly broken and you're been hit with a rench which left your jaw broken and your head bleeding.

"Dad...I, mis-ed u..."

You could barely speak but you used the bit of your strength on calling for your father, for him to embrace you in your dying moment... That's what you've wanted for a long time .

Memories flash across your mind as your breath began to slow down. You've watched alot of movies, you always wanted your father to pick you up into the sky and told you that he loved you.

The way a father would look at their daughter and be proud of. Everybody had a father by their side growing up atleast in your eyes, the one to hold their hands while they cheer, the one to embrace them when they accomplish even the smallest of thing.

But, he was never a present father to you. Ever award you won the only thing you care for was your father, you looked into the crowd of faces to see his proud face or just him but he wasn't there.

Unlike everyone else who had a father holding their hands to guide them through the darkness you only had yourself. Every compliment felt meaningless and every compliment was replaced with untold hatred.

"I couldn't stop myself that day... I hold onto her and cried. My baby was dead"

He continued as his face show a slight sorrow but he was holding it back.

"My child, my little angel... Lifeless on the dirty street left there to be eaten by the rats... I couldn't control my tears, so many word left untold... So many praise I've kept to myself, she died thinking she was a burden."

His voice cracked as his throat began to heat up from the emotion he was trying to surpass.

Your body was left at some nearby alleyway, you were still concious when they throw your body onto the cold cement. The light of the city blended in your eyes, you lay there paralyzed soaking wet from your blood.

It was cold and empty, trying to imagine the warmth of your father, but you couldn't...You didn't know how it felt to be under a father warmth. You never had that.

All those years filled with unsaid words and tension between the two of you. You couldn't speak and he didn't knew how to care for you. You watched as he would nurture all your siblings buy you.

Every birds by his side cuddling and loving while your feathers began to fall to warmth your heart, to play the role of being loved. You sacrifice your own greatness for fatherly love.

"Her body was cold and empty, not the girl I watched grew up... Her blood were warm, like she was trying to comfort me for the last time..."

Bruce looked at his hands as he looked back at the guy, he recoll running towards the scene, pushing the GCPD aside when they tried to stop him... But a father could never be stopped when their child is at stake.

He saw your body near the trash, they threw you away like you didn't meant anything but a trash to be taken out after it was done with.

He went on his knees as he dirty his perfect suit, his hands holding onto your body as he began to sob... Your face have went pale and he could see the damage done to your jaw and the large bruise on your left eye.

The bruise was swollen, purple and red colouring it... Seemed like they had hit you with something hard.

"Whoever killed her treated her no different from an animal. I hold onto her hands, I prayed to God to do something... I was... Late, too late to be a father to her."

"I ruined a beautiful angel... I wasn't a father... I treated her differently... I was too sucked up to understand that she needed a father and not Bruce..."

"I just, hoped that no father would do this to their child... She was my child, my angel, my baby... And I would die to bring her back and told her... I love you always"

I know this is shittu but im bored.

[pascalissmoked]

hi! i just found your account and i’m obsessed with your writing

can you do a fic or one shot of joel being obsessed w eating you out?😩

Omg thank you, anon! I absolutely loved this idea and decided to write something filthy for you, enjoy xx

Where His Mouth Belongs

dbf!joel x fem!reader

Summary: Joel loves to eat you out. That's it. Word Count: 1.2K Warnings: obsession, oral fixation, age gap (reader is early 20s / Joel is late 40s to 50s), morally gray!joel, ellie’s friend!reader, secret relationship, dubcon-adjacent (reader consents but situation is messy), power imbalance, dirty talk, Joel treating pussy like a lifeline, unprotected oral (obviously), unhealthy emotional dynamics,, dark smut with emotional tension.

You were just crashing for the night.

Ellie said it was fine. She offered you the couch after patrol ran late, and Joel didn’t argue. Just gave you one of those gruff, unreadable nods and handed you a blanket.

You’d known Joel for a while now. Through Ellie. Through shared dinners and the occasional awkward conversation. He was always polite, if distant. Watched you more than he spoke to you. But nothing weird. Nothing wrong.

Until that one night.

You woke up in the dark, heart kicking for a second, unsure what had stirred you. The house was quiet. The only sound was the soft creak of floorboards. Then weight at the edge of the couch. Heavy. Solid.

And hands.

Your eyes blinked open, confused, groggy—until you felt it: warm breath ghosting over your thighs. The blanket had been pulled up. Your sleep shorts tugged down.

You gasped, tried to sit up—but his hand was already on your stomach, firm, grounding you.

“Shhh. Don’t,” Joel whispered. Low. Raspy. “Just—lemme have this. Been good too long.”

His mouth was on you before you could form a protest. One long, slow drag of his tongue that made your hips buck and your thoughts shatter. You should’ve stopped him. Said something. Pushed him off.

But you didn’t.

Because your body betrayed you.

Because his tongue moved like he knew you. Like he’d imagined this a thousand times, memorized how you’d taste, sound, twitch. And fuck—he had.

He’d thought about it for months.

Every time you laughed at Ellie’s jokes. Every time you bent over to tie your boots. Every time he caught the scent of your shampoo on a borrowed hoodie. Joel knew he was too old, too broken, too everything—but none of it mattered when he closed his eyes and pictured himself between your legs.

The first taste unhinged him. You were soft and soaked and perfect. He growled into you, a low, guttural sound like he was finally getting what he was owed. It wasn’t just eating you out—it was claiming you. His mouth worked in slow circles, tongue slipping deep, lips wrapped around your clit like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And you came for him. Loud. Shaking. Your hand in his hair before you even knew what you were doing.

And when you finally whispered, “Joel—what the fuck—” he didn’t apologize.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked up at you, lips shiny, eyes blown black with obsession, and said:

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

That was weeks ago.

You never told Ellie. Never confronted Joel. But you came back.

One excuse, then another. More sleepovers. More moments alone. And now, he’s unhinged.

Joel doesn’t care where you are—bed, couch, kitchen counter—he finds you. Kneels for you like it’s worship. Some days he barely lets you speak. Just shoves his face between your thighs and moans like he’s starved.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he pants into you, beard slick, voice wrecked. “Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you taste, how you shake on my tongue. You were made for this. For me.”

He doesn’t even fuck you most nights.

Just mouths at you until you’re crying. Until your legs won’t stop shaking and you beg him to stop—and he doesn’t. Says he needs it. That he’d die without it.

And maybe you believe him.

Because somewhere along the line, you stopped knowing where the limits were. When it turned from a one-time mistake into something more. Something twisted. Something daily.

You're not sure when the line stopped existing.

Maybe it was never there in the first place.

At first, it was just those nights—quiet, secret, drenched in sweat and guilt. Joel on his knees, tongue desperate, greedy—like your cunt was the only thing tethering him to the earth. He didn’t touch you anywhere else. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t hold you after.

Just left you ruined, wet, shaking.

And always, always came back for more.

He got used to getting what he wanted and leaving you ruined and aching.

But now it’s bleeding into everything.

He starts watching you in front of Ellie.

When you laugh too hard at one of her jokes, Joel’s jaw twitches. When you wear shorts to dinner, his eyes linger too long. He starts asking you weird questions—who you’re seeing, what you wear to bed, whether you’ve ever thought about moving in somewhere closer.

And then it happens.

You go on patrol with Ellie. A dumb run. Nothing dangerous. You’re riding back in the dark, joking, when Ellie smirks and says:

“Dude, Joel is obsessed with you.”

