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peachigummi · 6 months ago

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test my luck ꢾ꣒ mattheo riddle.

summary: enemy to lovers! Mattheo and y/n have been each other's biggest haters since year 1, they're in their final year at Hogwarts. Mattheo finally pushes y/n to the edge, with his venomous words and guilt tactics.

pairing: enemy! mattheo x fem ravenclaw! reader

warnings: not for the faint of heart! mature themes/language. mentions of abuse. slow burn? bullying angst!! oh my god angst, but ends with some bittersweet fluff I promise! attempted suicide sorry (after reading this back, i dont mean it to be manipulation or to glorify or romanticize but! shit!! for a plot?)

note: i haven't written anything in literal years, the pov is going to shift a lot so bear with me. i honestly just lost any sense of motivation. but something in me just bloomed. you wont see any hp things on this blog it is my journal and i feel like sharing! maybe a part 2 in the making. if this gets enough response.

word count: 6,828

(slightly not really proofread or fan fact checked? if that's a thing ha)

playlist: should i create..? you know damn well the smiths would be in it! like Bigmouth Strikes Again?? that is mattheo!

reblogs & comments are so appreciated! i hope you enjoy <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It was the start of your last year of Hogwarts, it was an okay time. You personally didn’t get into too much trouble, you liked to stick by yourself for the most part. You studied hard because your muggle parents were still confused about you being a witch, and what you would get out of it. It was hard to process that information, it was a thing of fairy tales. You had to prove yourself in this new world. That…that was hard when you were constantly looking over your shoulder for Mattheo Riddle.

“What’s a whore doing in my seat?” Speak of the damn devil.

You turned to look at him with a sarcastic smile, “Well hello to you too Mattheo.” You nod at the three other boys that were with him, each of their arms crossed. “Draco. Blaise. Theodore.” You return to look at Mattheo, “you know last time I checked… there are no assigned seats in Potions.” You looked around and the class was still fairly empty.

“Think again and think hard.” Mattheo spoke to you in a cold shallow tone, he barely looked at you. He circled around the table you were at, your eyes following him. He suddenly stopped right behind your chair, yanking it back. There was a loud scrape, the few students that were in the room turned to look at the scene unfolding. You didn’t meet any of their eyes. Mattheo slammed his hand on the side of the table, making you flinch. You hated that you reacted that way. He grabbed the back of your ponytail, forcing your head forward where his hand was, “Look.” M. Riddle. D. Malfoy. B. Zabini. T. Nott. Their names were carved into the side. You grabbed Mattheo’s hand, the one that was still holding onto your ponytail, you tried to pry his icy cold fingers off. It only made him tighten his grip, he bent down to get close to your face, “I suggest you move unless you want me to carve my name onto your face as well.” he spat and finally let go.

“Whatever,” you gathered your books, “this seat sucks anyways. I’ll go hang out with Professor Snape up front.” You rolled your eyes as Draco lit up a cigarette, handing the pack to the boys to share. If you’re going to try and get away with smoking, yeah do it in the back of the class I guess.

“You really like being a teacher’s pet don’t you? That’s why you’ve always got your nose up Snape’s ass.”

“Seriously fuck off! Go continue to lose brain cells with your sorry excuse of friends.” You push the seat back and let it topple over. You mentally slapped yourself, you shouldn’t be feeding into his remarks.

“That’s cute sunshine, I’ll bet you have a hard time standing up for yourself in every aspect of your pathetic life. Do better.” Mattheo smugly said, smoking the cigarette that was in his hand.

You opened your mouth to speak but decided against it, you ended up just flipping him off. He did the same, giving you an annoyed look. You took the seat next to Hermione in the front of the class. Ugh! That Mattheo. “Are you okay?!” She asked, shooting daggers at the group, turning to you again “How can you put up with that? We have to tell someone..” you shook my head and whispered, “it’ll only make things worse. I don’t want to be a snitch. It’s already been six years anyways… how can one more year really change things.”

Blaise laughed, “you like that don’t you mattheo? Isn’t she so cute when she’s angry, you like feisty girls, yeah?”

Draco chuckles, “oh he definitely does, too bad she’s a stupid bitch.” The group laughs together.

You could hear them hollering from the back. You tried to calm yourself down and pay attention to the different measurements of the potions you were being taught. Maybe I could switch this class to a different time. You thought, focusing back to the lesson when Professor Snape mentioned something about needing to be in groups of three for an upcoming project.

Before Snape could assign anyone, Mattheo spoke up, “Sir I’d like to work with Theodore, if that’s permitted.” Snape looked annoyed by his interjection but answered, “No, Theodore will be with Y/N and Draco. Nothing will change. I already made the groups, they will be posted near the storeroom.” He gave Mattheo a dirty look.

You could hear Draco scoff but he didn't say anything. Yet. He kept to himself and his buddies while they continued to smoke and do other things to piss Professor Snape off before the class was finally dismissed. I guess I didn’t need to worry about being in a pair with Mattheo. You still wanted to protest against the group choice, but nothing would come of it. You knew better than to go against Snape’s final word. Theodore wasn’t such a horrible person, he actually can be pretty smart and helpful, if you got him alone. Otherwise when he was with even just one of his buddies, he was just like them - a jerk. It was Draco you won’t be able to stand.

“Don't do anything stupid, Y/L/N, and we might actually do okay in this project.” That was Draco himself, walking over with Theodore.

You ignored his comment, “where should we meet and when?”

“We can use one of the abandoned classrooms. Before the lunch break?” Theodore suggested, handing a note with directions.

“Okay. See you.” You said as bluntly as possible, gathering your book. You went to grab the ingredients your group might need.

“Teachers pet!” Draco yelled after.

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

Of course you were the first to the abandoned classroom, you had been waiting for nearly twenty minutes before either of them showed. When they did, they didn’t bother to apologize, though you didn’t expect them to. Even with smart comments from both boys, you finished discussing the project and the presentation at a decent hour. It was quiet as you started to collect your things, Draco excused himself earlier to collect a package.

“Y/N, why is it that you hate Mattheo so much?” Theodore broke the silence, carefully watching you wrap the vials carefully. You paused, taken back. “He’s been trying to get a rise out of you since day 1, why?” He continued nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

You quickly grab them out of his hand and put it in your own breast pocket, “don’t smoke around me.”

This made him annoyed, “Hey! I need those! They keep me calm!”

“No you don't, you've been fine this entire time without them. I’m not trying to raise your blood pressure right now. You’re fine.” You give him a good look, maybe he was playing dumb. How could he not know? Theodore and Mattheo were best friends; they must have already talked about this, “I only hate Mattheo because he hates me. It’s all there's to it…” I think.

He lingers for a moment after you answered him, there is something else you haven’t said, “tell me what you think. There’s always some deeper reason for this sort of stuff” He rested his chin on his hand. See this is why I favored Theodore from the rest of his group, but should I still trust him? He could use this information against me. I took the chance.

“Over the years I suspected it was just plainly because I was a mudblood and not some perfect pure-bred like you folk.” You continued to wrap the vials carefully.

Theodore rolled his eyes, “He does have a thing against people with different backgrounds than his own. He thinks everyone in this school should be from a wizarding family. But that’s not the case with you.” He grabbed a vial too, helping me wrap them, “He’s never said anything about your parents or how they’re muggles.” Mattheo would talk about me when I wasn’t around? Why would he do that? You looked into his eyes searching for some joke or underlying lie. There was none I could detect.

You recall the moment aloud when you first laid your eyes on Mattheo, “It was at the train station. Our first year. I remember hugging and kissing my parents goodbye, not wanting to let go of them. I turned around to go on the train and there was a much much smaller Mattheo staring at me with wide beady little eyes that were glossed over with tears. He was cute in that split second - ” You couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Theodore watched you carefully. You straightened your lips, continuing, “ - before he stuck a solid wad of gum in my hair.”

Theodore bellowed, nearly falling backwards in his chair, “Yeah that sounds like him, that’s a classic stunt he’d pull off. There was this one time in year 5 when he stuck gum on the chair of one of the professors before class…I never saw her so mad after she sat down and got up, her chair nearly followed her around!” He tried to settle himself down, “Mattheo always had a thing for doing stuff to people and acting as if it’s all a joke.”

“It’s not a joke when you have to cut your hair super short in order to remove the gum. I felt so naked without my long hair, it was so beautiful! And he made it worse when he made a point to show how ugly I was to everyone in the Great Hall. I even remember you laughing just like you are now.” You pushed his shoulder.

Theodore smirked, “yeah we all laughed, how couldn’t we?! You looked ridiculous before you grew it back out. We used to call you Baldy McEgg-head. You’d get so mad, only making us laugh harder.” At least someone cherished the memory. You rolled your eyes.

It grew quiet again, “have you ever met Mattheo’s parents? Has he ever talked to you about them?”

“No. I’ve never met them. He’s never really talked about his parents or his life outside Hogwarts. I don’t think he’s on great terms with his dad. He always stayed with them during the breaks, and wasn't ever allowed to spend it with us or here at hogwarts. He missed out on a lot of important hang outs. I wished he was there for them” Theodore explained, he sounded disappointed and angry.

“Do…do you think he’s jealous of my home life? The affection I was receiving in front of him at the train station…”

He thinks for a moment, “I suppose it could be a possibility…hard to tell. He doesn’t allow himself to show too much emotion, again, probably has to do with the way he must have been raised.”

You wanted to do more research into Mattheo’s family…but how? “Thanks for this Teddy. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” You finished packing everything into your bag. Before you left you tossed him back his pack of cigarettes, “see you later.”

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

You let out a sigh of relief, to be alone once again. Mettheo Riddle, what secrets do you hide? You made your way to the library instead of the Great Hall. After a few hours of searching around the library, you finally find a section of massive thick old leather bound books. You blew on the covers, these books contained a record of all the wizards and witches that had attended Hogwarts. Kind of like a yearbook, but it told you what came of them. Who married who, what did they end up doing after Hogwarts, etc. a rare but quite the gem of a find. “R… R.. R” you whispered, touching the book ends. You look at the bottom of the bookshelf finding the one that contained the last names that began with R. You found it, and you began to look through for the name “Riddle.”

Just as you got to the last name, you felt a wave of shame. You were snooping into somebody’s life. Their history. This is wrong. If Mattheo wanted to talk about his home life, surely he would have. He was hiding something. There were heavy slow footsteps coming around the corner of the aisle. You snapped the book shut holding it behind you and you looked at the section opposite of where you just were. Mattheo, they were his steps, you could tell.

“Of course you’d be in the library doing nerd stuff.” He doesn’t sound happy, but also when is he truly ever?

You looked at him then around yourself, “who me? A nerd for being in the library?” I mean he wasn’t wrong but ..yeah. You still point at him, “Where are you then? Because it seems to be you’re also in the library with…” you fake gasp, “...Me! Making you a nerd too!” You hoped that confused him, you shifted the leather book behind your back. It was getting heavy by the second.

“I’m ditching classes to smoke,” He takes a rip of a cigarette that was nearly at its end, he blows the smoke in your face. “Nerd.”

“Whoop-dee-doo what a stellar insult Mettheo. I’m a ravenclaw. What did you expect? I’d rather be a nerd than a-” You took a step closer to him squinting then widening your eyes in horror, “oh my god Mattheo did you lose a tooth from all that smoking?” He quickly shoved his pinky into his mouth feeling his teeth in a panic. If there was one thing he cared more about than cigarettes it was keeping up with his good looks. Uh did I just describe him as good looking?

He actually laughed once he finished counting his teeth, “They’re perfectly fine. I care about taking care of myself, unlike you. How often do you wash yourself? I doubt you even brush your hair. I did you a favor when you had to cut it off. You have no sense of style, even with a selection of uniforms! Why do you dress like it’s winter all year? You dress like a peasant from the 1820’s”

Okay ouch, that kinda hurt. You’ve been insecure with your body, you always struggled with that. Dressing in sweaters helped hide it. You didn’t know how to respond, maybe he's right. You couldn’t stand up for yourself to save your life. You just shoved his shoulder with your own and walked past him.

Matthew continues to follow you, “did you just shove me you twat?” He snatched the book out of my arms holding it a ways away from you, “If you’re going to do sneaky shit, don’t do it so obviously. Is this a diary or something?” Your eyes widened trying to take it back, but he held it up high above his head easily with one hand.

“Yes! It’s my diary, it’s where I gush about the god almighty perfect Mattheo!” I sarcastically said, still hoping he wouldn’t look at the title of the book. “No stupid! I dont have one, I just got done working on the potions project with your buddies. Hand me back the book.”

“Oh I bet you three had lots of fun. Did you talk about me while you were there? Did you talk about how you can’t take your eyes and mind off of me? You’re clearly obsessed, following me around like a love sick puppy. You pop up wherever I happen to be.”

“Ew no never.” You fought your expression back, did Theodore tell him something? Fuck. “Draco left, it was just Teddy and I. we spent it kissing the whole time. Super carefree. His lips surprisingly didn't taste like cigarettes, they were pretty sweet.”

Mattheo’s smug smirk fades even before you finish your sentence. He hated how you used a nickname for his friend. He despised the thought of you kissing anyone, especially his mates, “fucking liar. THEODORE, not TEDDY, doesn’t like you. He just tolerates you because he has to. He wouldn’t be caught dead kissing you. You’re disgusting and I pity anyone who has the displeasure of touching you in any way other than to harm you.

You hold your hands up, “woah woah woah, whatever makes you sleep peacefully at night. Why else did Teddy take me to an abandoned classroom, it was our chance to get away together especially after Draco conveniently left.” You couldn’t believe you were lying through your teeth, this would forsure come back and bite you in the ass even harder. You haven’t even had your first kiss yet. You haven't even been romantically linked with anyone before.

“Stop fucking calling him Teddy, it’s Theodore!”

“Can you guys get a room or SHUT UP! For Merlin’s Sake” A random student yelled out at us. Slamming their hand on the table. You were embarrassed because you took pride in keeping the library a sacred place to study or relax.

“Piss off. Go find a room of your own instead of listening to us talking. You must be a first year, if you’re still so sensitive to other’s voices in the library.” He continued to raise his voice, “We’ve been like this for years! Blah blah blah!!”

“Stop it Mattheo.” You shove him again, mouthing to the student, I'm very sorry. With the distraction you go and grab the book in Mattheo’s hand but he quickly readjusts his grip.

“You don’t have to apologize for me, sunshine. You should apologize to him for your existence, do everyone a favor will you?” He finally looked down at the title of the book, Who Were They and Where They Now?: Hogwarts. He carefully used a single finger to pry it open to where the fabric bookmark was, immediately seeing his own surname. He gives a manic laugh looking up at your face and slamming the book down to the floor, “you stalker. You are obsessed with me.”

He lunged at you. You took a step back, you hit the shelving. Your heart was beating so fast you thought you would pass out from the red handed guilt.

“What kind of information were you looking to find huh?” He pointed a finger at me, his eyes ice cold. Looking to murder. Your head suddenly hurt, there was a high pitched ringing that wouldn't stop. You went to cover your ears to find some relief but Mattheo grabbed you and shook hard, “what the FUCK did you think you would find? Tell me. Tell me NOW!” You didn’t know what to say he just stared hard at you, his nails digging into your arms. You winced. He began to speak fast and harshly as if he knew, as if you had said something.

“Did you really expect you would find out that I had a happy home? Do you think I’m happy being born in some dingy hovel? Do you think I'm overjoyed to be related to and be abused by my father? He beat me black and blue and hated my existence. My mother just sat there silently watching. She doesn’t care. Would YOU be thrilled knowing that you came from a long line of dark wizards who’ve caused pain and suffering to people for centuries.”

You began to cry, “Mattheo..”

“You honestly think I would be so proud of that to tell everyone?” He scoffed.

“Mattheo you’re hurting me…”

“I. Don’t. Care.” His deep brown eyes didn’t leave yours, “you should have minded your own business. Stupid girl prying into my history. What do you care? Did you think I'd be less of a jerk to you if I had a perfect loving family like yours? ”

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry! I .. I.”

“Shut up. You don't get to speak. I don't need you feeling sorry for me, I can handle myself. This is probably the worst you’ll ever experience.”

“Y-You’re right. I’m.. I’m grateful I never had to e-endure that” You were one stuttering mess.

He moves one hand to cup your mouth to shut you up again, “what did i say. I don't want to hear another word out of your mouth.” He rose the other up threateningly.

You closed your eyes. Do it Mattheo. Please. I deserve it. I’m sorry I tried to pry. Do it. He was surprised by your offer and looked at you in confusion, his expression didn’t change though. “What kind of sick request is that?” You open your eyes again to meet his. Both of you were in disbelief, did he just-? “Why would you want me to beat you? Because you feel bad for me? I don’t want nor need your sympathy. Trying to act like a saint that's willing to be my punching bag whenever I want.” he scoffed, letting your mouth free, taking a single step back away from you.

“Then why are you so mean to me? Tell me that. When I first laid eyes on you during our first year at the train platform, I thought we would be friends.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing where his fingers had dug into you.

“You’re a prissy annoying know-it-all goody two shoes that thinks she’s better than everyone. You can’t help but chime in whenever you have the chance and show off.”

“So it’s just my existence then huh, nothing else to it?” You felt your own anger finally rise, you wiped your tears off your cheek trying to regain composure.

“Pretty much. You’re unbearable. You are the most unexciting thing I’ve ever encountered.”

“Let me fix that for you.” Your eyes betrayed you and let the gates open, the flood starting to spill once more. Before Mattheo could get another hold of you you quickly shuffled off, dropping your things. Already feeling limp. Just hoping your legs would carry you a bit more.

Mattheo rolls his eyes, “tsk so stupid.” He stood there staring at the place you once were. Thinking about what occurred when he processed what you said, “Y/N! Hey I-..” He began to follow in the direction you went off to.

Your shuffle turned into a run, you just needed privacy. Anything. Your dorm was too far away, so you went into the nearest girls bathroom and into the furthest stall to sob.

Mattheo reaches the hallway, looking to his left and right. Fuck where did she go? He closes his eyes to listen closely. He heard something faint and went with his gut.

You sat down beside the toilet, hitting your head with your fist. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” You heard a familiar giggle, “go away Myrtle. Now’s especially not the time.”

Bathroom, you had to be in the bathroom. He went inside not caring if another girl would see him, “Y/N? You’re in here, I know you are. Look, just come out will you?” Instead Moaning Myrtle came forth.

“Are you looking for me?” she bit her finger looking him up and down, “we don't get that many cute boys in here.” She sighed, still admiring him, “Nevertheless, shame on you. How could someone as delicious as you treat someone so horribly.” She laughed in his face.

“Shut up. I don't need to be lectured by some depressed ghost. Why are you even here. Go away.” He went further inside the bathroom pushing doors in, “actually have you seen a girl come in, Y/N?”

“Yes!” She said excitedly pointing to the last stall, “She’s coming with me and we’ll get to haunt together. It’ll be so fun to not be alone anymore” She broke into another high pitched laugh, clapping her hands with joy.

“What the hell is she on about?” That’s when he noticed broken glass from a mirror. His heart drops, “you’ve got to be kidding me…” He rushed over pushing the final door in, but this one wouldn’t budge. “Y/N. It’s Mattheo..” his heart drops and he pales when he notices blood start to seep out from under the door, you’ve hurt yourself. “Y/N!” He says again louder, “open the door! Open it right fucking now! Y/N!!”

You didn’t want him to see you like this, no one should have to see this. You try to hold the door closed but you were losing your strength to do anything. The blood made it slippery so your hand slid down, “M-m-mattheo haven’t..you said enough?”

Myrtle pointed to the glass, “look how eager she was! Damaging school property to break free” She did a couple spins in the air, “any minute now!”

“That’s it. I’ve had enough.” Mattheo raised his wand and shot a blast at the lock, it broke open and he flung the door open to reveal you laying on the floor. His heart seemed to stop completely. “Shit! Dammit! Y/N!”

The blast frightened you, “No. Mattheo. No.” You could only make out his dark curly haired head. You tried to swat him away before losing consciousness due to blood loss.

Professor Snape rushed in after hearing a blast, “what the bloody hell is going on in here, Mr. Riddle.”

Mattheo looked at him with an angry and panicked expression, “I need her in the infirmary right now.” He said through gritted teeth. He leans over you, grabbing a large bunch of toilet paper and quickly kneels next to you. Applying pressure on your bleeding left wrist.

Snape understood immediately, “Keep the pressure on the wrist, Riddle.” He was able to pick you up easily, but he was not enthusiastic about having your blood staining his robes, “with HASTE Riddle! Follow me!” And off they went to the infirmary. Once there Snape quickly laid you on a bed gently before Madame Pomfrey took over.

She was able to stop and clean the bleeding, while she examined the cut striation she asked both Snape and Mattheo what blood type they were, “The girls lost too much blood, she needs a transfusion.” She began to stitch the wrist, the cut was near vertical to the veins.

Mattheo in a less than a split second looked at Pomfrey, “Am I able to donate for her.” He didn’t say it as a question, he wanted it to be a command.

“As long as you share the same blood type then yes, sweetheart. Please, fresh blood is much better. We can’t wait more time, Ms. Y/L/N is so terribly pale. She can have a seizure any minute if we dont get more blood to her brain” still carefully pulling at threads. His hand was still holding yours.

He nods impatiently, less talking, more action. “I’m AB-” he gulped. One of the rarest blood types in the world, “what type is she?” he began to roll up his sleeve even before Pomfrey was able to respond.

“Goodheavens! Thank Merlin. She’s AB- as well!” She sighs looking up at the ceiling for a split second, calling for a nurse to help set up the transfusion. He took a seat on your left, watching the nurse insert a needle into each of your arms. He didn’t flinch, but he gave her a threatening look when she inserted a needle into your arm, thinking she would bring more pain to you.

Madame Pomfrey stood up, finished. “If it was with a straight razor and not a glass shard, I don’t think i would have been able to-” she let her voice die down after seeing how pale Mattheo began to look too, she shut her mouth as to not worry him more with what the other alternative was. He couldn’t hide his guilt. His eyes were alternating between your face and his blood that was slowly running into your body through a single tubing. He desperately needed it to go faster.

“Is there a chance she would wake up with problems with her veins or her nerves?” He asked.

Pomfrey patted the boy's shoulders, “Let’s hope not, let’s hope they hold. With the basics in place, there’s nothing a little magic can’t help.” This eased him, “Ms. Y/L/N wont wake for a couple of hours. She needs to be watched to make sure she doesn’t rip my stitching job or we will go back to square one my boy. Can I trust you?”

“Is that really a necessary question?” He bit his tongue, “Sorry, yes I will watch over her. I need to be here when she wakes up.”

“Best she gets a psychiatrist too, but that's a later issue to address. We’ll focus on physical healing for now.” Pomfrey looked at Mattheo curiously, isn’t this one of the trouble-making slytherin boys? She shook her head and walked out to attend to another student.

“Y/N i’m here.” He studies your face, deep with regret and guilt. He holds your right hand tightly, he whispers softly, “it’s okay, you’re going to be alright..”

“Riddle.” Snape was still watching everything from the shadows of the room, “What happened to my best student, why is he in this condition?”

“It’s my fault, Professor…I was making a fool out of myself. I was treating her like hell… it went too far. She must have had a breakdown and she-” he couldn’t bear to describe your condition out loud.

Snape held a hand up to silence him from saying more, “rather than giving you detention for the rest of your time here at Hogwarts. I will need you to attend all the girl’s classes she will be missing in her recovery. She must not fall behind.”

“Yes sir, I understand. I’ll do it.”

Snape turned to leave but came back toward the boy and yanked the cigarette box from his uniform pocket, “none of these for you either, especially as you are sharing blood with Y/N. She never liked you smoking.” and off he turned around to change his own robes from the blood.

“Anything for you.” he whispered towards you, “please wake up soon.”

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

You began to stir, your eyes fluttering open. You looked around in a panic. You were incredibly sore, especially your left wrist. It stung badly. Mattheo had fallen asleep in the chair when he jolted awake to the sound of your movements, “Calm down, relax, you’re in the infirmary. You’re safe.” He couldn’t help but feel like he just lied about it being safe, if he was the cause of this.

“M…m..Mattheo” You began to cry again, “I’m so sorry.” You went to reach out and hug him but flinched. You followed the red transfusion line to him, “oh Mattheo.”

He sat up to lean towards you. He shushes you and wipes your tears with the back of his hand, ‘you need to calm down and take it easy, princess. You’ve lost a lot of blood and you're still weak. This is just to bring your levels up, you’ll start to feel better soon.”

You stared at his beautiful eyes, ones that had held so much hate but there seemed to be no trace of it now. You felt guilty, I acted like a coward. “Myrtle said it was going to be quick and painless. I’m so stupid I couldn’t even do it right.” You felt another wave of tears coming but you tried to choke them down.

“No youre not, you’re not at fault.” He couldn’t help but chuckle cautiously as what he was about to say, “you might be a know-it-all but you just need to have more control with your thoughts. Don’t listen to Moaning Myrtle. Don’t be hard on yourself, you're not stupid. You did nothing wrong.”

“I thought I was doing you a favor.” you were so exhausted. But you needed to get this out before you lost consciousness again. With your good arm you help his hand tightly, looking him in the eyes again to emphasize the point you were going to make, “Mattheo, I really am idiotic. I Am. I did think you had a perfect life, it didn’t cross my mind that you had it any other way. You were always carefree and just let's be honest, acting like you're’ better than everyone else. It was wrong of me to have assumed that.”

He frowns. “Don’t apologize. There’s no way to tell what someone is going through ultimately. I..cope in my own way.” He softly strokes your cheek with this thumb.

If it wasn’t for the pain, you would have thought you were asleep. Dead. Or in purgatory. A realm between realms. No way the mattheo I’ve known my whole life is sitting beside me looking..lovingly at me? You felt horrible. Did I just manipulate him into caring about me? Just hours ago he was mocking and saying nasty things as usual.

Mattheo could see the look of disbelief in your eyes from the way he was behaving, “Y/N. I’m caring for you. No you’re not dreaming or in some other realm. You’re here, with me, thank Merlin. You didn’t manipulate me, you woke me up.”

You sat up too quickly for your own good, your head feeling light “How are you doing that?”

He shook his head, “Another time. I’m really sorry for how I treated you. You think I’m just some asshole, but I'm more than that really. I want to be more than that. No one else has gotten to see the real me.”

“Mattheo, I see you.” Despite your pain, you reach out to cup his face between your hands. For a second, you saw the boy you first laid your eyes on that first year at the train station. The same sad eyes, “I see you.”

He sighed into your touch, it was a soft and innocent gesture he was not used to. He chuckled softly, and gently placed his hands over yours, keeping them there. He didn’t want to lose the touch, “I know you do, and that’s exactly why I'm afraid.”

You couldn’t help but imagine - how different our lives could have been for the last 6 years, if he would have just introduced himself to me. Explained why he looked so pained when I was with my family. “My parents would have welcomed you as their own” you explained your thoughts to him. “I could have protected you. You could have visited me during the holiday breaks. I know saying it will not change the past and what has happened to you. But I see you Matty.”

“yeah..it’s too late to change the past, I should’ve but I didn’t think you’d understand. It doesn’t excuse the way I treated you all these years, Y/N.” His voice got shaky, his eyes starting to water. He was a mess.

“No, don't you start Mattheo please, baby.” You brought him into a hug, again ignoring your throbbing wrist. “Easy now.” you soothed the curls that were behind his neck. They felt so soft.

Mattheo rested his head on your shoulder and held you tightly, softly crying into you. He wrapped his arms around you and held onto your shirt like he was afraid to let go. He couldn’t remember the last time someone treated him like this, it felt so new and overwhelming.

You kissed the top of his head, inhaling - cigarettes. You hated that he smoked but at this moment the smalle was comforting. He let out a deep sigh. You broke the hug only because you scooted over on the bed, and tugged him to lay beside you. We watched you, he looked so tired. He nodded in agreement with a small smile, he carefully laid beside you, making sure to be careful of your condition.

You gave him a reassuring look that wasn’t hurting you. I’m okay. You looked at your arms touching side by side, still connected by the tubing. You couldn't help but laugh, “Matty isn’t it ironic? All this pure-blood and mudblood talk and look” you carefully lifted the tube, “we’re still one and the same foundation.” You smiled at him, helping wipe his tear stained cheeks now. “Thanks for your donation to me.”

He too couldn't help but grin back at you. He couldn’t believe you weren’t pushing him away for how he treated you, or for how vulnerable he was at the moment, “any time, but please actually don’t do that ever again. You made me worried to death..”

“No I won’t. Pinky promise.” You held out your pinky for him to take.

He took it in his own nodding, “good, you’re stuck with me now.”

With our pinkies still woven, you looked at the size difference. You turned toward his Bambi like eyes, “let's start this over on the right foot. Better late than never? Hi i’m Y/N, [insert some fun facts about yourself].”

Mattheo smiled more widely, blushing his pinky did make yours look kiddish. It was adorable. He gave you a playful look, smirking at you like he usually would, “Nice to meet you there, Y/N. I’m Mattheo, the sexiest guy you’ll meet in Hogwarts.”

There’s my Mattheo. “And you promise to…?” you coaxed him.

He gave your pinky another squeeze, “to try to be nice and kind to you, and avoid bullying you….as well as to not smoke in your presence…you happy?”

You kind of nodded, holding in your laugh, “aaaand…?”

He looked at you, trying to read what you wanted him to say. He gave your pinky another, slightly rougher, squeeze. “And I promise not to throw a wad of gum into your beautiful hair?”

“Bingo. Mr. Riddle, that’s what I was ultimately looking for.” You let go of his pinky, “but it is nice to know the other stuff too.” you waved your hand like it was nothing, but it was my everything. He gave you a sarcastic scoff, he liked that you were still acting like your old self too.

You kissed his cheek and his face went redder than a cherry, you acted shocked “woah did I just make Mattheo, the sexiest guy in Hogwarts BLUSH?!” You slapped your hands against your cheeks in play disbelief, slightly regretting the pain it brought to your arms. He quickly shook his head and blushed even more than originally thought possible, he tried to hide his face away from you, “S-shut up! That’s a lie! I was not blushing, it’s just your imagination.”

You laughed at his reaction, taking his hand in mine once more comparing the hand sizes. You put my head against his shoulder, before dropping your jester attitude. Making him form another pinky promise with you. “Mattheo, I promise to be there for you. I want to protect you. You shouldn’t live in the shadow of your home life, especially not alone. Just as much as I’m stuck with you. You’re stuck with me. That’s my promise to you.”

His heart beat fast, it nearly melted his heart to hear your promise. He let out a deep, shaky breath. He couldn't stop the small tear that rolled down his cheek, he didn’t bother wiping it. He just leaned his head down to rest on your own, “deal…”

There was a pause, before you spoke up again.“I know we just started the year but please, come back home with me this Christmas holiday when it rolls around.” You blinked up at him. You started to feel really sleepy, that was to be your last request and plea for the moment, “I’ll show you how muggles get down to holiday business.”

Mattheo looked down at you and smiled softly, as your eyes were struggling to stay open, “yea sure, i’ll spend the holidays with you” he wasn’t sure how he would, but he would worry about that later.

Many promises were made this day, and you intended to keep each and every single one of them. In many ways, you knew this would still be the same Mattheo you had always known, but it would all be so different now. You managed to break through his extremely guarded shell, the hardest way possible. But it needed to desperately be broken.

You turned Mattheo’s head to look at you, he met your gaze. The corner of his lip curled up as he knew what you were about to do. He let you take the lead, closing his eyes. You kissed his lips slowly, cherishing how it felt. You wanted more of him, but your body was pleading for rest. You hugged his arm and surrendered.

He couldn’t help but touch his lips afterwards with his fingertips. He watched as you gave in to exhaustion, he followed your lead and let out a deep sigh before closing his eyes, “Goodnight princess.” Mattheo fell asleep to the sounds of you breathing and the sound of your heartbeat, they would surely become one of the most blissful lullabies to be heard by him. He intertwined his fingers with yours, he wouldn’t ever let go.

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pedrito-friskito · 2 years ago

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bloody knuckles - joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you come home injured, and Joel has something to say about it.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, swearing, mentions of injuries/canon-typical violence, spoilers for the show, heavily inspired by joel’s reaction to tess (iykyk), oral (f receiving), brief spanking, a bit of manhandling, unprotected p-in-v (WRAP UR SHIT IN THE APOCALYPSE FAM), I have joel miller brain rot and I regret nothing

(could be read as part of the fire + whiskey universe, but can still be enjoyed regardless)

✨I no longer have a taglist - please follow @friskito-library and turn on notifs to be notified of new fics!✨

He’s asleep, when your key hits the lock.