You freeze.

She doesn’t notice.

“He always asks when you’re coming over. Offered to fix your watch for free. I caught him staring at your ass once, swear to God.”

You laugh it off—awkward, cold—but your stomach is ice. Because you know. He’s not even hiding it anymore.

And the thought of your best friend knowing what you're up to with him turns your gut sour.

Yet, that night, you show up at his door.

He doesn’t say a word. Just yanks you inside, locks it behind you, and backs you against the wall.

“You tell her?” he growls.

“No.” Ellie must've teased him too if he was already this pent up.

“You gonna?”

You stare up at him. His chest is heaving. Eyes wild. And he’s hard—already—just from the thought of you being close.

“I should,” you whisper. “This is fucked.”

Joel’s hand grabs your jaw, not rough but not gentle either. He leans down, breath hot against your mouth, and says:

“You think I give a single fuck?”

His mouth crashes into yours.

It’s the first time he’s ever kissed you.

It’s not sweet.

It’s ownership.

And you let him.

Ten minutes later, you’re on the floor. Shirt bunched under your back, legs hanging over his shoulder. Joel’s got your thighs pushed open like he’s dissecting you—like he’s studying the way you fall apart under his tongue.

He eats like a starving man. Big, messy licks. Grunting against your cunt while he jerks himself with his free hand. He’s obsessed. Animal. Moaning like he’s getting off just from how wet you are.

“You don’t get it,” he pants between sucks. “Nothin’ ever felt this good. Not once in my goddamn life.”

You cum once. Then again.

Then he pins your thighs to the floor and keeps going.

You’re sobbing. Begging. Twisting your fingers in his hair to pull him off—but he won’t budge.

“You’re mine,” he says into you, almost slurring it. “Mine now. Don’t care what she thinks. Don’t care if you say stop—I know what you fuckin’ need.”

Your body’s a wreck. Dripping. Oversensitive. You cum a third time, legs locking around his head, crying out something that’s not even words.

And Joel smiles.

Because that’s all he’s ever wanted.

To make you break.

To taste it.

To know that you’ll always come back to him.

[rafesangelita]

♡ bitchy!pogue!reader brings a friend to tanneyhill..

warnings: sex work, threesome (m + f + f), face sitting, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, a little but of wlw

a/n: i’m really nervous about posting this fic in particular because it’s my first time writing smut with another woman so please give me some grace! thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

“how the fuck did you even discover this place?!” topper ran his hands through his hair, his jaw falling slack as his eyes danced around the room full of pretty girls prancing around in trashy lingerie and heels. ‘pink sugar’ was by far the most attended to strip joint on the cut— and it showed. as soon as any patron walked in, they were immediately hit with a whirlwind of cheap perfume, body glitter, and sparkly lipgloss. it was every man’s wet dream come true.. including rafe’s.

“life on figure eight gets stale after a while, bro. sometimes you just gotta expand a little bit, y’know?” topper nodded even though the words that rafe just said went in one ear and right out the other. the two of them took a seat in front of the main stage, a waitress wasting no time in getting their drink orders taken up to the front. while rafe had been here a handful of times, topper was like a kid in a candy store as he sat in awe.

meanwhile, you were getting ready in the locker room, both you and your best friend sticking rhinestones around each other’s eyes as you two waited to be called out by the dj for your turn to perform. “it better be a full house tonight.. i already have my eyes on these shoes, and there’s no way in hell i’m not getting them.” you cursed under your breath, running a pink comb through your hair to make sure everything looked perfect.

just as you adjusted the garter straps of your stockings, you heard your name being announced to the crowd outside. “good luck out there!” your bestie called out behind you, a giggle leaving your lips as you waved. even though you were more than familiar with the atmosphere already, you couldn’t help the thumping of your heart everytime you walked out from behind the curtains and felt the burning stares from the hungry men in the audience against your skin.

you smiled sweetly, the lights dimming just in time for you to lock eyes with two guys in the front. one looked laid back, his gaze raking down your figure as he drank from his glass, and the other looked like he couldn’t believe you were real. you knew right away he was a first timer by the way he leaned forward in his seat. pretending no one else was in the room, you started dancing, the floor already being littered with various dollar bills.

you tuned out the whistles and the hollering and focused on only the music, your set going by faster than you thought. with only one more song left on your list of requests, you stepped down from the stage, your hips swaying as you walked over to the two men you saw when you first came out. snaking your hands down the chest of the one with a buzz cut, you kneeled between his thighs before feeling him over his lap, his jaw clenching as he watched you intently.

rafe knew as soon as you looked up at him with something a little more than just lust in your eyes, he was going to have to take you away from here, your glossy lips shining underneath the neon lighting of the club. originally coming out to pre-game for the rager rafe was throwing tonight at tanneyhill, he figured he’d get the party going early with you looking so fucking pretty between his legs. he didn’t get to dwell on the sight for too long before you left him alone just as the song ended.

flashing him a wink, rafe watched you disappear backstage, the adam’s apple in his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. blinking out of his trance, rafe told topper he would be right back with more drinks before making his way over to the bar. “excuse me,” rafe motioned the bartender over, “do you know how i can talk to the girl that was just on stage?” he asked. “y/n? she usually comes out and converses with the crowd when she’s done with a set, she’ll be out here soon.”

quickly ordering three rounds of shots, rafe made his way back over to his seat only to see you and a friend of yours already over there laughing at something topper was saying. “—oh, here he is now..” topper laughed nervously, taking the tray of shots out of rafe’s hands as you two shared a look. “you talking about me?” his voice alone gave you butterflies, his tall form making you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

“don’t worry he didn’t say anything bad..” kitty, your best friend, teased. rafe looked over at her, his eyes wandering down her own sexy get-up. fixing his gaze back on you, rafe leaned down to whisper in your ear. “do you do personal parties?” he all but groaned once he smelled your sugary sweet skin, the sound shooting straight down to your panties. “personal parties?” you repeated, “it’s gonna cost you.” rafe scoffed, not worried about the money.

“give me a number.” he placed a gentle hand on the small of your back, pulling you close. you and kitty side glanced one another, a smile gracing your lips as your nails snaked around the buckle of his belt. “what kind of party?” you asked, making sure you were aware of what you were getting yourself into before agreeing to anything. “i’m throwing a house party tonight on figure eight, all of my friends are big spenders.. just putting that out there.”

you thought it over for a moment, a small part of you feeling intimidated since you weren’t familar with figure eight, nor did you know anyone that lived on that side of the island. “ten thousand, and i get to bring my friend over here.” you nodded towards kitty who was already sitting in topper’s lap. “perfect. do you need a second to get your things? i can take both of you straight over there.” you hummed at his words, silently signaling kitty to meet you in the back.

she excused herself from topper, both of you walking closely with each other to the locker rooms. “so what are we doing?” she was quick to touch up her makeup, changing out of her dancing shoes and into some platform heels. “that guy out there is willing to give me ten thousand to go to a party he’s having on figure eight, but if you come with me we’ll split it, plus he said his friends were ‘big spenders’, so that’s five thousand each excluding tips.”

without having to say another word, kitty was immediately on board, both of you squealing excitedly before grabbing your purses from your lockers. following the guys out of the club, you allowed rafe to open the passenger door for you, topper and kitty filing in the back before rafe started up his truck. he put on his music loud enough for you to feel the bass in your chest, a mix of excitement and anticipation swirling in your tummy.

you didn’t know what you were expecting to pull up to, but a mansion as huge as rafe’s definitely wasn’t on your list of possibilities. there was cars already filling the streets, people lining the gates of the house as rafe parked in the driveway, his arms wrapping around your waist as he helped you get down from the truck. you and kitty waited for him to start letting people in before leading both of you through the front door, topper following closely behind.