It depends on the day, lately, what you get when you manage to find your way back to the apartment. Every day is different, a roulette wheel that doesn’t seem to let up. Some days, he’s still awake, poring over his maps at the scratched kitchen table, the bottle of hooch not far from his grip. Other times he’s pacing by the window, the radio a quiet whine, his hair yanked in a million different directions. Sometimes he’s not even home, and you’re the one left to wait up, or pass out on the couch trying to.

But today, he’s asleep.

Silently, you’re grateful. If he saw the state of you, he’d barrel right through the fucking door the moment you let slip who had hurt you. That’s how it is, these days, and that’s how you have to be, you know. But you can’t risk it. You can’t risk him.

The pipes rattle when you flick on the faucet, try and rinse some of the blood from your hands, wincing at your sore knuckles. It’s just past curfew, and light from the too-bright street lamps filters through the living room window, and you scour for a painkiller, tossing half of something back with a sip from the hooch bottle still on the table.

He doesn’t move until you’re perched on the edge of the bed, wrapping your hand with some gauze you pilfered from the pharmacy on your way back. There’s no words, at first, just the rough drag of his hand across the small of your back, a low grunt as he rolls toward you. You pull the shirt off, feeling his fingers rove up your spine, tapping over your bones.

You’re reaching for a new shirt — one of his stashed in the pile of semi-clean clothes — when he curls his finger under your bra, pulls you back a little. “C’mere,” he mumbles, and you let yourself fall back. He lets out a low oomph when you hit his chest. He’s fully clothed, even his boots still on. “Where y’been?”

“Nowhere important,” you reply, keeping your face pointedly away from him. You pull your legs up onto the mattress, sinking down beside him, your back brushing against his chest as you sprawl on the mattress. Instantly, he slips a knee between yours, slings his arm around your waist, hauls you closer. “You been sleeping all day?”

“Don’t change the subject, girlie,” he murmurs, low in your ear, and you just shake your head, silencing your wince, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “Couple hours. Long day.”

“Talk in the morning,” you reply, covering his hand with your undamaged one. “I’m tired too.”

He grunts in response, and that’s that.

Joel doesn’t wait until morning.

The sky is still dark when he’s shaking your shoulder, rousing you just on the edge of roughly, heavy eyelids blinking open to see him gripping your bandaged hand, the camping lantern on the makeshift beside table the only bit of light.

“Who.” Not a question.

“It’s nothing,” you start to say, rolling towards him out of instinct, reaching up to rub the sleep from your eye but then biting back a quiet cry when your face flares with pain. “I fell and it just—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he snaps, and drops your hand, fingers either side of your jaw a moment later, turning your face towards him, towards the light, gently. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Joel, don’t—”

“No,” he spits, springing up off the mattress, crossing to the kitchen, finding a rag, putting a bit of the hooch on it. The closest you’ll get to antiseptic. “You’ve got a black fuckin’ eye. Tell me who. Now.”

“Why?” you ask, sitting up as he returns to the bed, kneeling on the edge, taking your jaw in his hand again. “So you can break curfew and get charged for disturbing the peace? They’re hanging people for less these days, Joel. I won’t…” You wince as he touches the rag to your split skin, swiping at the dried blood you’d half-heartedly wiped at. “I won’t let you.”

He goes quiet, jaw working, his brow furrowed so hard you can’t resist reaching out and smoothing your thumb along the line it makes in his forehead. “I want to know.”

“If I tell you, you need to stay,” you say, moving your thumb back and forth along his skin. “I need you to remember that you taught me how to protect myself, too.” The corner of your mouth quirks. “And the assholes that did this to me look much worse.”

His face softens slightly, and his brow slowly raises. You let your hand move lower, dragging your knuckles down to his scruffy jaw. “How much worse?”

“Pretty sure I broke the one guy’s nose,” you say, unable to stifle your smug grin when his eyes widen slightly. “And the other, well, he definitely won’t be using his hand anytime soon.”

He lowers the rag, tossing it to the side as you move a little closer, pushing back the blanket he’d draped over you. He just watches, lips softly parted, nostrils flaring as you get closer still, lifting your leg and sliding into his lap.

“You’re not the only attack dog in Boston,” you say quietly, and Joel huffs, hands finding homes on your hips as you run yours along his shoulders, up the back of his head, tangling in his hair. “I’m well-trained.”

“Girlie,” he grumbles out, almost a warning in his tone.

“What?” you murmur, feigning innocence. “You taught me. Saved my life. Kept me going. Keep me going.” You lean in, press your lips softly to one of the bare patches in his beard, the perfect shape for your mouth. “You remember the day we found each other again?”

He tilts his head back slightly, peering at you down his nose, his eyes darkening as he slips his hands up the hem of your shirt, seeking out bare skin. “O’course I do.”

“And that night, when you fucked me so good in that—”

The rest of the sentence dies on your tongue. He surges upward, claims your mouth for his own. You let him, tugging at his hair as he devours you. He tastes like hooch — he must have stolen a sip — and you drink it down like it’s the finest whiskey you’ve ever had, your tongue tangling with his, hips rolling down, the friction between you two making you both gasp.

In one fluid movement, he’s lifting the shirt over your head, letting his mouth map a trail down your chest, while you’re pawing at his shirt, nails dragging against buttons, scratching lightly at the exposed patch of skin at his collar. You moan when he pulls your bra out of the way, mouths at your nipple, scruffy jaw scraping sensitive skin.

Your back hits the mattress a minute later, and you automatically reach for his belt, letting your fingers glance across the bulge in his jeans, but he pushes your hands away. “Nuh-uh,” he grunts, and pulls both your legs over one shoulder, reaching for the waist of your leggings. “Lift.”

You do as you’re told, and the bundle of fabric goes flying a moment later. He doesn’t waste any time, grabbing your ankles in his hands, peeling your legs apart. You gasp, the air cold as it hits your skin, but before you have a chance to shiver, your knees are hooked over both his shoulders, thighs around his ears. He’s got one strong arm banded around your waist, keeping you off the mattress, and his other hand roves beneath, grabbing handfuls of your ass, squeezing, smoothing along your spine.

His tongue feels like fire, flicking at every single one of your nerves. It turns your blood to flame, white-hot pleasure that sinks through your limbs as he buries his mouth between your legs. His hand moves back to cup your ass again, giving you a quick spank before he’s grabbing your cheek, flesh pinched between his knuckles.

You bury one hand at the crown of his head, those grey-streaked curls wrapping around your fingers. When you tug, he hums against you, the vibrations making sparks shoot across your vision, and you lock your ankles together between his shoulder blades, keeping him hostage to your pleasure. He’s more than willing, dropping his jaw slightly, dipping his tongue straight into your very core.

“Joel,” you groan out, back arching when he spanks you again, fingers soothing the hot spot instantly. “Fucking christ. Fuck me, please?”

“Cum,” he commands, his voice gruff as he speaks the word into your cunt, lips shiny with your slick. Your spine prickles with anticipation, the coil in your gut growing tight as he moves his mouth up, draws your throbbing clit between his lips and sucks hard. “Cum, and I’ll give you my cock.”

You nearly whine, but then his hand dips, following the curve of your ass, thumb pressing between your folds, stroking at your entrance. Everything goes tight, the edges of your vision tinged black with the intensity, and you do as you’re told, cumming with a shout muffled on the back of your hand. He licks you through it, dropping your hips back to the mattress when you push at him, legs going wide as they slide off his shoulders.

Joel shuffles back slightly, giving you room to stretch out. His belt is undone in one swift move, jeans pushed around his hips and his cock springing free, hard and heavy. You watch, chest heaving as he takes himself in hand, leans over you just enough to drag his tip through your wetness. Your hands curl into fists in the blankets, thighs twitching around his hips, and he plants one hand beside your head, leaning over you completely.

You lift your hips off the bed, catching his cock at your entrance, and he groans, his forehead pressed against your temple, carefully avoiding your black eye. You both exhale deeply as he pushes all the way in, filling you to the hilt, lips pressing a sloppy kiss to you cheek as his hips roll down. Your knees bend up around his ribs, both hands back in his hair.

He goes slow, slow enough that you can feel every inch, every twitch in his muscles, hear every word that falls from his lips, every soft grunt and quiet groan. “Always feels so fuckin’ good,” he rasps, and you cheat your hand down his back, pushing his jeans lower so you can grab a handful of his ass. “Jesus fuckin’ christ.”

You’re chasing his every move, hips lifting in tandem with his. You squeeze your thighs, palms flattening against his ribs, bearing down on him best you can. His pace falters, a grunted girlie meeting your ears, and you take it as an opening, pushing at his shoulder until he topples onto the mattress, using the momentum to land you in his lap.

It changes the angle, forcing his cock against something devastating inside you, your head tipping back on your shoulders. He puts both hands on your hips, guiding you as you drag yourself along him, knees planted either side of him. You wanted to take control, but it’s faltering in an instant, the feeling of him just too fucking good.

Joel bands his arm around your shoulders when you chest meets his, burying his face in your neck. You feel him shift, knees coming until his thighs are pressed to the backs of yours, and your attempt at control is completely out the window. He hammers into you, knotting his fingers in your hair, and you howl as your second orgasm hits, flooding his cock, all but clawing at his shoulders as the pleasure rocks you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he grits, legs shaking as he drives up into you. There’s a quick pause, your body jolted slightly upwards as he pulls out, curling his fingers around the base of his cock, fucking his hand until he cums hot against your ass. You force your lips against his, kissing him through his own orgasm, taking his bottom lip between your teeth when he groans, returning your kiss as soon as the sound finishes.

The entire apartment seems quiet, in the after. There’s silent groans from each of you, Joel shuffling to find a rag, wiping at your skin, you going to steal a sip of the hooch while he buckles his belt. You both redress, sliding your boots back on before sprawling on the mattress beside him. It’s habit, now, sleeping in your clothes, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

He opens his arms to you when you slide close, and you fit yourself against him, your head fitting under his chin, hooking a knee over his hip. He drops his jaw, presses a kiss to your forehead, grumbling quietly as you settle into his grip.

“Girlie,” he mumbles, dragging his scruffy chin over your head.

“Yeah?”

“I still wanna beat the shit out of those guys.”

You let out a little chuckle, burrowing deeper into his embrace, rubbing your hand up his side. “I know you do, baby.”

#my fics #bloody knuckles #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x girlie #the last of us spoilers #the last of us fic

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penvisions · 1 year ago

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the melting point {{masterlist}}

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Baker! Reader (ex EMT! Reader)

Summary: Running from the past to a new city gave you the perfect opportunity to open your own bakery. You're a regular at Brass Knuckles, and the owner is the right type of friendly you need in your life. Along with him, comes his group of friends, one Frankie Morales. You develop a crush on him nearly instantly. Can you manage to get your head above water long enough to tell him he's the most gorgeous man you've ever met?

Word Count: 82k - complete

Warnings: hurt and comfort, light angst, mild violence, one (1) instance of stalking, talk of past gun violence, ptsd, reader has trauma similar to the triple frontier guys, reader is described as having tattoos for plot points, reader is handicapped (expanded on in later chapters), reader has mobility issues, adult content, smut, p in v smut, oral (m and f receiving), the whole gang is here, plus oc inserts

*these are just general warnings, each chapter has a detailed list for specific content

A/N: this is a self indulgent fic in which my dream of opening a bakery comes true, and hey, if a man built like a wall and had curls for days became a regular, that would be okay too c;

chapter one || chapter two || chapter three || chapter four || chapter five || chapter six

chapter seven || chapter eight || chapter nine || chapter ten

chapter eleven || chapter twelve || chapter thirteen || chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen || chapter sixteen || chapter seventeen || chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen || chapter twenty

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for-your-comfort · 1 year ago

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Hi! I hope you're still taking requests, but can I request a Knuckle Bine x hunter!Reader fic?

Reader is also one of Morel's apprentices and she participates in the fight against the Chimera Ants at the palace. But she's also secretly in love with Knuckle (he's oblivious) and she decides to confess to him in the spur of the moment mid palace infiltration. They just have this little "we might be dead by tomorrow so fuck this" moment, and confess to eachother and kiss desperately before getting back to fighting the Royal Guards. I live for life or death romantic situations and angsty/fluffy moments 😭

I love your writing so I hope I'm not bothering you! Kisses :)

Now or Never

Knuckle x Reader

a/n: i’m sorry this isn’t really what you asked for, i changed it a little to adapt to my current knowledge of HXH since i don’t want to do the chimera ant arc any injustice by putting an unfitting scene in.

summary: you’ve been sent on a dangerous quest with Knuckle and Shoot, and find yourself doubting whether you will even make it out alive. what better moment to confess your feelings?

warnings: injuries + blood loss (no graphic descriptions), bit of angst (but also comfort)

word count: 1603

A moment you feel most vulnerable in… Like your entire world is crashing down, and you’re so helpless, because there is absolutely nothing you can do.

What do you do at this moment? When you’re aware of how fast your thoughts are racing, as if competing with your pounding heartbeat in your ears. And yet still none of those thoughts are helpful, they’re nothing but mere, fleeting ideas passing through. Nothing you need, nothing to save you, nor the person next to you.

Your hiding spot is behind a few boxes, and so far they’ve been a good place to not be found. You listen carefully for anything suspicious, yet all you can hear is your own heartbeat, the irregular breaths of your friend, and the shuffling steps that must belong to the beast. You’re lucky to have limited it’s hearing and smelling senses during the earlier fight, or else you would surely already have been found. And given the circumstances, there’s no guarantee you’d make it.

You put a hand on the ground to steady yourself, and wince in pain when your palm touches the dirty ground. There’s a cut across your hand, that you hadn’t noticed up until now. You will have to clean the wound later and make sure it isn’t infected, if you make it out of this situation alive, that is.

“What is it?”

A hushed voice, barely even a whisper, is heard from beside you. You clutch your hand into a fist as your eyes meet Knuckle’s and guilt washes over you. Isn’t it so selfish to think of your own injury, when the person you cherish most is in much worse shape?

Your eyes linger on Knuckle’s once-white jacket that is all soaked up with blood, and just imagining where it’s coming from makes you tear up once again. He must be in so much pain.

Yet, nobody could have predicted this. Not Morel, when he sent Shoot, Knuckle and you out on a casual bounty hunt for a monster that has turned out to be a bite much bigger than the three of you can chew.

Not Shoot, who had agreed to it without a second thought after seeing the nods of Knuckle and you, who is now nowhere to be seen, ever since you lost sight of him somewhen during the fight before.

And certainly not Knuckle, who has overexerted himself, and gotten this beat up. His usual so energetic self is now slumped against a wooden box, sitting on the floor to your left. The sight breaks your heart over and over again.

“Hm?”

He asks again, and you can tell he’s getting weaker. How much blood has he lost? How much more can he hold on?

You can no longer hold back the tears now silently trickling down your cheeks. You can’t even remember the last time you felt like this, so at the mercy of fate’s cruelty as you couldn’t do anything but sit and wait for the inevitable end, since the two of you can’t possibly hide forever.

You get lost in the features of Knuckle, the deep lines on his face and his furrowed eyebrows. His usually so bold mouth, with lips that have their corners turned downwards now.

His big hands have always seemed so strong and secure, and even at this moment you long for nothing more than to feel them around you, and wake up to find all of this to be just a horrible nightmare. But his hands are tightly clutching the side of his stomach, and you know he’s trying to stop, or at least slow, the bleeding.

A tiny part of you hopes Shoot escaped and is seeking help in the nearest city, however you know very well that it’s hard to access, and even at your usual pace, at least an hour away. By now, that hope for help has pretty much died out.

You make another feeble attempt to use your nen ability, but the presence of the beast is still blocking it out.

You tightly clutch one hand within the other and press your eyes shut, before you feel a rough hand gently wipe your tears.

“Why are you crying?”

You shake your head as you look at Knuckle, and even more tears pour down your face and cheeks, some getting caught in Knuckle's calloused fingers, others spilling down to your clenched hands. But you will not speak. You will buy Knuckle, and yourself, as much time as possible. You will not make one single sound, that could betray your location to the beast. At least, that’s your plan.

As if having read your thoughts, Knuckle goes silent for a moment. He musters you with that look again, that one he gives you whenever you do something he disapproves of, or doesn’t understand.

“Once all this is over and we’re back home tomorrow, I’ll make Shoot and you those dumplings again. I know you mock and criticise my cooking, but it will be the best dumplings of your life-“

You interrupt him with a push against his arm, and he lets it drop to the ground with no resistance. He expected this.

“How can you say that!?” You hiss at him, “Don’t you understand? We might be dead by tomorrow!”

The salty tears rush down your cheeks even quicker as you angrily glare at Knuckle, still trying your hardest to be as quiet as possible.

A soft sigh escapes Knuckle as he reaches an arm out towards you, and gently pulls you into his mostly uninjured side. You simply let it happen, and close your eyes upon impact with his shoulder as you carefully snake an arm around his waist, the other wrapping around his other shoulder.

You can hear him taking a breath to say something, but nothing more than a quiet sob rips through the silence. You instantly pull away to look at him, your eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“You don’t deserve this. Any of this. I failed you.”

His voice is so quiet.

You shake your head and hug him tightly once again, this time with his face buried in your shoulder. You gently brush through his hair with your fingers to soothe him, as you lean in to whisper in his ear.

“You could never fail me. You did all you could, we both did. Then this is just how it has to happen.”

He lets out another sob as he clings onto you, his tears slowly soaking through your shirt.

You hold him tightly, silently crying into his hair. This is honestly the last moment you’d expect to be in when you would get to hold him like this for the first time, but given the circumstances, now there might not be any other moment for this in the future…

“I have feelings for you,” you start, “I have had them for a while now. I guess this might be the last time I get to tell you.”

At once, his eyes are on you, wide and startled, but not in a negative way. You’re happy to see some of his usual energy to be back, even if only for the moment, and that twinkle in his eyes you love so dearly has returned.

You can’t help but reach out to brush your hand through his hair again, your fingers tangling in his curls and getting stuck in the pompadour. Instantly, it seems like Knuckle is melting at your touch like soft butter in the sun. A warm feeling spreads inside your chest at this reaction, as if you swallowed the sun yourself.

“I had no idea… Why didn’t you say anything sooner? No, wait- aaaaaah! I should have said something!”

You cover his mouth with your hand, looking left and right, listening hard, in fears that his whisper-shouts gave away your location. You’re not out of danger, how could you be so reckless? But there’s not a single thing you hear, and you slowly remove your hand.

As you do, even Knuckle seems to sigh out in relief before you feel a calloused hand on your cheek, and Knuckle’s warm breath on your chin before your lips meet.

You sit there, frozen in shock, yet only for a moment. Your eyes flutter closed, your hands desperately grasping at his clothes for some stability, even when you know you must be the strong one in a situation where he is injured.

You two don’t let go of each other, neither of you daring to break the kiss. This wonderful, soft kiss.

His lips are chapped and dry, and you imagine yours aren’t any better. But still, you couldn’t imagine your first kiss to be any more perfect. For while you’re here, there’s no danger. There’s no beast out there to get you, no wound in your palm to burn in pain as you clench fistfuls of Knuckle’s shirt, and no pools of blood seeping through the same once-white shirt.

Right now, this might not even be the last kiss.

“There you are. I could hear you whispering.”

Both Knuckle and you snap your heads towards the source of the voice. And you see Shoot, looking at you with a warm smile.

You first worry that the beast might hear you, but knowing Shoot, he would never be so careless. The beast must already be disposed of. You two are safe. Knuckle will be okay, and you will make sure of that. You look at him, and the look on his face tells you that he has drawn the same conclusions as you.

“Let’s go home.”

#hxh x reader #fluff #angst with a happy ending #hunter x hunter #knuckle x gn!reader #hxh knuckle x reader #knuckle x reader #knuckle bine

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pumpkins-journal · 27 days ago

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whaddup gaymers remember that pupy that was in one of the images taken with taicub? i looked more into it and found more info on the little guy!

Lupup

The Potential Pokemon

Type: Ghost/Fairy

Height: 1'08"/0.5m

Weight: 30.0 lbs/13.6 kg

Ability: Shadow Tag/Regenerator (HA: Reckless)

Lupup is a small, wolf-like Pokemon with dark blue fur. The beads around its mane clink gently as it moves, the sound sending chills through anyone who is around to listen. They are known to be aloof and serious, often keeping their distance and lurking in the shadows. Like most Ghost-type Pokemon, they can meld into the shadows around it, often using them as a means to get close and ambush their opponents. Lupup rarely attacks living humans and Pokemon, only doing so when they’re presented as a threat to its territory. Despite their stoic nature, they are fiercely loyal to those they care about and stop at nothing to hunt down those who bully the weak.

Lupup live in deep woods and forests, often keeping to themselves. Sometimes they watch Pokemon playing from atop tree branches and aren’t above joining in if invited to play. If a baby Pokemon is separated from its family, it will carry it on its back or keep it nestled under its wisp-like tail to keep it safe. It has a strong sense of responsibility and justice, and perhaps because of it, it can get reckless when in battle, often using the stronger attacks in its arsenal to ward off opponents, even if it exhausts them in the process. Because of its fierce loyalty, It has no regard to its self preservation and is prone to being mortally injured to keep its friends and allies safe, leaving behind nothing but a magatama-like stone from its mane, its will living on in the object and protecting its owner from beyond the beyond.

Accordingly to legend and fairy-tales, Lupups are known as heralds of the afterlife, and stalk their prey; other ghosts. They watch carefully as the deceased travels down its designated path, reflecting on their life. If they have done evil in life and regret their actions, Lupup will leave it alone so it will pass on. If the specter is rotten to its core however, this Pokemon will lunge, dragging it down to the underworld where it is tormented for eternity. If you get lost in a forest and feel a chill up your spine, Lupup is nearby, watching you carefully. If you are kind to its forest and its inhabitants, it will ward away potential danger until you’re safely escorted out of its territory. If you thank it as you leave, you’ll feel a breeze that carries its howl in response. If you are there with ill-intentions, however, Lupup will place a curse upon you, trapping you in its forest until you eventually perish, stalking your spirit until judgment falls.

This Pokemon has the potential to evolve into one of two types based on whether or not its friendship level is high enough at twilight or if its exposed to an item still unknown to us... I'll get back to you on that when I find out more about it!

Shiny Variation:

#pumpkins notes #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk dungeon au #megumi fushiguro #jjk megumi #fushiguro megumi #jjk au #cracks knuckles time to reach across the aisle again #jjk fluff #jjk x y/n #jjk x black reader #jjk x reader

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undonerhapsodize · 2 years ago

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Domestic Burdens

#knuckles masterlist #Knuckles the Echidna #Sonic Knuckles #knuckles the echidna x reader #knuckles x reader #movie knuckles #sonic x reader #knuckles x you #sonic x you #knuckles the echidna fluff #sonic fluff #knuckles the echidna fic

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yourlocaltrashpandaa · 2 years ago

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Thinking about doing Sonic oneshots since rewatching the movies as well as getting back into Sonic Prime and I might start watching Sonic Boom as well. I love my intergalactic blue hedgehog so I have a poll for y’all 😈

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic fandom #sonic x reader #sonic fluff #shadow the hedgehog #knuckles the echidna #silver the hedgehog #x female reader #x fem!reader #knuckles x reader #shadow x reader #silver x reader #sonic oneshots #sonic headcanons

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whytheylosttheirminds · 1 month ago

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snooze - r.c.

(season 4 bf!rafe x gf!reader blurb, 4.1k words)

summary Your man works harder than anyone you know, and you couldn’t love him more for it, but some mornings you just want to hold on to him a little longer…

content fluff/smut, mutual mast., p in v, 18+ minors do not interact

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Rafe’s alarm rings through the large bedroom like a blaring siren, jerking you violently from the sweet sleep you were just wrapped in. He doesn’t hear it at first, still sound asleep next to you, snores rumbling through his bare chest.

You blink your eyes open, the room is still dark, though the first golden rays of the sunrise creep in through the small crack in the curtains. You twist your body towards Rafe, snuggling your head into his neck, an attempt to both shield your eyes from the sunlight and get his attention, desperate for him to silence the loud alarm.

After a few seconds, he still hasn’t heard it, so you reach up and gently tap his cheek.

“Baby,” you groan, cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Too loud.”

Rafe takes a deep breath in, eyes still closed as he reaches his bedside table, tapping his phone screen clumsily until the sound subsides.

He settles back in, placing a quick kiss onto the top of your head as he pulls you into his side. You sigh happily, running your nails softly up and down his chest and stomach, drawing little hearts and stars on his skin. He shivers when you graze over the soft skin of his lower stomach, following his happy trail down to his waistband. You fully plan on dipping your hand below it, where he’s already twitching and firming up for you under his sweatpants, but you get distracted by the delicious deep V lines on either side of his waist. You dip your pointer finger into the valley of muscle and trace the shape down, switching to the other side and drawing back up.

He stirs when you angle your finger to scratch lightly with your manicured nail, lingering just above the band of his Calvins that peeks out from his sweats.

“That’s so nice, baby,” he mumbles in his deep, crackling morning voice, “I love these hands.”

Rafe laces his fingers in yours with one hand, his other arm sliding under your neck and wrapping around your shoulders. He pulls you close so he can drop a sloppy kiss on your temple.

You sigh and lift your intertwined hands to place a kiss on each of his knuckles.

“Maybe you should stay home,” you suggest between kisses. “Then you can enjoy these hands all day long.”

He smiles knowingly, still not opening his eyes. You play this game every morning, trying to find ways to convince him to play hooky from work, though they never succeed. He’s always showered and out the door by sunrise, leaving you with a cup of coffee on your nightstand and a quick kiss as you drift back to sleep.

“Sounds perfect, but I have an 8 a.m. with a potential investor,” he explains.

In the quiet, Rafe starts to drift off again. You continue to stroke his chest and think of all the many enticing reasons for him to stay, but before you can list them for him, his alarm blares from his phone again.

You lean over him, reaching to the phone on his nightstand. He takes the opportunity to snake his hand around your waist and slide it under his big t-shirt you're wearing. His hands feel so nice on your lower back, you pause, almost forgetting what you were reaching for in the first place, until the alarm rings out again, making you both wince with its volume. You tap the screen desperately until it’s silenced.

“Just hitting snooze so we can have five more minutes,” you say, settling down over him and resting your cheek on his chest.

“Liar,” he says with a sleepy smirk. “You turned it off.”

You fake an offended gasp, “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of such deception, Rafe Cameron.”

“So when five minutes go by and the alarm doesn’t go off again, what are you gonna say then?”

“I was hoping you’d fall back to sleep by then,” you confess with a giggle, laying a soft kiss on his chest, right over his heart.

“I knew it.”

He sits up in bed, causing you to fall back onto the pillows, immediately missing his warmth. You paw at his arm as he reaches over to check the time on his phone.

“Nooo,” you whine. “Don’t go yet.”

He smiles down at you, leaning over to place loving kisses on the edge of your jaw and up your face, touching his lips to your temple one final time before standing from the bed.

Your vision is still fuzzy from sleep and the darkness of the room, but you follow the general shape of him as he walks to the wall of windows on the other side of the room. He’s shirtless, the lower half of his body covered in soft gray sweats. You squirm a little under the comforter as you take him in. You didn’t know it was possible to be this attracted to someone, but it’s like every day you’re with him, your body craves him more, and it makes it that much more painful when he leaves.

Rafe interrupts your reverie by lifting his arms and throwing the curtains wide open. You flinch at the bright sunlight that pours through the windows like it’s burning you.

“Too bright, Rafe!” You protest.

He just turns with a smug smile, his tall silhouette casting a shadow over the bed, blocking you from the blinding sun.

“I’ll make you some coffee before I go,” he promises as he leaves you alone in the bedroom, pulling a pillow over your face to shield yourself from the daylight.

It’s silly to complain when his hard work is the whole reason you can lay in this comfortable bed so late into the morning. When he’s not with you, he’s at the office, earning you all this comfort, but it still seems unfair when you want him this badly.

You used to be an early riser, but the way he lays you down every night when he gets home, fucking you hard and slow until you fall asleep clinging to him, it’s made you a whole new person. You’d pay him twice his salary if you had it just to get him to stick around a little longer, make you feel that good again.

A devious idea comes to your brain, and you pull the covers from yourself quickly, making fast moves before he gets back.

When Rafe comes back into the room a few minutes later, he nearly spills your hot coffee all over himself at the sight that greets him.

The comforter is bundled at the end of the bed, nothing covering your body as you stretch out on the mattress. You’ve switched out his t-shirt and your baggy sweats for a silky pair of boy-short panties and a lacy bra. You're facing away from him, laying on your side, the curve of your hips and peekaboo view of your ass casting a scandalous shadow on the wall. The fabric of your panties is so flimsy, it climbs up the curve of your ass, revealing you to him as if they’re barely there at all.

“Nice try,” he shakes his head, though the small crack in his voice betrays his defiance. You know you’ve got him hard and frazzled.

“Hmmm?” You don’t turn to look at him, instead bending your knee and sliding one leg up higher to give him an even better angle of your ass.

“It’s not gonna work…” he insists, setting your coffee down, fully intending to turn and make his way to the walk-in closet to get dressed, yet somehow finding himself completely immobile.

“What’s not going to work?” You echo, feigning cluelessness in a way you know is gonna drive him mad.

“I really do have a meeting,” he continues his one-sided argument, trying desperately to convince himself. “I can’t be late, it’s important.”

“Okay! Have a good day, baby,” you yawn, shifting on the sheets as if you’re just getting comfortable, hoping he doesn’t see the smile you’re hiding in your pillow, obsessed with the strain in his voice that reveals his resolve is cracking.

The mattress sinks slowly under his weight, and you can feel the heat of him before he even touches your skin. His hand slides up your leg, from your ankle all the way up to your thigh, where he pauses to squeeze your flesh.

“You’re gonna be late,” you let your mouth twist into a cheeky smile.

He huffs a defeated laugh, letting his forehead fall onto your shoulder in frustration, “you’re killing me.”

“I’m not doing anything!” You giggle, arching your back and giving him a better glimpse at the other side of you, your nipples already pebbling in anticipation, clearly visible through your see through bra.

Rafe responds by saying your name, so low and needy it’s almost inaudible. You twist your torso just enough to meet his eyes, blinking at him sweetly through your eyelashes.

“Yes?”

He doesn’t respond with words, just a piercing gaze. His blue eyes are blown wide with lust as he takes you in, dragging over your body helplessly, fighting an internal battle as he plots his next move. Filthy thoughts are etched on his face, you know him well enough by now to see the gears turn behind his eyes, imagining all the things he could do to you if he stayed.

“Can I at least have a kiss before you go?” You ask, hoping the taste of your lips will tip the scales in your favor.

He can’t deny you a kiss, he never does, so he leans in and meets your lips with a nod, his hand rising to softly cradle your jaw. You run your tongue so gently across his lower lip that he wonders if he imagined it. When you part your lips for him and release a small sigh, the game is over.

With another squeeze of your thigh, he pulls back from you just enough to reach his phone on the nightstand. You watch with a victorious grin as he types out a quick message, surely to his secretary, and tosses the phone somewhere on the bed.

“Bought us an hour,” he tells you.

“Only an hour?” You pout.

“Don’t be greedy,” he teases you, shuffling behind you so he can spoon you, placing a dozen quick kisses up your arm, making you giggle in delight.

Rafe’s hand slides from your thigh to your waist, dipping to splay over your stomach so he can pull you flush against him. You sigh dreamily as he begins to suckle on your neck, leaving little pink marks everywhere his lips touch.

“Wasn’t that kind of an important meeting?” You ask, feeling a little guilty for potentially making him miss out on a good opportunity.

“Nothing’s more important than this,” he assures you.

You let out a little whimper at his sweet words, igniting a fire in him. His hand drifts up your stomach until his palm is settled over your breast, kneading gently.

“Oh,” you gasp. “That feels good.”

“Yeah?” He drawls with a crooked grin, pausing to drag the tip of his tongue over the shell of your ear, making you shiver. “Just needed a little attention today?”

“Mhm,” you nod. “Needed you.”

His hand leaves you for a minute to fiddle with the clasp of your bra. You lift your arms up so he can slide it off and toss it somewhere on the floor of the massive master suite.

The rough skin of his palm comes back to rest over your hard nipple, the sensation is so sweet that your whole body hums with pleasure.

“God you’re so soft,” he breathes over the wet spot he’s just left on your skin, “love these tits so much.”

With that confession, he pinches your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, the pain lasting only a second before he smoothes it over with the pad of his thumb.