“i just need you two to cater towards my people, alright? these guys don’t know what a good time really looks like and i want y’all to be the ones to show them, ‘sound good?” just as he was going to send you and kitty off to the living room, you stopped him. “we need to get paid before we do anything.” rafe glanced between you and your bestie and nodded. “of course, why don’t you two follow me upstairs and we can get that out of the way?”

doing as you were told, you and kitty both looked around the house as he lead both of you to the master bedroom. “it’s in here.” he welcomed you two in, doing a quick sweep of the hallway before locking the door behind him. taking a seat on the huge bed, you and kitty watched as rafe took a metal briefcase out of his closet and entered a pin for it to unlock. looking up, rafe admired both of you as kitty ran her fingers through your hair, a smile adorning your lips as she did so.

both of you were so unremarkably gorgeous, it was hard for him to count money as you two giggled with each other. while fixing one of the rhinestones on kitty’s face, she was staring at the body glitter on your cleavage, running a finger over the sparkly dust. “are you trying to cop a feel?” you teased, moving your hand to rest on her thigh. rafe’s jaw clenched at the sight. “maybe..” kitty laughed, both of you leaning into each other as your hands wandered further up underneath her skirt.

rafe cleared his throat, both of you snapping out of whatever this was. “this is the money right here,” he held up the stacks of cash for you two to see, “however, both of you seemed to have piqued my interest..” glancing at each other confusingly, you and kitty waited for rafe to explain. walking over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room, he took a seat. “take each other’s clothes off.” at this, you felt your heart starting to beat in your ears.

sharing a look, you and kitty had the same nervous expression written all over your faces. “for ten more grand, can you beautiful ladies let me watch?” you had to refrain from letting your jaw drop to the floor, your stomach flipping at the new offer. kitty scooted closer to you, her hand shielding her mouth as she whispered in your ear. “what do you think?” blinking, you stole a glance at the full brief case that sat on the hardwood desk against the wall.

“i think he can do better than ten thousand dollars..” you whispered back, your faces just mere inches away from each other’s. “make it fifteen.” you looked over at rafe, shrugging off your coat to reveal your outfit from earlier. “how about twenty?” kitty swore you could hear her heart beating out of her chest. “tell him it’s a deal.” she whispered, getting up from her spot on his bed. “we’ll do it.” with his cock already stirring in his pants, he leaned back in his seat as you and kitty pressed a soft kiss to each other’s lips.

stepping out of your heels, you snaked your fingers behind kitty’s top, her hands resting on the globes of your ass as you untied the strings to her sequined bra. you and kitty have been best friends for as long as you can remember, you two literally started dancing at pink sugar together, there was nothing that you two hadn’t seen of each other already. “are you okay?” she spoke low so rafe couldn’t hear. humming softly, you kissed her again, allowing her to slip off the lace material of your underwear.

rafe swallowed thickly, his eyes traveling over your naked figure. despite there being two of you, he found himself zeroed in on only yourself, your stare holding his as kitty kissed down your neck. “should we include him?” you whispered against her skin, running your palms down her side. “you like him, don’t you?” she giggled. you blinked slowly, refraining from smiling as you hummed quietly. “go get him.” rafe shifted his weight in his chair as you walked over, carefully straddling his lap.

“me and kitty want to share you..” you ran your hands over his chest before undoing the buttons of his shirt, the sight of his toned stomach encouraging you to do away with his belt next. rafe watched you as you palmed him through his pants, his tongue poking out to run over his bottom lip. taking his hand in yours, you helped him stand up on his feet before getting him out of his clothes and leading him to where you and kitty were.

laying him down, rafe looked at the two of you as each of you kneeled on either sides of him. “tell us what you want us to do.” kitty stroked his inner thigh while you took his cock in your hand, a strangled groan rumbling from his chest at your touch. his chest rose and fell while he took a moment to think. “i want kitty on my face and you on my cock.” he looked at you with hooded eyes, your head moving in kitty’s direction. “whatever you want, handsome.”

you and your best friend held hands as if to hold onto each other for leverage, her mouth falling open as rafe skillfully circled her entrance with his tongue, her hips moving smoothly so the tip of his nose was nudging her clit with every stroke. you on the other hand, could barely keep up with his thrusts as he stuffed you full, your moans bouncing off of his bedroom walls. “fuck, he feels so good.” you whimpered, nearly doubling over as he started thrusting from underneath you even harder.

kitty’s head hung low in defeat as she rode rafe’s face, her thighs trembling around his head as he licked and sucked at her soaked cunt. you clenched around him, squeezing him tightly as he groaned in response. kitty was speechless at the whole ordeal, her eyes rolling far back into her head as rafe held onto her thighs so she couldn’t get away from him. “oh, god—!” kitty gasped, her chest rising and falling as rafe pushed her over the edge, her hands dropping from yours in order to dig her nails into his skin.

rafe cursed when he felt the stinging sensation, your hips still moving as he loosened his grip on kitty’s thighs. he kept up his ministrations until your best friend got off of him with a squeal, overstimulation setting in as she laid next to him still going through the aftershocks of her orgasm. rafe licked his lips clean, wasting no time in sitting up against his headboard, his hands grabbing onto the globes of your ass so he could bounce you on top of him.

you buried your face in his chest, the scent of his cologne only adding to your cock drunk state. “you’re so fucking tight, holy shit—” he tugged on your earlobe with his teeth, your clit meeting his pubic bone as kitty took a seat behind you, her hands coming around to cup your tits as she moved your hair to one side of your shoulders to expose your neck. holding your head up, you shuddered when you felt her lips on your skin, her teeth nipping the sensitive flesh there.

you were a mess by the time rafe’s hips started bucking, kitty’s lips finding yours as you came with a cry, his moans echoing in your ears as he pulled you against his chest. you clenched around him as he came inside of you, his cum painting your insides as he panted. letting out a sigh, rafe thumbed your chin, both of you sharing a heated kiss before kitty got up and helped you slide off of him. “you okay?” she asked, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “yes, are you?” kitty nodded, both of you slipping back on your clothes.

rafe watched as you two cleaned yourselves up, his hand motioning towards the money. “it’s all there..” he trailed off, “kitty you think i can get a word alone with y/n here?” grabbing her stack, she nodded before going into the bathroom, leaving you and rafe alone together. “i want you to come back tomorrow, ‘spend the weekend with me.” you bit your lip, glancing over at the bathroom door. “i don’t know if kitty will be busy—”

“no, just you,” he cut you off, “i want you by yourself.”

[milkdough]

۫ ꣑ৎ . paige trying to find your g-spot, you had to guide her because she's so bad at it.

fingering. frustrated reader. power play. cocky paige. chaotic.

“is that it? is that the spot?” she asks leaning closer, her breath hot on your neck, clearly thinking she’s nailed it.

you burst out laughing, unable to help it, your head falling back against the pillow. “babe—oh my god—no, that was me clowning you.” you manage voice breaking as her fingers keep moving, still missing by a mile.

“you’re, like, poking my appendix or something.” your pussy’s wet, clenching around her, and it feels good, but the g-spot? not even in the same zip code.