“Rafe!” You squeak out at the sting.

He shushes you gently, lowering his mouth to pull your earlobe between his teeth, the pressure strong, but not strong enough to pull your mind from the way his hand is dropping lower on your torso towards your panties. A pool of silky arousal gathered between your legs, you rub your thighs together in search of friction as his hand continues to move maddeningly slow.

“Don’t worry baby,” he coos, “gonna take good care of you like I always do.”

Your fingernails dig into the sheets in preparation when he finally reaches the band of your panties, lifting them to slide his hand in.

“You always take such good care of me, Rafe,” you agree.

He places his other arm under your head for support, allowing you to look down at the outline of his big hand wriggling under the damp cloth of your panties. His fingers find your entrance easily, pausing outside to swirl in your wetness.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he praises. “Always so ready for me.”

After a few more swirls, he’s satisfied with the coating, dragging his fingers back up to your clit. He hits it right away, he could find it in a hurricane. He runs his fingers over you at the perfect angle, starting with delicate figure eights.

Your head falls forward in ecstasy, unable to form words. Rafe bends his arm at the elbow, laying his hand flat against your forehead to pull your head back into his chest, your neck arching with the stretch. The pink spots he’s left on your exposed throat have darkened nicely, giving him a chance to appreciate his handiwork. He reattaches his lips, desperate to claim you as many times as he can, hungry for you.

The sweetest, breathiest moans fall from your puffy lips, and he basks in them like the sunlight that’s bleeding through the curtains. He’s nibbling on your shoulder like it’s his breakfast as his fingers pick up speed on your clit.

Between circles and flicks, he stops to tap quickly with the tip of his middle finger, the rhythmic pressure and release has the sensitive bud pulsing. You chase his fingers pathetically with the roll of your hips, needing more.

As you writhe, his cloth covered cock slots between the valley of your ass, each wave of your hips grinding perfectly against his shaft. You shut your eyes tight, picturing his perfect length and the gorgeous noises he makes when he comes. You need to hear those sounds like you need air.

Your hand releases from the sheets, reaching behind you to rub the hard ridge of his dick over his sweatpants. Rafe clenches his jaw, a throaty groan vibrating through his chest and straight into your body.

“This what you wanted, angel?” He asks, his tone dominant and desperate all at the same time. The perfect balance of ownership and a genuine urgency to please you.

“Just wanted you,” you confirm through labored pants, grinding yourself into his hand, “all I ever want is you.”

“Oh yeah? Show me.”

No further instruction needed, your hand finally dips below his waistband, immediately finding his pulsing cock.

“Shi-ii-t,” he shudders as you wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly and reveling in how hard you’ve made him.

You notice goosebumps rush up the arm that’s disappearing into your panties, you realize your hands must be cold. You know he’d never complain, but you don’t just want him to feel good, you want him to feel as amazing as he makes you feel.

You draw your hand back from his boxers, and he groans at your absence, nearly protesting until he sees what you’re doing. You dip your hand into your underwear, gently nudging his out of the way, and collect some of your wetness onto your own fingers. Your hand glistens in the morning sunlight when you pull it out, displaying it for him before returning your grip to his cock.

He’s speechless. Eyes rolling back at how fucking sexy that was, desperate to ground himself before he comes too quickly in your hand. He moves his palm down from your forehead to cup your throat, not too much pressure to hurt, but enough to remind you how strong he is. You whimper, swallowing hard under his broad palm.

“Jesus christ, baby,” he sputters, “you’re my fucking dream girl.”

You fall in sync, Rafe rubbing tight, firm circles over your clit, while you slide your hand up and down his shaft, pausing at the tip with each stroke to swirl your thumb in the precum he’s leaking. His knuckles flex in response to each flick of your thumb, pads of his fingers holding and releasing your neck in steady pulses.

You squeeze his cock as he squeezes your throat, so perfectly aligned in your drunken pleasure that you both chuckle at how unbelievable it feels. But if you’re laughing, then surely he’s not doing a good enough job.

He draws your clit between his fingers, rolling over and over, not pinching too hard, but just hard enough to set every nerve ending in your body on fire. You draw your knees up, your hand slowing involuntarily on his cock as you feel the familiar coil tighten in your tummy, seconds from snapping.

“I can’t believe you’re real, you’re so perfect,” Rafe whispers into your shoulder, kissing you over and over.

“Gonna make me come talking like that, baby,” you warn him.

“You want that? You want me to make you come in my hand?”

“Not yet,” you choke out, so close that you’re already dreading coming down from your high. It’s too soon, it’s not enough. No amount of him will ever be enough, but you at least need him closer. “Want you inside, need you in me.”

“Anything. Anything you want,” he swears as he pulls his hand from your core to rip your panties down your legs. You pull them off over your feet and toss them away as he removes his pants and boxers behind you.

The fabric finally out of the way, his dick spears into your back, somehow always so much bigger and more powerful than you remember. You pray he doesn’t make you wait any longer, wriggling back onto your side so your soaked pussy is perfectly exposed to him.

In the soft morning light, he finally gets a good view of your slick folds, nearly busting all over your back at the sight. He’s filled this new condo with the most expensive art he could find, but nothing comes close to the masterpiece in front of him. To him, you’re fucking priceless.

He wastes no more time, tucking a hand under your knee to angle your leg up. You take his cue, understanding each other without words as always, and brace your foot flat against his calf, propping yourself open for him.

A combination of the angle and his picture perfect memory of your walls has his tip hitting your g-spot on the very first thrust. He stretches you so sweetly, the tight fit making your brain go foggy and your mouth fall open, gasping helplessly.

“Like this?” He asks, not taunting but not really asking either, already knowing the answer to “this how you want it?”

“Not quite,” you whisper.

He freezes with confusion before you reach behind you to find the hand he has braced on your hip, pulling it up and placing it back around your neck.

“There,” you say, “now it’s perfect.”

“Holy shit,” Rafe stammers, hips jerking forward, slamming into you a little too hard, lost in his infatuation with you.

At first he worries it’s too hard, but a dreamy moan rises from your throat and you encourage, “yes, yes, like that, please.”

Mouth agape in disbelief at his pure fucking luck in finding you, he obeys your plea, pulling back slow before thrusting in hard again. The hand that’s not on your throat pushes into the mattress beneath your head, lifting himself up for leverage. He continues to fuck into you hard, pausing after each stroke to hit as deep as he can possibly get. You’re a mess, crying out with each slap of his hips against your ass, blabbering incoherently as you clench around him.

“Ohhh my god you’re so tight,” he growls through gritted teeth. “‘I’m gonna come if you keep squeezing me like that. You gonna let me come inside?”

Your eyes fly open as an invisible light bulb goes off above your head, you twist to meet his eyes, his lids low and irises completely blown out with lust.

“If I do, will you stay home?” you proposition him.

He scoffs, shaking his head in pure amusement and adoration, tongue digging into the side of his cheek in the cocky way you love. From this angle, the sharp features of his perfect face hover just inches from yours. The sheer attraction you feel makes your walls flutter around his cock, a tease of his reward if he promises to stay.

Rafe screws his eyes shut, his head falling back as you pulse around him repeatedly.

“Fuck! Yes, I promise, I promise,” he cries out as he continues thrusting into you sloppily, “I’ll do anything. I’ll sell my house, I’ll change my fucking name. Just ask me and I’ll do it.”

His theatrics delight you, bubbly giggles rising from your stomach as he loses himself in you. You can’t remember ever loving anyone as much as you love him at this moment.

“Kiss me,” you whisper, completely enamored with the man inside you.

Without a thought, he slips the hand on your throat to the back of your neck, kneading your skin as he pulls your mouth to his. It’s not gentle, like his typical good morning kisses, it’s messy and wet and hard and completely mind numbing. You bite on his bottom lip, almost accidentally, losing your mind at the taste of him.

“B-baby,” he stutters, his hips doing the same, “can’t - fuck - can’t wait any longer. Tell me where you want it.”

“Mmmph, inside, please! Please fill me up, Rafe.”

It’s all he needs to hear, he buries himself deeper than he’s ever been.

“Come with me?” he pleads.

You’re so close, you can’t even find words, nodding rapidly. He hits your g-spot one final time and you slip off the edge of the earth into uncut ecstasy.

Your eyes roll back and your toes dig into his leg, bruising his calf. His tip hits your cervix hard, hot cum pooling deep in your core, spilling out of him for longer than you thought possible. His breath is ragged and his chest heaving as his body jerks around you.

Both trembling, his arm gives out and he slumps down, curled around you. Sweaty and satisfied, you catch your breath together, Rafe still buried deep.

He plants wet kisses on the nape of your neck, brushing your hair out of the way and blowing gently to cool you down. You see only bright white behind your closed eyes, floating in a perfect pleasure you didn’t know was possible until you met this man.

After a few moments, or possibly hours, he starts to pull out. Your hips chase his defiantly, refusing to lose his warmth again.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, reaching back to grab his hip and hold him in place. “You promised.”

“I also promised to change my name, you gonna make me do that, too?” He laughs.

“Maybe.”

“Oh really? What are you gonna call me?”

“I dunno,” you shrug. “How about daddy?”

Your teasing has the intended effect, Rafe twitching inside you, already hardening again. He knows you’re just playing with him, but his mind spirals out of control at the pet name. He’s so in love he thinks it might kill him.

Settling back into you, he reaches around the bed until his hand finds his discarded cell phone.

Your lips twist into a smirk as you hear him dial, still buried in your heat.

The dial tone rings a few times and he says, “yeah, gonna need you to clear my whole day. Something came up.”

He thanks the voice on the other line, hanging up and tossing his phone somewhere in the mountain of blankets on the floor.

“A whole day?” You ask, nestling back into his chest. “Aren’t you gonna lose the money from those investors?”

“Probably,” he shrugs, laying more slow kisses on your shoulder. “Worth every fucking cent.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

5K notes · View notes

meownotgood · 14 days ago

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pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?"

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes.

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat.

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions.

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest.

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face.

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers.

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register.

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug.

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks.

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone.

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-"

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy.

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus.

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this."

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?"

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins.

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop."

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?"

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath.

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice.

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh.

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic.

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this.

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose.

"That's when you find it."

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right.

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside.

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze.

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles.

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest.

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days."

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration."

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again."

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you.

"And what is it I'm doing?"

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to."

"I am not-"

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down.

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count."

Your mouth forms a hard line.

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-"

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that."

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach.

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-"

"It is a necessary risk."

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…"

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going.

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his.

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him.

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was.

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn.

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together.

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background.

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear."

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal.

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron.

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula.

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away."

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on."

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity.

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again.

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy.

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles.

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning.

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams.

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love.

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-"

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet —

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back.

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving."

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately.

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale.

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-"

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me."

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones.

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion?

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench.

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please."

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?"

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears.

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die."

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears.

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness.

It's a reminder that you're right.

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time.

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions.

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him.

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands.

He knows this body is… wilting.

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him.

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last?

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted.

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped.

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology.

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do.

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus.

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying.

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to.

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once.

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful.

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change.

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline.

It's something Viktor picks up on.

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him.

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you.

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can.

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral.

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice.

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned.

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring.

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him.

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop.

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt.

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it.

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before.

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth.

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it.

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull.

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve.

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead.

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back.

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special?

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck.

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone.

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks.

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand.

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you.

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens.

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his.

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration.

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead.

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like.

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone.

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together.

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat.

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair.

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold.

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight.

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation.

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun.

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his.

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things."

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids.

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway.

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different.

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough.

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to."

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?"

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired.

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…"

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting?

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw.

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?"

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap.

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession."

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his.

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression.

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate."

"Oh? Enlighten me."

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears.

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late."

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?"

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance."

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate.

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious."

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day.

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly.

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you.

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe."

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress.

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you.

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd.

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'"

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums.

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time.

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional.

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene."

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you.

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget.

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm —

"Vik-"

"I need to have your trust."

Your eyes widen.

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-"

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you."

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open.

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking —

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please."

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it.

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you."

Viktor softens.

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you.

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark."

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 7 days ago

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The JJK men want YOU to wear their jersey

Tags: JJK men x fem!Reader, college au, sports au, mostly fluff and/or crack, suggestive only on Toji’s (nasty bitch), itafushi makes an appearance

An: This has been heavy on my brain recently 🙂‍↕️ Also, I don’t know if this concept is only in like my area, but basically, the concept is that on game days, a common thing for highschool/college players to do is to wear their jersey to class, and their sweetheart wears their home/away jersey. it’s just a cute thing to show support. Another thing, I know Kamo is not Choso’s last name, and I know Sukuna is not Sukuna’s last name. Sukuna might not even be Sukuna’s name at all. idk and idc. this is a no curse au anyways so who cares! let me know if i should do more sports au :)

Incl - Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, Choso, Toji, Sukuna

SATORU

Girls will literally hunt Satoru down to get his jersey from him, and if you were the lucky girl who got to wear the jersey of the star quarterback… you either became instantly popular, or every girl in the university wanted to kill you.

“I’m sorry, ladies. I already have someone in mind.” Satoru flashed a grin towards the crowd of girls surrounding his seat. Disappointed sighs and whines emitted from the group as they slowly dissipated from his desk.

Satoru couldn’t care less. They could be mad at him if they wanted to. They were no where near as special as the girl he had his eyes set on.

Class had yet to start, and Satoru was growing tired of just staring at the back of your head. He finally got up, and he slumped down in the chair next to you.

“Is this seat taken?” He asked with a bright smile. He hadn’t interacted with you much, but he always had his eye on you. You were the one of the few girls who didn’t dumb down their intelligence for him to make themselves more appealing.

“It’s not.” You replied shortly. You weren’t rude, just incredibly matter-of-fact.

“Wanna make a bet with me?” Satoru asked as he tried to catch your eyes from your book. He was really pining for your attention, and you wouldn’t pass him a second glance.

“Not really.” You replied, not looking up from your book.

“I bet the professor will be twenty minutes late.” Satoru went on anyways, not taking your rejection to heart.

“Hmm. Doubtful. He’s normally prompt.” You say finally looking up at Satoru, which causes him to flash an easy smile. He’s happy to have your attention — now he wants to keep it.

“If he isn’t here within the next twenty minutes, you have to wear my jersey today and every game day for the rest of the season. If he makes it here before twenty minutes is up, I’ll buy you as many books as you can carry.” Satoru proposes as he taps on your book with a cheeky grin.

You think for a moment… all the books you can carry?? “Deal.” You say with a smile, offering your hand to him to shake on it — thinking you just easily won yourself a free shopping spree. Satoru takes your hand, and he gently shakes it before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

He’s already won.

Satoru knows that you’ll be wearing his jersey today, and you’ll wear his colors for the rest of the season. He’ll make more bets… win you over slowly with false bets. Oh, he’ll buy you all those books you want too just because he can.

He’s already set Geto in motion to go run into your professor with large cups of coffees in his hand. Your professor ended up cancelling class after being 25 minutes late.

When the group of girls sees you with “GOJO” written on the back of your jersey, their faces contort in utter disdain, but Satoru looks at it with a shit-eating grin on his face. He won.

SUGURU

Suguru really didn’t get the thing about giving a girl his jersey on game days. Basketball season is pretty ruthless. While football teams only have 12 games in a season, basketball teams play over 30. That’s 30 days in one season that he’d have to find a girl that he gave enough of a shit about to give his jersey to? No thanks.

Of course, if he had a girlfriend it wouldn’t be too big of a deal, but the whole attitude around giving a girl your jersey was just something Suguru didn’t subscribe to.

Well, he didn’t think he subscribed to it until he saw one of his teammates offering you their jersey.

Maybe on a more psychological level, this was territory marking, and Suguru would be damned if he sat back and let another man mark you as their territory.

Even though he’s not proud of it, Suguru immediately marched straight up to you and his teammate with his away jersey thrown over his shoulder. He placed his hand firmly on the small of your back, and he gave his teammate a piercing look with his violet eyes. His lips curled into an easy smirk.

“Sorry man, she’s already agreed to wear my jersey today, isn’t that right angel?” He asked in such a condescending tone, and his fingertips dig into your skin with just enough pressure to make your face flush.

Luckily for Suguru, you were into it — and not his teammate. “Yeah, sorry. I almost forgot.” You agree, giving his teammate an empathetic smile.