“appendix? damn, you’re ruthless,” she says grinning, a flush creeping up her neck, a hint of embarrassment under her swagger.

she shifts trying a new angle, her fingers going too deep now, and you wince, a soft “ngh-” escaping before you can stop it.

“aight, aight, was that good? talk to me,” she says, all eager, her eyes scanning your face like it’s a highlight reel.

“paige—fuck—too deep, ease up,” you say half-moaning, half-laughing, grabbing her wrist to guide her, but she’s too focused, her tongue poking out.

“you’re acting like this is a free-throw contest,” you tease, voice breathy, and she chuckles, her fingers slowing but still off-target.

“nah, i’m shooting threes, baby,” she shoots back, leaning down to kiss your jaw, her lips soft and teasing. “c’mon, gimme a hint—your face ain’t helping.”

she curls her fingers again too soft now, barely grazing anything, and you groan, more out of frustration than pleasure, your hips bucking up to chase the feeling.

“my face ain’t helping ‘cause you’re lost, p.” you say, voice playful edged with need, your hand sliding into her hair tugging lightly to get her attention.

“it’s—mmph—higher, curl harder, like… beckon someone.” you’re trying to coach her, but her fingers slip, brushing your clit instead, and you jolt, a sharp “fuck-” spilling out, your thighs trembling.

“beckon? Like, ‘come here’?” she says mimicking a finger-wave with her free hand, and you laugh so hard your belly hurt, even as your pussy’s throbbing, desperate for her to get it right.

“aight, i got you,” she says, doubling down, her fingers curling harder but still missing, hitting some random spot that’s more ticklish than hot.

you yelp, squirming, and she pauses, eyes wide. “was that bad? you good?”

“paige—oh my god—” you say, laughing so much there’s tears in your eyes, and she groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder, her own laugh bubbling up, all raspy and real.

“you’re so bad at this,” you tease, voice soft, and she pulls back, pouting, her fingers still inside you, warm and steady.

“bad? me? nah, im just warming you up,” she says trying to recover, but her grin’s sheepish, and you can tell she’s a little flustered.

she tries again, slower, watching your face like a hawk, and finally brushes something close, a faint spark that makes your breath hitch, your eyes fluttering.

“there? that it?” she asks, voice all hopeful, and you nod, biting your lip, guiding her wrist a little. “yeah—ngh—right there, harder..”

you murmur, voice shaky, and she focuses, curling her fingers with more purpose, hitting that spot for real now.

your back arches, a real moan spilling out, and her eyes light up, all proud. “fuck, yes, paige—keep going,” you gasp, and she does, her rhythm shaky but earnest, her free hand stroking your thigh, whispering,

“got you, baby, i’m learning.” it’s not perfect, but it’s paige—her effort, her goofy determination, the way she’s watching you like you’re her whole world—and it’s enough to push you close, your pussy fluttering, your moans louder now.

“you’re so—mmph—fucking cute.” you tease, voice breaking, and she laughs, kissing you sloppy, her fingers still working, finally getting the hang of it.

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[not-soap73]

nsfw/smut oneshot drabble, time-skip!

(I could go on and on about him)

nerd!armin who is a pleaser. Wanting nothing but to watch you crumble from the pleasure he gives you. Who studies your body like it’s his most important assignment. Memorizing every gasp, every shiver, every place that makes your breath catch and arch for more. He gets off on your reactions more than anything else. His eyes would be glazed, biting down on his bottom lip as he watches in awe.

He is clinical in how thorough he is. Except there’s nothing detached about the way his hands tremble when he touches you, nothing academic about the desperate way he begs to hear you moan his name just one more time. And when you do? He melts. Absolutely ruins himself on the sound.

nerd!armin who is filthy with his words. Don’t let the soft voice or flushed cheeks fool you—once he’s got you spread out for him, it’s like a switch flips. He leans in close, glasses slipping down his nose, whispering filth in that breathy voice like he’s been rehearsing it in his head all day:

"Look at you.” He murmurs, fingers trailing slow and deliberate. “So wet and messy just from me. From my mouth. My fingers. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?"

And when you whine, when you try to look away, he gets bolder. Voice low and wrecked as he continues, "You like it when I talk like this, don’t you? When I tell you how badly I want to taste you again, how I dream about having you ride my face until I can’t breathe."

He says it all like it’s just another fact from one of his books, his shaky hands still mapping you out and he’s grinding into the sheets, pre-cum staining through his minecraft boxers, utterly undone by your pleasure.

nerd!armin who is a messy thing for you. Hard in his boxers, lips swollen from kissing you like he’s starved. Hair mussed from your fingers tugging, thighs trembling from the effort of holding himself back. The kind of boy who says “Use me” with a blush on his cheeks and worship in his eyes.

nerd!armin who is not just a pleaser but a worshipper. He doesn’t just want you to feel good, he needs it—like it's his only purpose. Every moan you give him is a reward, every twitch of your body, and every moan from those pretty lips of yours from under his touch is a grade he’s desperate to ace.

“You’re so perfect… so good for me… I could stay between your legs forever.” And he means it. He’s insatiable, overstimulated, and whimpering into the crook of your neck but still begging, “One more? Please, I can take it. I’ll be good. Just one more. I know you want it just as bad as I do…”

nerd!armin who then turns into a whimpering mess when you take control, eyes fluttering as he breathes, “I’m yours. Whatever you want. Just… don’t stop.” Because for Armin, being at your mercy isn’t just a fantasy, it’s his favorite kind of surrender.

He melts under your touch as he lets you take the lead. Pushing him back against the mattress, his hands grip the sheets like he’s holding onto reality, trying to stay grounded as you straddle his hips, hand wrapping around his throbbing cock, pumping him into your hand before lining him up.

His breath catches in his throat once his pink tip slowly eases into your sopping hole, the girth stretching you out. His eyes wide, mouth slack, hands coming out to grab your waist, nails digging as your warmth swallows him inch by inch.

“F-fuck… oh my god…” He whimpers, voice cracking, hips twitching despite himself. His glasses slip further down his nose, fogged and useless now, but he refuses to close his eyes. He needs to watch you, needs to memorize how perfect you look on top of him, moaning out to the feel of his dick inside of you as you fuck the smart out of him.

[dextivestudios]

No, no, people don't get it.

Doctor Who (1963) was EXTREMELY feminist for its time, and it apparently had an actual card-carrying communist working on it in the 70s.

Barbara White is amazing and I love her. She was the one with the braincell, and freaking ATE. Meanwhile, Ian was a parody of the "breadwinner manly man don't worry, ladies, I got this!" type. (Spoiler alert: it was the lady who had things handled.)

Like, if Ian was created today, he definitely WOULD follow Andrew Tate and unironically call himself an alpha, only for that to...not be the case. At all.

Alt-right "Whovians" literally look at characters like Ian and the joke just flies over their heads completely.

We are meant to admire Barbara, and we are meant to laugh at Ian.

I should also mention it tended to get very preachy about anti-colonialism.

Classic Doctor Who was far from perfect. Disabled and queer people virtually don't exist, and it's very much a racist show with there being more yellowface than actual Asian actors. (And it takes an embarrassingly long time for them to finally cast a black actor. I noticed a darker complexion for the first time during the FIFTH DOCTOR's run. Which is....YIKES!) And the amount of cultural appropriation/orientalism would be shocking to modern audiences.

I do think more people should watch more Classic Who. It's not as good as nostalgic Classic Who fans claim, and there are episodes far worse than even the Timeless Child incident in the modern show but watching Classic Who does expose you to amazing stories, and it does improve your viewing experience for the modern show. Like, so many jokes and references go over your head if you don't watch the Classic show.

It wasn't even perfect with the feminist aspect and there are plenty of counterpoints where companions, and the writing in general, fell victim to sexism.

And, yes, the bad/offensive episodes should be watched, too. It's a part of Doctor Who history, and even harmful art has value to it. And the fact that it sucked in other aspects does not devalue for many things such as feminism.

My only recommendation is to watch Victoria Waterfield's run in its entirely. You will want to skip her. But trust me on this one. Don't skip an episode. The more you see of her, the funnier her departure will be.

And, honestly, I think the original creators would be proud of what Doctor Who has become, especially in the representation aspects. It is queer and not asking for forgiveness. The TARDIS has wheelchair access now, we have two black Doctors with one of them being a main Doctor, two LGBT Doctors BACK-TO-BACK.

Though that's strictly talking about the characters. I know that Ncuti himself is gay, Jodie has a husband and I don't think she made any public announcements about any labels she may identify with? That's to her discretion and I don't really care that much. All I can say for certain is that she is married to a man, and appears to not mind depicting sapphic women. I won't speculate because that is an asshole thing to do, and this tangent has gone on for long enough already.

All in all, Doctor Who has always been woke. It has a flawed past, and its focuses have shifted overtime. Heck, remember when it was big on anti-guns all the way back at Tenth Doctor?

But, yeah, the problem is that it has a focus on groups that the Nazis are currently actively targeting. Which would be both queer and disabled people, it also doesn't help the cast is heavy on POC at the moment (note: not a bad thing.) and the women characters are currently being respected. But it's primarily the queer characters and disabled characters.

Nazis are not real Whovians, and I'm glad that Doctor Who is making an effort to make them as uncomfortable and unwelcome as possible. Because tolerating Nazis and taking them seriously, like giving our time and energy to them is worth anything, is exactly how they are gaining power in the USA.

Remember: the only nazi who deserves peaceful interactions are dead nazis. And even then, feed their bodies to the dogs, as not even death is redemption for them.

[tobesolnelyx]

new fan, love ur frat boy series. do u think u could make one abt frat boy Shauna, Lottie, Jackie, and Nat all fighting over reader? - 🥄 not sure if this emojis been taken

— how you get the girl || fratboy!yellowjackets x reader ⭐️

a/n: hello 🥄anon! also, yes, title again from taylor swift’s song, are we even surprised?

summary: they all try to…hit on you? holy shit. modern college au. g!p characters.

warnings: none!

From the very beginning, you somehow ended up orbiting that fratboy cluster. A lot of people assumed you were just…hooking up with them, but the truth was, you had simply—miraculously—slipped into their world. You always got invited to parties. You could walk into the frat house like it was your own living room. None of them ever minded your constant presence—whether it was during casual hangouts or at the cafeteria table. You thought it was just because they liked you.

The problem was, maybe they liked you a little too much. And that started to sink in over time, once you managed to untangle flirting from just being nice.

Natalie Scatorccio was the subtlest of them all. Nat didn’t care much for people on campus, but she could spend hours in yours company. Her idea of flirting was making you endless playlists. Her strange love language was sending you songs. Sometimes, out of nowhere, she’d hand you one of her earbuds.

“Yo, check this out,” she’d say, stretched out on the frat house couch while you were supposed to be studying. Supposed to, because Natalie never took it all that seriously. She’d hand you a tiny black earbud, the same ones seemingly glued to her ears—she wore them all the time. Nothing made her happier than when you added a song she recommended you, to your favorites. Yes, she sent you shared playlist links. Always curious about what you listened to. Just so she could blast it later at parties and drag you onto the dance floor.

No, she had no idea why another song from your favorite artist was suddenly playing through the speakers… totally a coincidence.

Nat, who always insisted on being the one to give you rides. Most arguments about that were between her and Shauna.

“It’s not safe,” Shauna would insist, arm slung around your shoulders in some vague gesture of territorial affection. Natalie’s eyes would burn holes in Shauna’s hand, which rested a little too close to your collarbone.

“Oh, give me a break,” Nat would roll her eyes and flash you a grin. “You love those rides, sweetheart, don’t ya?”

Of course it was a joke—with a loaded undertone. She even bought you your own motorcycle helmet, complete with custom stickers, so she had every right to drag you out for rides now and then.

Nat, who thought you were the perfect dance partner. She’d always pull you into the center of the crowd at parties, already a little high and a little buzzed, swinging you around in drunken waltz.

Nat, who thought you were the ideal weed-smoking companion. You didn’t even have to get high with her—just being there was enough.

Jackie Taylor, who liked to play the romantic. Okay—maybe she wasn’t really playing. Sometimes, she was genuinely sweet in all of it, despite her occasional theatrics. Which made her flirting painfully obvious. Not everyone was a fan. While Nat at least tried to brush it off, Shauna rolled her eyes every time Jackie opened her mouth, muttering that nobody was buying the cheap tricks. Lottie wasn’t thrilled either—she’d mumble about how Jackie was hopelessly fake, all plastic charm and recycled lines.

Jackie, who loved bringing you flowers. Fresh, cut, sometimes even handpicked. One bouquet a week became a habit. And okay, Lottie may have had a point—Jackie did reek of clichés sometimes. But still—she was sweet. She invited you to the movies in cinema, on spontaneous ice cream runs, dragged you along to her piercer when she got new jewelry, or switched out the old. She’d even help you pick something for yourself now and then.

She showed far more than she ever said. She tied your shoes. Wrapped you in her varsity jackets. Brought you breakfast—or bought it—just because. But if anyone asked her how she felt about you, she’d deny it instantly. She’d say it was just a deep friendship. That’s all.... right…

Even though you were walking around campus in her t-shirts, and she never took off the bracelet you made her by hand.

“You can’t even admit you like her,” Shauna scoffed one night, in that know-it-all tone she reserved for moments like these.

Jackie shot her a glare cold enough to freeze glass. She threw a small tennis ball at her head—the one she’d been absentmindedly tossing around for the past hour—but Shauna ducked.

“Shut your mouth,” Jackie muttered, her voice low. A flush crept up her cheeks. “Says you,” she grumbled sarcastically under her breath. “The one who’s always first to start talking.”

Shauna Shipman, who was downright awful at expressing her feelings. She was the hardest to figure out. For the longest time, you were sure she didn’t like you at all. And then—it started.

Shauna, who spent every single study session with you. She always made sure you came along to the library. Being a full-time fratboy-level asshole was one thing. But skipping her academics? Not a chance. At first, she just tolerated your presence. Now, she was suddenly showing up at your door unannounced. That dopey grin on her face, hands shoved into her pockets.

"Ready, princess?" she’d ask, just to get under your skin. She loved irritating you. At her core.

"Not if you call me that again," you’d laugh, grabbing your jacket— and her arm was already slipping around your waist, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shauna, who didn’t take no for an answer. You were hers. Even if you didn’t know it yet. She was already convinced that Lottie, Nat—and especially Jackie—didn’t stand a chance. Typical. That ego of hers.

Shauna, who started texting you constantly. Gym pics became a trend—tight shirts, sweat-matted hair, those particular grey sweatpants (hmm...). She knew exactly what she was doing.