So no, Suguru doesn’t get the idea of giving his jersey to a girl on game days, but he does get the idea of giving you his jersey. He loves how he towers behind you in the halls, seeing the name “GETO” written on your back with his number. He loves remembering the way you easily went along with his plan. You just fit him.

NANAMI

Nanami doesn’t need antics to get you to wear his baseball jersey.

Plenty of girls pine for Kento. Who wouldn’t? He was the leading star of the baseball team… who’s ass just so happened to look so good in those white tight-fitting pants.

Your college certainly played into it, giving Nanami the big screen when he takes off his helmet and shakes out his messy blonde hair that a bit damp from sweat. His cheeks are smeared with his eye black smeared on his cheeks (the charcoal black lines that athletes sometimes have).

They knew what they were doing when the yearbook crew took professional level pictures of Nanami looking absolutely jaw-dropping while delivering the nastiest pitch.

He was like eye candy that enticed a bunch of girls to buy tickets to the baseball games, and dammit, it worked.

Despite his celebrity status at the school, Kento didn’t act above anyone else. He didn’t flaunt money or act posh and sophisticated like a lot of the wannabes did at your university.

He was down to earth, smart, caring, and humorous to the right group of people (the dry humor enjoyers). Kento was the type of man to be able to reject someone without them even feeling rejected, which he did a lot when girls would ask for his jersey.

You often came to baseball games to watch (to watch nanami lets bffr), but you weren’t bold enough to ask Kento for his jersey on game days. You had witness girls before you, pilgriming the way to Nanami before they turn back empty handed. You couldn’t risk the heartache.

It wasn’t until one day after class you and Kento were the only two still packing up after a lecture, he casually strolled to your desk. “Will you be at the game tonight?” He asked with a genuine air of curiosity to him. This wasn’t awkward forced conversation because you two were the only two people in a room together.

You hadn’t even known that Nanami noticed you, much less noticed your attendance at games. You could feel your heart start to thud obscenely loud in your chest as you came to terms that you’re not invisible in Kento’s life.

“Yeah, I think I’ll show up…” You try your hardest to sound casual, but you just sound terribly nervous.

“I’ll look forward to seeing you.” He said politely before he reached into his bag and pulled out his spare jersey. “Hopefully wearing this..?”

Your eyes widen as you realize he was offering his jersey to you. “That- are you sure? Me?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He gives an honest laugh. His multimillion dollar smile makes you swoon, and he hands his jersey out again. “You should put it on now. That’s the tradition, right?”

You slowly slip the jersey on over your long-sleeved white top, and it definitely hangs loosely on you, but with a few tucks and adjustments, it finally sits on your body appropriately.

“It looks good on you. I’ll see you tonight.” Kento smiles before leaving the classroom.

You had never gotten more shocked stares than when girls saw you with “NANAMI” printed across your back.

CHOSO

“Hey Yuji, why does Megumi wear your jersey on game days?” Choso asked his teammate as he sat down on the bench in the locker room.

He had seen quite a few people - guys and girls who weren’t on the basketball team wearing the jerseys of his teammates, but he didn’t understand it. He figured he’d ask the one teammate who he considered to be more of a brother to explain.

“Because I make him.” Yuji laughed as he dried his pink hair off from the shower. It was a pretty brutal practice, even Choso’s raven hair was down, messy from sweat.

Choso furrowed his eyebrows. “Why would you do that-? I thought you liked him.”

Yuji laughed even harder as Choso clearly didn’t understand the dynamic he had with Megumi. He also clearly didn’t understand the concept behind giving someone his jersey.

“I do like him, so I like seeing him wearing my jersey on game days. I think he looks good in it too, even if he pretends to hate it. I know he likes showing his support.” Yuji explained, but he went on, “People give their jerseys to someone they like. It’s like a courting gift, and it lets everyone know your intentions with that person.”

Choso nodded as he began to understand. He should give his jersey to someone he liked - to someone he wanted to court, and his intentions would be made known.

That’s how shy, timid Choso ended up at your dorm door late one evening. After much encouragement and convincing from Yuji, he finally gave your door a soft knock, and Yuji ran around the corner to hide.

When you opened the door, looking at Choso with those big pretty eyes, he completely clammed up and forgot the mental script he had prepared about how he really liked you, and it’d mean a lot to him if you wore his jersey.

Instead, “I want my intentions known.” He nearly shouted as he gestured his jersey to you.

Yuji facepalmed around the corner.

You blinked a few times, looking down at the jersey then back up to him. He was lucky that you’re very good at filling in the blanks. “You want me to wear your jersey, Cho?” You asked with a small laugh before taking the jersey from his hands.

His cheeks were flushed, and he gave you an awkward smile before nodding his head vigorously. “And uh.. I want to court you.” He finally added all in one breath.

To Choso’s delight, you agreed, and now, he finally understands the real reasoning behind giving his jersey to someone he likes because seeing “KAMO” on your back makes him feel all dizzy with love and adoration.

TOJI

It started off as a small prank amongst girls. A prank that really pissed Toji off. A group of girls decided it would be cute to steal Toji’s spare hockey jersey and wear it without his knowledge.

When Toji saw one of the girls wearing his stolen jersey with his appalling last name printed on the back, he was livid.

Needless to say, he got his jersey back, and the girl couldn’t even look him in the eye after that whole experience.

He hated his jersey. He hated how his last name was on the back, and he hated how anyone else would want to wear it.

He couldn’t just get rid of his spare jersey. Then, he’d owe the school even more than what he already owes them. He couldn’t trust to keep it in his dorm because he didn’t put it past those bitches to try to sneak into his dorm to get their filthy hands on it. That was when he had a genius idea.

“Wear my jersey.” His gruff voice demanded as he dropped the fabric on the table in front of you, his too responsible friend.

“No, it probably stinks.” You pushed the jersey aside, trying to focus on the homework in front of you.

“Nah. It smells like the last bitch who stole it.” He remarked as he plopped down in a chair in front of your desk.

“Even worse.” You respond back unamused, still not giving Toji the time of day.

“Do you remember who hunted down the fuck who stole your headphones?”

You sighed, finally looking up at Toji to show that you were paying attention. “Why do you think me wearing your jersey will deter them?”

“Maybe they’ll think you’re my girl and piss off for a while. I don’t know, but if I see another preppy bitch wearing it without my knowledge, I’m going to burn it.” Toji’s voice sounded stressed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And you don’t mind them thinking that?” You inquire, raising your eyebrow.

“Doll, you know I’ve spent the last three years trying to get you to hop on my-“

“Eughhh, give it.” You interrupt Toji before he can go into any further detail, snatching his jersey up and putting it on over your clothes. “There. Happy?”

Toji didn’t expect to have such a reaction to seeing you in his jersey. He knew he was serious about liking you, no matter how much you liked to believe that he didn’t actually like you, but seeing you in his jersey — the way it swallowed you whole. He figured he’d still hate seeing his last name on you, but there was something satiating those deep primal urges when he caught a glimpse of “ZENIN” across your back.

SUKUNA

Sukuna is much comparable to a dragon. He sees something pretty and shiny (you): he wants it all for himself. He wants to hoard treasure (you) to keep, and he definitely does not like the idea of anyone else looking or touching his treasure.

So, how does he keep wandering eyes off his treasure? He cloaks her in his favor, making her brandish his last name on her back along with his number. Yes, Sukuna demanded for you to wear his football jersey.

There was just enough satisfaction of seeing you walk around campus with “SUKUNA” written on your back that kept him from trying to hoard you in his room.

Oh, he’s also like a dragon in the sense that he’s absolutely devastating out on the field.

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amphi-reads · 1 year ago

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SAZ!!!!

he is so, so baby. i cannot, i literally cannot!!

i need to go scream at the sky for a little bit, and then retreat to my mind palace and stare at the sky thinking about giving him all of the kisses and cuddles and love he deserves.

i love u, this was perfect and amazing, and im gonna think about it for the next 72 days in a row xoxo

fluff is everything, therefore:

I've been entertaining this idea for a very long time. Loki is a heavily touch deprived boy who needs all the affection in the world.

Now I desperately need a small drabble, doesn't even have to be long, of reader just...taking care of him. Calling him "angel" and watching him lose his MIND because no one's ever called him that before?? Reader making him food and looking after him when he's sick and just.....a small drabble. A cute little thing of just....Loki being loved

Because we all know the man needs it.

Anyway, mwah, hope this helps the writing juices flow :)

I hope this is what you had in mind, my darling! I know it's not the best!

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐆𝐍!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏𝐤

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The dull clink of ceramic on wood makes you wince and freeze almost comically in place by the side of the bed. Barely daring to breathe, your worried eyes snap towards the god currently buried between tousled viridian bedsheets.

He doesn’t stir.

You release a slow, quiet breath, relieved that Loki is still sleeping so soundly, despite his earlier protestations that he was completely fine. He’s far from fine, that you’re certain of. You’ve watched how the summer cold he’s come down with has chipped away at him over the past few days, zapping his energy quicker and more thoroughly than he’ll ever admit. He refuses to let that mask of invincibility slip for even a second.

“Gods don’t get sick, darling,” he had said, though you could see the sluggishness that had crept into his usual elegant movements, along with the deep weariness that had settled in his eyes.

One hour later you found him sleeping like the dead.

He looks so utterly at peace that your heart swells with love for him, and with the familiar realisation that he’s yours. This beautiful man who has survived tortures your mind can’t even conceive of is yours. It’s something that almost has you weep. Out of all the people on this planet - of all the beings in the entire cosmos - it’s you that gets to love him, and you’ll never take that for granted.

It’s impossible to tear your eyes off him as he sleeps. Still a villain to most of the world, yet he’s curled on his side in your bed with tousled hair and pink stained cheeks. You can see the bedsheets shifting with the steady rise and fall of his chest, as well as the way his arm is stretched out towards your side of the bed, as though, even lost to his dreams, his body still searches for yours.

The man is your entire heart and more, and it’s moments like these you wish you could bottle.

Your hand floats to his face before you can help yourself. It’s warmer than usual and still smooth beneath your gentle touch that pushes a stray curl back behind his ear. You swear you hear his breathing shift, almost like he knows you’re there.

You never tire of this - watching him sleep. To have him sleep so soundly in your presence, to have him know with such unwavering certainty that you wouldn’t dream of hurting him, feels like a blessing from the gods.

He trusts you - completely and wholeheartedly - and it’s one of the greatest gifts he could ever give you.

His hair is silken beneath your touch and errant strands wrap loosely around your fingers as you bend down to kiss his temple. It’s barely more than a butterfly kiss, but you can’t help but let your lips linger briefly against his skin. You only wish it was enough to free him from the clutches of his cold.

The backs of your fingers brush softly over his cheek and you make to leave and let him rest, but you’ve barely pulled away when he grabs your wrist in a loose grip.

“Stay,” Loki says, his voice groggy and congested. “Please.”

His eyes are flickering open, but it’s clear that he’s still wading through sleep. He looks so vulnerable and exhausted and sick that suddenly any plans you had for the rest of the day are unimportant. You can’t deny this man anything.

Easily, you climb into the bed beside him, resting your back against the headboard and opening your arms to him. “Come here, my love,” you tell him gently.

He wastes no time in shifting beneath the sheets until his legs are tangled with yours and his head is resting heavily on your stomach. He grips you like he’s been starved of your touch, like you’re the one thing tying him to Earth. You can feel the unspoken plea in the way he’s holding you, the “please don’t leave me” that’s burning into your skin.

You hope he knows that wild horses couldn’t drag you away from him.

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you stretch down to kiss the top of his head and intertwine your fingers with his. His hand locks around yours greedily, as though he can’t get enough of your touch.

It’s fine with you, though, because you can never get enough of him.

You begin to stroke his hair, so softly that you’re barely even touching him, but you can still hear his soft sigh of contentment. “Feeling better?” you ask softly, running your thumb along his knuckles.

“No,” he croaks, attempting to twist himself tighter around you. “I fear this may be something worse than one of your silly Midgardian maladies.”

You can’t help but smile. Your drama queen of a god is still in there. “Hmm, I think you might be right. I should probably let Tony know I’ll be out for the next few days to take care of you. I can’t risk my beautiful boy succumbing to a dangerous alien bug.”

Loki doesn’t move, but you can almost feel the smile that mirrors your own growing across his face. “You can’t,” he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled by how far he’s nuzzled into your stomach.

He lapses into silence and you take the opportunity to pull him closer. He’s solid in your arms - solid and alive and everything you never knew you were looking for. He’s your sun and your moon and all your stars, and you can’t imagine your life without him.

Wordlessly, you stretch to place another kiss to his head, not missing how he hums at your touch. “I adore you, you beautiful man. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He pulls your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles in reply. It’s so soft and so innocent that you’re struck again by how you would burn down worlds for him.

Not five minutes later, his breathing turns even and heavy. He’s fast asleep, head still resting on your stomach and hand still gripping yours.

#loki laufeyson x reader #loki x reader sfw #loki x reader fluff #the little ''stay'' he says ENDED MY ENTIRE CAREER #ANYTHING FOR YOU BABY BOY. ANYTHING.#he is such an adorable little bean of a drama queen #if anything important happens it's gonna have to wait tony. sorry not sorry.#''... the way his arm is stretched out towards your side of the bed as though even lost to his dreams his body still searches for yours.''#<- BYE THIS LINE ENDED ME IT'S SO FUCKING SWEET #''I adore you you beautiful man. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.''#<- i am feral. i am insane. i need to walk into the ocean ASAP #AND THE KNUCKLE KISS!!!! I NEED TO BE PUT IN A COFFIN!!!#screaming crying sobbing #i am never going to recover from this one emotionally

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sttoru · 2 months ago

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⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: your boyfriend comes to pick you after a long day at uni. sensing your jealousy about the attention he’s getting from your classmates, he makes it up to you in his own way.

tags. olderbf!gojo x female reader. fluff, tiny bit of angst, suggestive [make out sesh]. age gap — reader above 20, gojo early 30’s. jealousy. reader gets called ‘princess, baby, beautiful.’ not proof read !

satoru’s arrival, as per usual, serves as pure entertainment for many students. it’s not often that they get to see such a tall and handsome man around campus after all.

you patiently stand there, waiting for that said man to come and get you. the increase in giggles and whispers around you can only mean one thing: he’s nearby.

your boyfriend’s car comes to a stop in the distance. satoru steps out of the driver’s seat a second later, one of his hands running through his fluffy, snowy hair.

‘. . damn, he’s fucking hot,’ ‘yep. heard he’s in a relationship though. sucks,’ ‘girl— do i look like i care? need him so baaaaddd.’

it’s infuriating to hear those words while you - his girlfriend - are standing close to them. you decide not to give those girls any attention nor do you try to speak up. it’s not worth the effort.

satoru closes the car door behind him, his hands in the pockets of his slacks while he strolls up to where you’re standing. it’s as if he’s walking down a runway - graceful, confident, every step executed with perfect balance.

he can hear the murmurs from the students around, but he simply does not care. his steady gaze has been fixed on you the moment he spotted your figure from across campus.

“cute,” satoru mutters under his breath with a small smile, blue eyes taking in the sight of you standing there against a wall. the way you’re fiddling with the strap of your bag while pretending not to have noticed him is quite endearing.

you look down at the ground until a pair of black oxfords come into view, stopping right in front of yours. you slowly tilt your head back until you’re face to face with the man himself.

“hey, beautiful,” satoru greets, his voice smooth and slightly deep, a faint smirk playing on his lips. his knuckles brush against your cheek whilst he admires your every feature, acting as if he hasn’t seen you in days.

you nod in response, whispering a small ‘hi’ before your eyes dart around campus again. your bottom lip pushes forward just a tiny bit to form a small pout.

. . and there it is; satoru knows that look in your eyes like the back of his hand. he’s seen that same pout before, along with the hint of jealousy lurking behind your gaze that you try so hard to hide.

he understands why you’re feeling that way.

the other girls on campus, the way they ogle him and whisper, it would make any woman insecure. but to him, there was no need for that. satoru is yours, and he’s made that known to every single soul around you a million times before.

perhaps they need to be reminded once more.

satoru wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, his touch gentle and possessive. he can see how you’re trying to act normal, though he knows you way better than that.

the pad of his thumb rubs small circles into your hip as your lover leans in and speaks in a low yet intimate voice that only you get to hear, “oh? look at you, acting all tough with your little pout.”

“tell me. what’s up, princess?” satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ticklish skin. he lowers his head to your face and plants a small kiss on your nose, gaining a mix of delighted yet irritated whispers of the people around you.

“usually you jump right into my arms after seeing me— y’know, like a lil’ bunny,” the white-haired man starts sulking as well, pressing your body flush against his. “where’s my cute ‘n clingy babyyyy?”

satoru’s over-exaggerated whine makes your nose scrunch up, though you can’t deny the truth. he knows you better than you know yourself. he can see right through your attempt to disguise your jealousy, yet you’re still too stubborn to admit anything.

“whatever. come on,” you roll your eyes before grabbing his arm and tugging him forward. you want nothing more than to escape your surroundings. you’re getting tired of the continuous and unwanted attention satoru is getting.

it’s irksome. you know satoru doesn’t give them the attention they so desire - he never will - yet you still feel this pang in your chest whenever you see those girls shamelessly ogling your boyfriend.

satoru, being naturally observant, notices your sudden eagerness to leave campus. he can tell that your jealousy is growing worse because of the other students that keep on eyeing him. while he is used to the attention, he hates seeing it affect you.

the whispers and giggles from the other women are like white noise, insignificant background fodder that barely warranted his notice. you’re all he sees and listens to— no matter what.

your presence, your voice, your body, your soul. . . you’re the only one he cares about. he just wishes you’d realise that.

satoru wordlessly allows himself to be dragged off. his gaze is fixated on the back of your head, a mixture of amusement and worry glinting in those blue eyes of his. he can’t help but feel guilty. even if he didn’t really do anything wrong.

he wants to make it up to you, somehow.

once you reach the car, satoru gently shoos your hand away from the door handle the moment he catches you try to get in yourself. he reaches around you and pulls it open with a soft ‘click’.

satoru then surprises you by kissing your forehead— his free hand coming up to cup the back of your head. his fingers bury themselves in your hair. a subtle smirk tugs at his glossy lips as he senses the envious glares from the other, irrelevant onlookers.

that’s exactly what he’s trying to accomplish. to make it known to the world that he’s your man. he’ll gladly do it over and over again, until all of them finally take the hint.

“ladies first,” satoru gestures, his voice gentle and loving. he pulls back and smiles at you with his dimples showing. you’re slightly taken aback by the smooth gesture before thanking him in a small murmur.

“thank you.”

it’s silent for a good couple seconds after satoru gets into the driver’s seat. he settles his keys into the ignition switch, though doesn’t turn them. instead, he faces you with a small sigh.

your lover already recognises what’s up. you probably won’t talk to him until the jealousy subsides. but that isn’t how he wants to fix this situation— he wants you to communicate with him.

“hey,” satoru tries to get you to look at him. your body is slightly turned away, your eyes looking out of the car window. it’s painfully obvious that you’re upset with him, even when it isn’t specifically his fault.

“don’t hide from me, c’mon,” he chuckles and tries to make you feel better by bringing your hand up to his lips. satoru leaves small kisses on your palm, eyes peering over the rims of his sunglasses to gauge your reaction.

you still don’t turn to face him. you’re too caught up in your own feelings— too stubborn to talk about the jealousy and insecurities that are bugging you. you know it’s unfair to your partner, but you currently can’t fix your own emotions.

sensing your insistent reluctance to face him, satoru places his hand gently under your chin. his fingers curl around your jaw and gently guide your gaze to meet his. the sight of your downcast expression - plagued with insecurity - tugs on his heartstrings.

“oh, my sweet little baby,” the white-haired man sighs once more.

without another word, the gap between you quickly closes as satoru leans in, his lips meeting yours in a firm but soft kiss. a soft gasp escapes your lips at the suddenness of his kiss, but the tension in your shoulders slowly starts to dissappear as you melt into his embrace.

the touch of his calloused fingers on your jaw is a wordless command you cannot resist. the kiss is a silent form of reassurance, a way for him to remind you of his feelings for you.

his want and need for you.

satoru can nearly taste the jealousy etched into your initial resistance, which he seeks to silence with his touch. thus, he deepens the kiss with renewed vigor. his free hand cups the back of your head and gently tilts it upwards to gain a better angle.

“mh. sweet,” satoru’s tongue swipes over your bottom lip. he eagerly swallows the faint taste of candy that you had eaten earlier. his tongue delves into your mouth the moment your lips make way, memorising every part of it.

he doesn’t let go of you until you’re both breathless. the sorcerer pulls back, though keeps the distance between your lips at a minimum. his cheeks are painted a soft pink, eyes half lidded and lips even glossier with your saliva now coating them.

“haah— fuck,” satoru catches his breath while his free hand rubs up and down your waist. he resists the urge to pull you into his lap and ravage you right then and there. he’ll leave that for when you’re home.

his gaze is on your parted lips once more. he simply cannot hold himself back from leaning in. his body moves closer to yours, caging you in between him and the passenger seat.

“i’m all yours,” satoru murmurs against your soft lips. he cups your face as he places a quick peck on your mouth. “only yours,” another chaste kiss causes your smile to find its way back onto your face. “don’t you forget,” and a third kiss finally makes you giggle.

your lover hums in satisfaction. he nuzzles his nose against yours, grinning widely as he successfully managed to coax the jealousy away— to gain his beautiful, happy girlfriend back. “there she is,” satoru coos and squeezes your cheeks together.

you huff at the feeling of your lips forced into a deformed ‘o’ shape, yet the bright smile tugging at your lips doesn’t disappear. “sorry for acting so childish,” you apologise for your own behavior. if it wasn’t for satoru taking the initiative to make it up to you, you would have given him the silent treatment.

the white-haired man shakes his head. he ruffles your hair affectionately while his lips settle on your cheek. he tenderly nibbles on the plush flesh, “no need to apologise. ‘t was cute,” he replies in a muffled voice.

satoru pulls back and his thumb brushes over the subtle mark that his teeth left on your skin. “besides,” he pinches your cheek before cocking his head to the right. your eyes follow the direction he’s looking at— which is your car window.

“i think everyone finally realised that y’re the one ‘n only girl for me.”

your heart drops as you only then remember that satoru’s car windows aren’t tinted. that means that everyone on campus probably has seen the little make out session you had with your boyfriend just now.

your eyes quickly dart around the crowded area. the way your fellow students are glancing at you - some with envy and others with embarrassment - tells you more than enough. . .

you clear your throat and try to hide your face with the sleeves of your top. you don’t know how you’re going back to university after today without facing the humiliating consequences of your (satoru’s) actions.

your shameless boyfriend sits there and grins from ear to ear, proud of his accomplishment and oblivious to your embarrassed state until you speak up again;

“. . satoru, please drive away as fast as you can.”

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #gojo x you #jjk x y/n #gojo x y/n #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #jjk fanfic #gojo fanfic

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thoughtssvt · 10 months ago

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nanami being the type to get upset that his wallet was stolen simply because someone else has a picture of you in their possession

nanami who goes along with your antics-- like pulling him into a photo booth-- because he loves you. unlike what you thought he wasn't all stiff and awkward. he wore a gentle smile on his face as he mimicked your poses. throwing up a relaxed peace sign in the first, happily squishing his cheek against yours in the second, taking matters into his own hands in the third as he tucked his finger under your chin, tilting your head until your lips met.

nanami who spins your desk chair until you're facing him, making sure your work is saved and your tabs are closed before taking your hand in his. he kisses each of your knuckles softly as he pulls you to stand, leading you to your bedroom because it's all too late and you'll be able to work better with a fresh brain in the morning.

nanami who hates working overtime because he'd much rather be with you. he'd much rather massage your feet while you're nose deep into a book or listen to your deep breaths when you fall asleep with your head rested on his shoulder.

nanami who never thought he'd be able to have a partner while being a sorcerer.

nanami who is grateful to have met you because you showed him he could.

nanami who would light the world on fire if that meant being with you for the rest of his days

domestic fluff w/ nanami | jjk men x reader masterlist

sanrio divider by pommecita

#nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami fluff #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fluff #jjk #jjk kento #kento x reader #nanamin #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kento #thoughtssvt's thoughts and head completely empty #nanami headcanons

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zarameraki · 10 months ago

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♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧ 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮'𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱'𝘀 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 ♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 mdni 𖥔 sukuna is a mafia kingpin 𖥔 teasing grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 pregnancy trope 𖥔 he'll burn the world for you 𖥔 "my wife" 𖥔 he's a great dad 𖥔 mentions of miscarriage 𖥔 mentions of physical and sexual assault 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 he loves eating you out 𖥔 anal play (yup.) 𖥔 last warning: mdni!

: ̗̀➛ words: 6.0k

: ̗̀➛ notes: no bc i love you all so much. it's insane how much you guys have supported my toji fanfic & and my nanami fanfic. i'll def be writing a part two to both of those masterpieces (yes i have self-confidence). as someone who's always imagined sukuna as a mafia leader, i decided to say fuck it and write it. please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy! (p.s. pregnancy trope>>>)

You never thought you'd be married to Sukuna Ryomen, let alone carrying his kid again. Yet, four years deep into this forced marital mess, thanks to your father owing a hefty debt to the kingpin of the underworld crime syndicate, here you were.

“Look at you, Mrs. Ryomen, radiant as ever!” chirped one of your husband’s associate's wives. You had studied a name list last night, but it all escaped your memory after you passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Sukuna wasn’t keeping a hawk's eye on you like he used to when you first stepped into the public eye. Gone were the days of his glares if you messed up a name. Never once had he laid a finger on you at home, despite your assumption that forgetfulness would earn you a beating.

“Thank you." You forced a smile at the woman, your patience waning as the mayor's birthday party stretched on. It was almost the end of the night, and your feet were protesting from traipsing around in flats. All you craved at that moment was your bed, pronto.

The woman and her husband attempted to capture Sukuna's lukewarm attention through political discussions and expressing gratitude for the illegal artillery shipments from your husband's syndicate. They made no effort to acknowledge your existence by his side.

Your hand rested on your belly, a mere eight months into your pregnancy—a new personal record. The first time you conceived, Sukuna demanded an heir, and you willingly agreed, knowing that the child would provide some distraction in the expansive estate that felt like a cage. Unfortunately, at the two-month mark, you experienced a miscarriage.

Feeling Sukuna's knuckles lightly tapping your back, you straightened your posture momentarily, only to slouch again almost instantly. It was futile. The discomfort of your swollen and cramped belly made it nearly impossible to maintain a poised demeanor in the midst of the party.

Disobeying Sukuna meant facing inevitable death, a fact well understood in his dangerous domain, and you had never dared to challenge that.

"Let's go," Sukuna said, cutting through the incessant chatter of the couple. He didn't grasp your hand, only your fragile wrist, a gesture you didn't mind. Yours was not a typical love; he, Sukuna Ryomen, a most feared monster in the criminal underworld, and you, a sacrificial lamb, a trophy collected three years ago, a means to his heir.

"I'm sorry," you whispered as you exited the venue, heading towards the limousine surrounded by fifteen armed guards under Sukuna's command. "I'm so sorry—"

"Get in the car." He held the door open for you, signaling his guards to disperse and take their positions in the Jeeps parked behind.

Silencing yourself, you cautiously settled into the back seat, and Sukuna joined you, slamming the door with force. His anger was discernible, and the memory of that night, losing your second unborn child to a kidnapping, plagued your dreams. You were uncertain if the nightmares were about Sukuna's wrath upon finding you or the horrors his enemies inflicted on you during your 48-hour captivity.

Sukuna noticed your struggle with the seatbelt and contorted his body toward you. Your fingers released their grip on the belt, allowing him to pull it taut and secure it snugly around your midsection. Click. He withdrew, distancing himself from your face that had been mere inches away.

“Tedious fucking party, anyway,” Sukuna grumbled, his left ankle casually perched on his right kneecap. He always adopted a specific posture, his elbow leaning against something, cheek resting on his knuckles, and his narrow eyes a rich brown that could almost pass for a deep shade of red. He exuded an unrelenting air of intimidation.

"I agree," you unintentionally voiced your thoughts, earning a sidelong glance from him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

His attention barely lingered on you as the car roared to life. You breathed a sigh of relief, stretching out your legs and leaning your head back against the seat's shoulder. Your palm absentmindedly traced circles on your belly. Goosebumps peppered your skin from the frigidness in the car, stirring an involuntary shudder.

"Turn on the heater," Sukuna ordered the driver in his smooth, languid baritone.

"Yes, sir."

As warmth gradually surrounded the backseat, you hummed a small "Thank you" and closed your eyes, enjoying a few moments of peace.

Disorientation clouded your senses, and you dispelled it by rubbing your eyes and using your knuckles to prop yourself against the headboard. A couple of contractions ripped through your gut, causing you to groan and hiss through gritted teeth.

The enormous room was devoid of Sukuna, its black silk sheets hinting at the luxury covering you. The fireplace casted a warm glow, and a soft, dim golden light spilled from the lamp onto the floor.

In the first year of your marriage and pregnancy, your bedroom was located three doors away. You were tended to by on-site nurses and doctors, surrounded by an entourage of maids for company. Days were spent aimlessly wandering the estate, occasionally crossing paths with one of Sukuna's mistresses, their curious smirks evident as they exited his room.

The second year brought a subtle shift. You still slept alone, but now there was a surprising addition of joining Sukuna for dinner. Positioned diagonally from him, an air of restrained silence hung above your head. Yet, between the utensils clattering and quiet chewing, Sukuna's glances toward you and your five-month-old belly revealed your anticipation for the impending arrival of your child.

One of your maids had been instructed to lure you into a private conversation in the back garden, and before you could react, a group of men clad in black drugged you and forcibly removed you from the cage, which in that cruel moment felt like a sanctuary.

Most details of the monstrosities forced upon you in that warehouse have been compressed by your mind—the merciless physical and sexual assault endured for hours. They callously bragged that raping Sukuna's Ryomen's wife was a personal victory, cackling like bloodthirsty hyenas as you bled from your legs. In the thick of your suffering, you lost your second child in a pool of your own sweat and feces.

When Sukuna discovered you, when he annihilated every man along with their bloodlines, you were left as a mere shell of a woman, practically lifeless. You've existed as a walking corpse for quite some time now. Following that dreadful night, you attempted every conceivable means to end your own life—drowning, leaping out of windows, creating a makeshift noose from bed sheets and tying them around balcony railings, teetering on the edge—but every attempt proved useless. Sukuna consistently interfered at the last minute, sweeping in and enveloping you in his arms as you wept until unconsciousness claimed you for days.

Therapy provided some relief, as did the medications. Sukuna heightened security measures tenfold, keeping only those workers who served during his father and grandfather's reigns. He moved your belongings into his bedroom, sleeping by your side with a gun beneath his pillow. There were times when you would doze off in the library while reading, only to wake up in his room.

Two years seemed like an eternity in the slow process of healing, both physically and mentally, from the torment that had befallen you. Stepping into the garden was a reminder of the progress you had made, yet the hope that blossomed in your womb now filled you with a different kind of fear.

You needed your baby. Even if it meant risking your own life during childbirth. The only thing that mattered was the precious life you carried within you, and as long as your baby took that first breath, you'd welcome death with open arms.

Sukuna's bedroom door creaked open, revealing his presence.

Mink-colored tendrils of hair obscured his eyes, disheveled from their usual spiked stance. The stark white of his dress shirt was marred by the unmistakable stains of someone else's blood, and a gun dangled casually from his grasp. In the subdued lighting, his facial markings, inked tattoos designed to mask the scars of his tormented childhood, appeared more ominous than ever.

Without acknowledging your ogling, he briskly entered his bathroom.

You slipped back under the covers, pulling the comforter up to your chin, soothing the sharp twinges in your belly. The rhythmic sounds of his shower served as a background melody. Sukuna took an eternity to freshen up, nearly two hours passing before the door finally creaked open. You had kept a close eye on it, lost in your own world and trying to ignore the persistent contractions. No complaints, though – you were at the eight-month mark, and this baby was determined to make its entrance into the world.

Draped in a sleek black silk robe, Sukuna strolled toward his side of the bed, his eyes locking onto yours. "Why are you still awake?" He tilted his head as if studying an unfamiliar creature. He always regarded you with a curious interest, unearthing some new revelations about you.

"Cramps," you whispered in the dimness, even though the first rays of morning sun began to seep through the curtains.

Sukuna strolled to his side of the bed, lifting the comforter to settle down. "Do you take any medication for it?"

You shook your head. "I don't want to take any risks."

"So you're just going to endure the night with a migraine?"