Shauna, who had a bit of a obsession. Enough to start fights at the frat house when Natalie’s hand lingered somewhere it shouldn’t, or when Lottie tossed some strange joke your way. Not to mention she’d start the dumbest arguments over you—full-blown chaos, just because someone looked at you a second too long.

Sometimes she’d even tell people you were together. You were supposed to find out in your own time that—in Shauna’s mind—you already were her partner. Simple as that.

Shauna, who never said a word about how she felt. But her hands were nearly always on you—like they belonged there. Sometimes you’d push them away when they wandered too low or too high, but she’d only grin, that same ridiculous grin, and she definitely wouldn’t move.

Lottie Matthews, who seemed to be the most chill about the whole situation. As if she already knew—inevitably—you’d choose her in the end. As if the others were simply playing catch-up in a game they didn’t know they’d already lost.

She always watched Shauna’s desperate displays of ownership with a kind of amused pity. She snorted at Jackie’s endless, cheap gifts. And as for Natalie—Lottie barely concealed her smirk whenever Nat stumbled over her own version of flirting.

Lottie, who loved to flex her cars. Did you really understand much of her rambling about them? Not really. You’d never been that interested. But Lottie always spoke with such passion, you let her talk. She’d customized each of her cars with a space just for you— a cushion in the seat, your spare sunglasses in the glove compartment, your favorite hand cream tucked neatly beside them.

Lottie, who showered you in gifts. Sometimes she’d drag you out for a spontaneous shopping spree. Other times, she’d just show up with something already picked out. You’d both lie sprawled across her bed at the frat house—specifically chosen to avoid any surprise Shauna ambush and her relentless, idiotic monologues. Lottie would drop the shopping bag in front of you, grinning like she'd just won a prize. Visibly pleased with herself.

“Open it,” she’d snap her fingers at the bundle, and with a soft smile you’d pull out some luxury skincare set—or, more bluntly, a beautiful piece of lingerie. “Saw it today and immediately thought of you.”

“Thanks, Lottie,” you’d murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. And she’d smile even wider like your touch sealed the deal.

Lottie, who made the dumbest jokes just to see you roll your eyes.

Lottie, who—unlike Shauna—touched you with finesse. A hand grazing your waist as she passed behind you. Fingers resting casually on your knee, like it meant nothing. Sometimes she’d lean in close only to inhale slightly, and ask if you were wearing the perfume she gave you last week.

[fireinmoonshot]

more than a friend should | robert reynolds x fem!reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Fem!Reader Summary: Bob didn't quite count on himself being starstruck by seeing you in a dress for the first time. You didn't count on yourself forgetting how to breathe when you saw Bob in a suit. But when you both have to get through a black tie event, the only way to do it is by getting through it together. Warnings: Mentions of general mental health struggles, anxiety, being drained from social activities and exhaustion. A very brief mention of alcohol and drugs. Reader wears a dress. Very brief swearing. Word Count: 4.3k A/N: I got a request for this fic last week and I totally fell in love with the idea. It took me a while to write just because I really wanted it to be perfect and I'm so happy with how it turned out. It's my longest fic for Bob so far! I did not proof read it after I finished my final draft. It's 11:30pm and I am so tired, so let's hope there are no mistakes in there 😂 Thank you so much for the response on all my Bob fics up to this point – I'm so happy that so many people are enjoying them. I hope you'll enjoy this one too! 💗

Bob knows that he’s screwed the second he sees you walk out into the penthouse from your room where you’d been getting ready. He doesn’t even notice Mel walking out behind you.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters under his breath, totally unaware that he wasn’t as quiet as he’d thought he was being.

Walker, stood right beside him, glances at him. “You all right, Bobby?”

Bob tears his gaze away from you and looks at Walker, eyes a little glazed over. It doesn’t last long, though – his ability to not look at you. Not two seconds later he finds you again. Walker watches the whole thing, eyebrows furrowed and confusion written all over his face.

Was something going on between you and Bob? He was surely reading the situation wrong. If there was some kind of romance going on between the two of you, he was obviously going to know about it.

“What do we all think?” Mel’s voice breaks both Bob and Walker out of their thoughts. She’s standing beside you, motioning to the dress that you’re wearing. 

You smooth the dress down with your hands and instantly miss the pockets of your suit. As a New Avenger, wearing dresses is not something you’re used to. You spend most of your time in your suit or clothes that are comfortable when you’re not working. This is the entire opposite.

“Mel helped me pick it out,” you explain.

“It’s cute,” Ava says, standing up from where she’d been sitting down to wait for everyone to get ready. You’re glad to see that she’s wearing a dress as well – it makes the stress of it a little better, knowing you don’t have to go through it all alone.

You thank her at the same time that you catch Bob staring at you. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice the suit he’s wearing – a big change from the clothes he usually wears around the Watch Tower. Bob is nearly always wearing some kind of sweatpants. To see him in something like a suit, so perfectly tailored to fit him, is a sight to behold.

He still looks like Bob, though. His hair is a little messy and his tie is crooked, which makes you smile a little. They could put him in a suit, but he was clearly not very happy about it.

“You look different,” you start, beginning to walk over to Bob. “I can’t believe they actually got you out of sweatpants for the night.”

Bob laughs a little, then almost chokes on his own breath as he notices your hands reaching up towards him. They find his tie and straighten it. He lets out a shaky breath as you place your hands on his chest, running them over the lapels of his suit jacket, before dropping them.

Ever since Bob had met you, he’d been fascinated by you. He loved watching you kick ass as an Avenger, but he liked seeing the non-Avenger side of you more. His crush on you had grown rather quickly once he’d caught you reading one of his favourite books. Then, you’d offered to start doing buddy reads with him and he’d fallen even harder.

It often made him smile – the fact that the world knew you as one thing, but to Bob you were something entirely different. That to him, there were parts of you that no one else got to see. That once a month, you and him would sit up late into the night discussing the book you’d read and end up falling asleep on the bean bags on his bedroom floor. That every morning, he’d often see you coming out of your bedroom, opposite his, and think about how cute you looked with your bed hair. Those were the kind of memories he held closer than ever.

“You do, too,” he nods, hoping that you couldn’t feel the way his heart is beating out of his chest when you had your hands on him. “You look really nice. I like this colour.”

The smile that appears on your face only makes Bob’s heart race faster. 

“You look handsome, Bob,” you complimented. You open your mouth, about to say something else, when Valentina enters the room and shatters the moment entirely. She has a habit of that.

“Where’s Yelena?” Val asks, turning around to look at everyone. You can see the way her eyes snag on you and Bob and how close you’re standing together, but her gaze doesn’t linger too long.

“I’m here,” Yelena answers, clearly irritated, as she walks into the penthouse from the hallway. “And before you say anything, Valentina, I am not going to change into a dress.”

Yelena is, unsurprisingly, going against the dress code and wearing a pant suit. You very clearly remember reading instructions on the invitation – women were to wear dresses, men to wear suits. Of course Yelena had taken that as a suggestion rather than a request. 

For a moment, Valentina just looks at Yelena, venom in her eyes, but then she shakes her head and looks away from her, clearly sensing that starting an argument with one of her Avengers right before you all leave for a black tie event is not the best course of action.

“Well, at least the rest of you look appropriate,” she sighs. “When we arrive, instead of you all walking in as a group, I want you to enter as pairs. It’ll look better, make you seem more human. And it’ll drag out the entrance so that we get more attention. One of you will have to go solo since there’s an odd number of you but–”

“I’ll do it,” Yelena raises her hand, cutting Val off. “I’m going to wait in the car.” 

Before anyone else can say anything, Yelena heads straight to the elevator and gets in, heading down to the car, waiting to take you all to the venue. You stifle a laugh, amused at how quickly Yelena had snagged the ‘entering solo’ opportunity. It’s understandable, though. You make eye contact with Ava, who just shrugs. The last thing either of you want is to walk in on the arm of a man, being made to look like a piece of eye candy to every other man in the room, but without Ava fighting Val with you, it’s clearly not going to be worth your time.

Valentina ignores Yelena’s exit. “Okay, Bucky and Alexei, you two are a pair,” she begins, pointing at the two of them and ignoring the way that Bucky groans and Alexei cheers, exclaiming something about the co-leaders. “Ava and Walker, you two… and that leaves you,” she points towards you, “and Bob. You two look cozy. Don’t get too cozy, though.”

You look at Bob and give him your best reassuring smile. Out of all of the other Avengers, you’re grateful that Val paired you with Bob. The two of you are more comfortable with each other than you are with any of the others. At least being on his arm means you have someone that you feel especially safe and relaxed around right by your side. 

Bob feels the same way. He’d much rather walk in with you beside him than alone, and he has to admit that he’d worried Val was going to make him be the one to go solo before Yelena had volunteered. He’s infinitely relieved that he doesn’t have to be. 

With that, Val starts to walk towards the elevator. Mel hurries after her, leaving the rest of you all standing in the room until she beckons you over from the elevator, telling you all to hurry up.

You stay close to Bob’s side as you walk towards the elevator. “You ready for this?” You ask, nudging his arm with your elbow gently.

Bob grimaces. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to things like this.”

“Me neither,” you flash him a grin. “But at least we’ll be together. If you feel nervous, you can just hold on tight to me, all right? And once we’re inside, we can find a corner and start discussing what book we’re going to read next. Sound like a plan?” 

The two of you step inside the elevator and Bucky reaches forward to press the Ground Floor button.

“Sounds like a plan,” Bob nods, smiling. 

––––

Bob takes you up on your offer pretty quickly once you arrive at the event. Your arm is wrapped around his but he’s the one holding you close. Your body is pressed up against his side. He’s putting all of his energy into focusing on the feeling of your touch so that he doesn’t start to spin out with anxiety over the fact that he’s here.

It’s almost like you can hear his thoughts, because only seconds later he hears you ask him if he’s okay. His head snaps towards you, breath hitching in his throat as he sees you already looking at him.

You have the most beautiful eyes, he thinks.

“Bob?” You say his name again.

Just hearing his name from your lips snaps him out of his head. “I don’t think I should be here,” he says, glancing away from you to have a quick look around the room. There are so many people in the room, probably hundreds, and they’re all staring at him. No – not him, all of you. “I can’t even control my powers. I’m not a proper Avenger like all of you. I should’ve just stayed home and given Val some excuse.”

You frown and tighten your grip on his arm just a little. “That’s not true, Bob. You deserve to be here as much as any of us do. We wouldn’t even be here without you,” you explain. “And, for the record, I’m glad you’re here. Who would I have entered with if you weren’t here?”

“I’m sure you would’ve entered with someone.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to enter with anyone but you.”

Bob looks back at you, not quite believing your words. “Really?”

“Really.” 

It’s a little more bearable once you’ve all entered the room and found a spot to stand, crowded around a small but very tall table in the corner of the room. There are still a lot of eyes on all of you, but thankfully the attention has died down a little since your entrance.

“Do you want me to let go?” You mutter, looking up at Bob. You’re still holding onto his arm, even though Ava and Walker had let go of each other the second the entrance was over. It was partially for you and partially for Bob that you hadn’t let go yet. 

You were just as nervous as he was. Events like this were not your idea of a good Saturday evening. If you’d had things your way, you’d be back at the Watch Tower, cooking something easy yet delicious for dinner and preparing to curl up on one of Bob’s bean bags all night to read with him.

“No,” Bob shakes his head. “Not yet. Please.”

You give him a small smile, reassuring him that you won’t let go, and let out a small breath of relief yourself. As long as you get to keep a hold of Bob, your anxiety will be able to be kept at a minimum. 

“So, what are we supposed to do now?” Ava asks, crossing her arms over her chest and looking around the room. “You know what? I’m going to find some alcohol. Anyone else?”

Alexei is quick to agree and Walker offers to go with them, simply not wanting Ava to have to deal with Alexei and alcohol on her own. It leaves you, Bob, Yelena and Bucky standing around the table.

“You’ve been to plenty of things like this, Bucky,” you start. “Have any advice for the rest of us who’ve never done anything like this before?”

Bucky sighs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Just hope and pray that the night goes quickly.”

“That’s great advice,” Yelena deadpans.

He’s about to say something in response when Valentina appears out of nowhere, gliding towards the four of you with a grin on her face that none of you like the look of.

“Oh, here we go,” Yelena murmurs under her breath.

“Where are the rest of you? Actually, never mind… okay, Yelena and Bob, come with me. I have some investors I want you to meet,” she says, beckoning the two of them forward.

You share a look with Bob that says everything that words can’t at the moment. Only minutes earlier Bob had been asking you to not let go of him, and here you were being practically forced to. Maybe Valentina deemed this to be too cozy – and she’d told you not to be earlier. Maybe this was her way of punishing you both for going against her word. Or maybe she just wanted to flaunt Bob off to the investors.

That seemed like the most likely option.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” You mutter, only loud enough for Bob to hear as you reluctantly let go of his arm and immediately cross your arms over your chest, not wanting to feel the cool air on them after having them wrapped up in Bob’s warmth. 

You watch as he and Yelena walk away, trying to push down the feeling in your stomach that has been growing more and more as you spend more time around Bob. It’s never going to end well for you, you know it. But still, the feeling lingers.

––––

Bob can’t remember the names of any of the people that Valentina have introduced him and Yelena to. He’s been standing here being talked at for ten minutes now and everything they’ve said has gone in one ear and out the other. He hasn’t even properly looked at their faces – all he can see is you over their shoulder, standing across the room with Bucky.

You look so beautiful in that dress. He should tell you later.

“While we’re here,” one of the investors speaks, “I want to introduce you to my daughter and a few of her friends she brought along tonight.” 

Bob is snapped out of his distraction as Yelena gently elbows him in the side. For the first time, he actually looks at the face of one of the men in front of him just as he’s beckoning his daughter forward. She’s followed by three other women, right behind her, all giggling and eyeing Bob up. 

“Ladies, this is Robert Reynolds. He’s also known as The Sentry,” Valentina introduces him to the girl and her friends. “He’s incredibly strong and you should see how fast he can move!”

Yelena barely restrains herself from putting her head into her hands. Instead, she lets out a small groan of “For fuck’s sake, Valentina” and shakes her head.

The girls all introduce themselves to Bob but their names don’t register with him like he knows that they should. He introduces himself in return, just to be kind, but just as Bob. Not The Sentry. He’s not that person and he hates the way that Valentina is using that side of him to gain attention from the investors. His hand  unknowingly clenches into a fist at his side.

“You’re much more handsome in person,” one of the girls says, stepping a little closer towards him. All Bob can think about is the fact that you had called him handsome tonight too.

“I can’t believe we’ve been living in the same city for so long now and we’ve never met before,” another adds. Bob knows why – he’s barely left the Watch Tower since he moved in. Why would he want to when the one thing he needs in New York is already there, right across the hall from him in your own bedroom?

He’s well aware that the girls are trying to flirt with him but he doesn’t even want to try and flirt back with them – not that he’s really any good at flirting. He’s had his fair share of flings over the years. He was pretty confident when he was high, but when he wasn’t, that confidence plummeted. He’s usually never turned down the attention of women before… but now that attention is the last thing he wants. 

Over their shoulders, he catches a glimpse of you again. Just seeing you makes his clenched fist loosen a little, especially when he sees you laughing at something that Bucky had said. He’s always loved the way you look when your laugh, the pure happiness that takes over your face. He stares at you for another few moments and then uses that time to continue to try and calm himself down. 

Despite the fact that you’re half way across the room, you’re helping him more than you know. 

––––

Watching Bob being flirted with all night was not a job for the weak – and you’d greatly over estimated your ability to deal with it.

You’d known what was happening almost instantly when you’d looked over and seen the group of girls giggling and getting a little too close to him. You hated that you felt relieved when you noticed that he wasn’t returning any of their advances.

You weren’t daft enough to think that you were the reason, but it made you feel good all the same. Just the thought that he mightn’t be interested in anyone at the moment was good enough for you – he’d been through so much in these last several months, you wouldn’t blame him if it were true.

Like Bucky had suggested, you spent most of the night hoping for the night to go quickly. There was only so much socialising one person could do, especially when they were out of their comfort zone, and you hit that point pretty quickly once Bucky had started introducing you to people he recognised from his time as a congressman. 

The worst part of the night was the fact that you had barely seen Bob at all. He’d spent most of the night being swept around the room by Val with Yelena, being introduced to everyone and barely even stopping for a break. The only contact you’d had with him since he’d been whisked away were brief moments of eye contact and shared smiled across the room.

It’s on the limo ride back to the Watch Tower that you finally get to talk to him again. Everyone else is either napping or not paying attention to the two of you, too exhausted from the night out, that you have no problem in shuffling over in your seat to get a little closer to him so no one overhears your conversation.

“So, our plan kinda backfired, huh?” You chuckle.

Bob looks over at you and laughs softly. “Yeah, it did.”

There had been no discussing what book you’d read next and absolutely no holding on tight to each other when you felt anxious. 

“Did you enjoy yourself, at least?” 

Bob scrunches up his nose a little and you can’t help but notice how adorable it makes him look. “I don’t remember much of it,” he admits. “I couldn’t think straight for a lot of it. Did you?”

It makes your heart hurt a little, hearing that he’d been so anxious that he couldn’t really remember any of the evening. It makes you even more mad at Valentina for subjecting him to all of that. It was going to result in him being utterly exhausted.

“I just missed you,” you admit – against your better judgement. It’s probably not the right thing to be saying to him, but it’s the truth. Your evening would have been better had he been in it.

“You did?” Bob raises his eyebrows, clearly a little surprised.

A thought enters his mind and he brushes it off instantly. Confess, his brain said. As if this was a good time to do it, in the middle of a limo packed full of all the other members of your team after a draining night out socialising – one that he’d likely be recovering from for at least a few days, judging by the exhaustion he could already feel creeping into his mind.

He shakes his head. This is not the time to tell you.

“I did,” you confirm. “I would’ve had a much better time discussing books in the corner with you rather than being introduced to all of the people Bucky knows in New York.”

Bob chuckles. “Okay, you make a fair point.”

By the time the limo stops at the Watch Tower, everyone in the car is either half asleep or dead on their feet. It’s late – almost 1 in the morning – and when you all reach the penthouse, everyone instantly disappears off to their bedrooms to recharge and sleep.

You and Bob walk side by side down the hallway before stopping outside of your bedroom doors, opposite each other. You rest your hand on the door handle of your room before turning to look at him. He looks exhausted, hair messier than it had been before you’d left, and his tie is crooked again. You smile as you notice it.

“Well, goodnight, Bob,” you murmur. “Sleep well, okay?”

Bob nods, but strangely he can’t find the words to say goodnight to you. It’s only when you turn around, putting your back to him, and start to turn your door handle that the words come – but not the ones he’d been meaning to say. 

“I like you,” Bob blurts out, and then immediately winces.

You turn around, your hand falling off the door handle and your eyes landing on him. Your heart starts to beat faster in your chest, though you refuse to get your hopes up. This isn’t a confession – just a tired man telling you he appreciates your friendship. “I like you too, Bob.” 

He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. Just through your words he can tell that you didn’t understand him. “I don’t mean it that way. I mean that I like you more than a friend should.”

You’re pretty sure your heart stops beating. “You like me as more than a friend?” A best friend, your mind tries to finish it. Like a sister. Not in a romantic sense. Don’t get your hopes up.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night. I was introduced to so many people and I can’t even remember their names because I was too focused on looking at you over their shoulders.”

“You were?”

“I was.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. This cannot be happening right now. Bob cannot be confessing to you in the hallway at 1 o’clock on a Sunday morning after you’d had to spend the whole night watching him from afar and wishing he was right beside you. You have to be dreaming. 

“I… I like you more than a friend should, too. Really.” The words aren’t hard for you to say because they’re the truth. Partially because you think you might be imagining everything.

Bob stares at you, dumbfounded. You aren’t just repeating his words back to him for the sake of it. You’re not doing it out of pity or fear of hurting his feelings. All he needs to know that is the look on your face. Your eyes tell him everything.

You’re suddenly hit with the urge to yawn and that simple thing rips you straight out of your dreamlike state and back to the present. You’re not actually dreaming. This is actually happening… but this is not the time to be making grand gestures of love. Not when both you and Bob are exhausted from the night out socialising. You don’t want to risk crossing any lines tonight.

“Listen, it’s late. I don’t think we should make any decisions without resting. We’re both exhausted. And it’ll be good to sleep on it,” you suggest. “We can sleep knowing that we like each other and when we’ve recharged our social batteries, we can look back at it with a fresh head.”

Bob nods. You’re right – of course you’re right. He is exhausted, so much so that he’s not even sure how he’s still conscious right now. Your timing was so off, he thinks, his brain starting to twist his thoughts, taking advantage of his exhaustion. You should’ve waited.

Unknowingly, he starts to twist his hands together in front of him – something he always tends to do when his head gets loud.

You notice, stepping forward and placing your hands on top of his. He stills instantly, looking up and meeting your eyes. The warmth of your skin on his instantly relaxes him and his heart stops racing so fast. You give his hands a gentle squeeze.

“Goodnight, Bob,” you say, voice soft.

He continues looking at you as you turn around and walk back across the hall to your room. You’re almost completely inside, about to shut the door behind you, when he finds his voice again.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he calls out, being careful not to be too loud since the others are still in their rooms close by. 

You pause and meet his eyes. “Thank you, Bob.” 

“Goodnight, he hums, giving you a small smile.

 It takes all of his strength to not collapse back against the door to his own bedroom once you shut your door. His hands are still a little shaky, his breaths a little short, but despite the exhaustion and adrenaline running through his system, he can’t help the smile that makes its way onto his face. I like you more than a friend should. The two of you had never really been just friends. Deep down, Bob knew that.

No, he thinks, pushing back agains the parts of his brain that were still telling him that his timing had been off, that he should’ve waited, that maybe he shouldn’t have told you at all. My timing was perfect.