Your husband seemed oblivious to the concept of cramps. He hadn't bothered to educate himself about your pregnancy or even familiarize himself with basic menstrual cycle terminology. You hesitated to bring attention to his title and position, but he was, after all, born from a woman.

How could he not know?

"Answer me," Sukuna demanded, fixing you with a cold, indifferent gaze. How could two simple words carry such a heavy, intimidating weight? Your entire body shuddered, and you swore you felt your child kick in response to his attitude, causing you to clench your teeth.

"Cramps . . . are something women experience during their period and pregnancy. They're sharp, unpredictable pains in your gut and back," you explained, finding a position that eased the cramps and calmed your baby. "It's worse when you're pregnant—like someone attached a taser to your body without a switch to turn it off."

Sukuna's brow furrowed, and he seemed pissed off as if he held a vendetta against cramps. "Will it have any consequence on the baby?"

You were really trying to be patient. “The baby is the reason why.”

He ran his hands wearily down his face, casting a stern gaze at the ceiling, his breath quickening. "Is there any way to relieve the pain? Besides medication?"

“Well,” you said slowly, “when I first started menstruating, my mother used to place a warm rubber bottle on my stomach.” The recollection of nights spent groaning, tossing, and turning with your hand clutching your stomach brought a smile. After her passing in high school, you found yourself managing the household, dealing with your drug-addicted father, and taking care of yourself all on your own.

"Come here."

Startled, you shifted your focus to your husband, who raised the comforter like a makeshift tent with one arm. "You don't have to—"

"Come here."

With caution, you edged closer, lying flat and holding your breath. Sukuna propped himself up on one elbow, resting his temple on his knuckles while adjusting the blanket up to your neck. His left hand glided up your sweater and settled on your swollen belly.

An immediate sense of relaxation cocooned you, your eyes closing as warmth radiated from his palm onto your skin. The sensation passed through to your child, who quit kicking within seconds, seemingly recognizing their father's touch. It dawned on you that Sukuna hadn't touched you since you conceived, and you hadn't realized the volume of your misery and longing until this moment.

"Feeling better?"

"Mm-hmm." You nestled your face close to his neck. All you managed to whisper, your voice tinged with brokenness, was, "Please, don't let go."

Sukuna responded only with silence.

You'd woken up screaming bloody-mary.

The security team and maids hurried into the bedroom, their eyes widening at the sight of blood staining your clothes and darkening the black sheets. In a swift response, the doctor and her team of nurses rushed in while Uraume, Sukuna's trusted aide, calmly called for your husband from a corner of the room.

In the heat of your excruciating screams, five nurses attempted to guide your breathing and encourage you to follow a pattern. Guards carefully lifted you into a sitting position, and Uraume decisively cleared the room of all men. The doctor swiftly removed your sweatpants and panties, covering your lower region with a sheet, and instructing you to push.

Your body felt numb, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and a black vignette closing in on your vision. Your head swayed left and right, on the verge of dropping if not for Uraume's unwavering support. Despite the intensity of your grip, they held steady, their only reaction being a stream of muttered curses amid the chaotic scene.

"I can't—Uraume—"

"You will, Mrs. Sukuna. You have come this far. Giving up now is not an option."

"I don't want to die," you whispered akin to a prayer.

"You won't," they softly replied. "He won't allow it."

Uraume, a silent figure from the past, now stood by your side, offering support and encouragement. The connection with them had been minimal, limited to the formalities of a marital contract signing. They had simply muttered, “He’s not half as evil as they say,” to you before packing up the papers and leaving you in the room with Sukuna.

The room buzzed with affirmations, reassuring you that they could see the baby's head and urging you to push with each breath.

The sound of the baby's cries stirred you awake.

You snapped to attention at the sweet, reassuring sound, realizing that your baby was close to arrival—alive and ready to face the world. Following two heartbreaking miscarriages and the pain endured as Sukuna's wife, the bearer of his lost children, you were finally on the cusp of welcoming motherhood.

"Two more pushes!" The doctor's voice cut through the air.

"AGH!" A guttural growl escaped your throat as you grappled with the harsh sensations. Your body trembled, and waves of fiery discomfort overflowed through your core as you exerted yourself to bring your baby into the world.

"Come on," Uraume whispered. "You can do this, Mrs. Ryomen."

You let out a powerful cry and strained with effort, bringing forth new life. The baby and you were crying at the exact wavelength, competing against who could be louder. The nurses and attendants, familiar faces from your previous pregnancies, clasped their hands in prayer for a safe delivery. Tears of relief streamed down your face as you pushed for your own well-being.

"Blanket!" the doctor urgently called out, prompting a nurse to rush over with a soft cream blanket. "Push!"

With a final, determined push, the weight lifted suddenly.

The slippery sensation of delivering the child and the immediate release of pressure left you slumping against Uraume's shoulder. As they laid you down, the doctor directed the staff to tend to you while the baby's cries filled the air.

The doctor approached through your hazy sight and gently laid your newborn on your chest. Overwhelmed with emotion, you showered your baby with kisses, tears of joy streaming down your face. Your little one was here. They were finally here.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Ryomen," the doctor announced as the cries of your newborn gradually faded into the background. "It's a girl."

You drifted into unconsciousness.

The soft cadence of Sukuna's voice filtered through the foggy boundaries of sleep, causing you to slowly come back to life.

“Why is this brat refusing to sleep?” you heard your husband grumbling.

With a laborious effort, you rubbed your eyes, summoning the strength to lift your head from the comfort of the pillow. The scene unfolded before you—Sukuna, the most feared criminal, pacing at the foot of his bed, cradling your crying newborn daughter in his arms, unsure of how to handle his little foe.

"What do you want? Food? You don’t have any teeth yet, little miscreant."

"Sukuna . . ." you whispered, a gentle plea for attention.

Your husband's gaze snapped in your direction, relief washing over his features as he realized you were conscious. "Thank fuck." Moving swiftly, he approached and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

His brown-reddish eyes lingered on the delicate scene unfolding before him—the intertwining of your index finger with your daughter's tiny, rattling fist. A calming magic seemed to stem from your touch, instantly soothing the cries to soft sniffles.

"Already playing favorites, I see," he remarked with a teasing tone, a wry smile on his lips.

"I have to feed her." Your voice was hoarse from the relentless screaming during the delivery. A series of deadly wheezes followed when you coughed, frightening your baby once more. Her cries started again, blending with the impatient curses of her father.

He gently placed her in the cradle, his strength used to prop you up against the headboard. The room carried the scent of coconut soap, your body freshly washed, the sheets beneath you brand-new. You were also dressed in a new set of panties and a nursing bra.

"Are you sure you have enough nutrients in your body to feed her?" Sukuna asked, holding your baby girl as you unclipped the front left cup. Rather than wasting your breath on a response, you focused on helping your daughter latch onto your nipple.

You winced once she caught it, then melted back as she started drinking. “I’m fine,” you finally answered. “Body . . . hurts.”

"No shit. You pushed an eight pound baby out of you." Despite the crude sarcasm in his tone, Sukuna tenderly caressed his knuckles over his daughter's cheek.

"Did you want . . . a girl?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, adjusting your baby onto your lap. "I assumed you'd prefer a boy as an heir."

"I'm not my father," he declared, putting an end to the conversation. "She's got your eyes."

Your daughter gazed up at you with a curiosity remarkably similar to yours. You smiled down at her, grateful she had made it. Grateful that Sukuna wasn't throwing a tantrum over the gender of your child but instead cupping the top of his baby girl's head and brushing his thumb across her forehead.

“You got a name for her?” Sukuna asked.

“Yes, but we can brainstorm if you don’t—”

“You carried the child, you birthed her, you will name her. Whatever it is, I agree.”

Something dead stirred inside your chest. Swallowing hard, you shared the chosen name, "Nobara."

He nodded in approval, and as he pronounced her name, Nobara responded with a wailing cry. "Her tantrums will be the fucking death of me." Sukuna took her into his arms again.

"Support the back of her head and rub her back. She needs to be burped," you advised.

He grunted but followed your instructions. Moments later, a tiny burp from Nobara made you chuckle, earning a slight eye roll and a hint of a smile from him.

"I'll take the next few weeks off to help you recover from the aftermath and the stitches," he announced, rising and walking towards his work desk, where he settled into a large leather chair, cradling your newborn.

You nodded appreciatively, easing yourself down.

"Oh, before I forget," Sukuna mentioned as you settled into bed, "I've arranged a new doctor for you."

“Did you fire the last one?”

“I fired at her, yes.”

Your eyes widened. "What? Why would you—? What?"

He shrugged, cradling the back of your newborn's head. "She suggested an additional stitch for you. Said it would make things 'tighter' down there for me."

Your face flushed. “So . . . you killed her?”

"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze fixed on you with those penetrating eyes, "I don't need a mere doctor questioning whether I'd still enjoy having sex with my wife after she gave birth to our child."

“But . . . you have mistresses. Don’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “I had mistresses up until . . . ”

Up until the kidnapping.

Sukuna never spoke of the crime after he’d saved you. Instead, he expressed his commitment through actions: sleeping beside you, teaching you how to handle a handgun, keeping a protective arm around your waist at social gatherings. Occasionally, you swore you felt him run his fingers through your hair as you slept.

"I wouldn't mind if you did," you admitted, a voice inside contradicting your words. "Given what my body has been through, I would find myself repulsive for pleasure, too. I understand if you feel disgusted."

Sukuna halted the gentle strokes on your daughter's back and straightened up. "What the fuck did you just say?"

An icy shiver ran through you, momentarily numbing the pain. "I-I just assumed—"

"You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me, wife. It gets under my fucking skin that you'd ever believe I could raise a hand on you. Day and night, every hour and minute, even now, in your presence, my mind is consumed with ways to kill the fear that's taken root in you.” He was infuriated yet vulnerable, with Nobara sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. “Everyone I’ve ever met has done nothing but fear me like I’m a curse on their soul, and while I’m flattered of the monster they’ve painted me out to be, I refuse to let my wife and daughter see me in that light. Do I make myself clear?"

You . . . nodded.

“And for your information, I had mistresses up until I married you.”

You took in a sharp breath, processing the confession. "But those women—"

"Spies," he clarified, his voice low and steady. "They operate undercover in my clubs, keeping an eye out for potential threats. I haven't fucked anyone since the day I put that ring on your finger." He offered a small, almost imperceptible apology to your baby for cursing.

"Oh."

All you ever heard were twisted stories about the Sukuna Ryomen, a young man who, against all odds, slaughtered his own father to ascend the throne of the underworld criminal realm. Whispers spoke of a chilling childhood, where a mother's desperate attempt to suffocate her son in his sleep. The scars etched into his skin, concealed beneath a tapestry of dark markings, bore witness to the brutal initiation rites inflicted by vengeful uncles. In his domain, everyone prayed to see him buried six feet under.

Which is why you felt sympathy for your husband. He was lonely. Too lonely. Despite all the riches and influence surrounding him, he was stuck in a fortress where danger lurked around every corner. He had no friends, no one he could truly confide in—except perhaps Uraume. Opening up about his emotions wasn't in his nature. He kept the tough exterior, convinced that being a monster, a curse, was the only path to earning respect and recognition.

But just now, when had cut himself open in front of you and bled a human color, he was Sukuna. Your husband. The one who just became a father. A man wrapped in a comfortable robe with his hair combed down and his skin clean of dirt and blood as he held his daughter, as he gazed at you like you two were the only people meant fighting for in his treacherous world.

Sukuna noticed your silence, tuned in to your steady breaths, and lowered his lashes. "You'll ask me to touch you. Not just for the sake of having another child but for your own pleasure. If I'm not around and you need me, you will call, and I'll rush home. If this little brat gives you any trouble, I'll handle it. Hell, maybe I'll let her in on a bit of the family business for a head start."

"No," you murmured, absorbing everything he'd just said. "Not now. I want her to enjoy a proper childhood."

"Is that a demand?" Sukuna tilted his head slightly, another method of asserting authority. Yet, after all he'd shared about dropping everything for you, about making love to you, the fear in you started to dissolve bit by bit.

"Yes," you affirmed. "It's a demand."

A small smirk played on Sukuna's lips as he rose from his spot, circled the bed, and settled down beside you, with Nobara resting peacefully on his chest. Summoning all your strength, you turned to run your fingers over your baby's soft cheek and tiny, parted lips.

“She sleeps like you, Mr. Ryomen.”

“Sukuna,” he corrected, his arm covering his eyes as he breathed with a slightly open mouth. “My wife will call me Sukuna.”

Teasingly, you asked, “Is that a demand, Sukuna?”

His arm shifted low, and his reddish-brown eyes softened, stealing your breath. “Only from my wife and daughter.”

You smiled, closing your eyes. “Goodnight, Sukuna.”

In response, he wrapped his strong arm around you, pulling you close to his side, his two girls snuggled against his body.

In the beginning, you knew you didn't belong in the hell Sukuna ruled. Your father's mistakes, pilfering drug shipments and peddling them locally, had sealed both his fate and yours. With thoughts of fleeing the disgrace your father brought upon your family, you had started packing, desperate to escape the clutches of your old man.

The following night, Sukuna and his henchmen barged into your cramped apartment, wreaking havoc on every piece of furniture. Rocking in the corner of your room, Sukuna casted his shadow over you like the God of Death, bathed in your father’s blood.

Crouching down to your eye level, he tipped your chin up, leaving a splotch of blood. He used the collar of your sweater to wipe it away. In a hushed confession, you revealed the hidden drugs under the sink and floorboards, along with your father's buyer list folded in the cereal boxes. Sukuna grinned and ordered his underlings to retrieve the concealed items. Then, the chilling question hung in the air: "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I'm tempted," Sukuna replied, "but not to kill you." His gaze fixated on your left hand, and he raised it, studying your ring finger. "You will pay for your father's crimes with your life." He held your hand in front of your face. "You will take my last name." His smirk widened, revealing perfect teeth. "Isn't that the cruelest form of death, love?"

Unconsciousness claimed you then, but after seven years of marriage, enduring unimaginable hardships, and finally welcoming a baby into the world, your answer was clear. The true torment wasn't caused by the man you once perceived as a monster but rather by his enemies.

"How am I supposed to know if Mr. Munchkin wants more tea? He's a fucking stuffed toy. Can't talk, you know?"

"Sukuna," you warned, perched on the armrest while busy crocheting baby socks for your little one on the way.

Nobara, wielding a rubber, squeaky hammer, stood up from her seat, giving her father a bonk on the head each time he let out a curse. And you often heard the squeak of the hammer around the house.

Nobara's tiara was slightly askew, frustration evident in her curled lips and bared teeth. She was growing increasingly irritated with her father's lack of understanding about the rules of her tea party. "Mr. Munchkin wants tea, Papa. Give him tea! Give him tea! Give him—"

"Fine, I surrender. Here, you little bastard. Take the whole fu—damn pot." He shoved the plastic teapot towards Mr. Munchkin, a well-loved cat stuffed toy you had gifted Nobara on her last birthday. "Happy?"

"Cup," she insisted, pointing at the tea cup in front of Mr. Munchkin.

Sukuna sighed and poured the water from the kettle into the pink plastic cup.

"Me too," Nobara added, settling back in her kiddie chair. Sukuna had barely taken his seat before she had him on the floor. "Hurry!"

"May I pour for the other toys first, Your Highness?"

"Not toys. Friends."

Sukuna shot you a helpless glare, eliciting a chuckle from you. He filled the table with tea, and Nobara, holding her small cup, clinked it with her father's, followed by her collection of stuffed animals. Sukuna reluctantly mimicked the gesture. Instead of sipping the tea, he downed it like a shot.

“Papa!”

“Sukuna, come on.”

There wasn’t any winning with his girls.

Sukuna reluctantly poured himself another cup, sipping it with an air of royalty that mirrored a princess. Despite his resistance to the make-believe tea party, you couldn't ignore the genuine affection he showed toward his daughter. He would nod attentively when one of the stuffed animals "spoke," laughed along with Nobara, and even beautified himself with a glittering tiara, a feathered pink scarf, and deep purple-painted nails.

Sukuna was, without a doubt, a fantastic father. It came as no surprise that Nobara's first word was 'Brat.'

That night, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her into her bed. Sukuna joked that he’d spent every last bit of his wealth decorating the brat’s room, filling it with the latest toys, and stacking her closet with whatever clothes she laid her finger or eyes on. She was truly the princess of her father’s heart.

"She's asleep," you informed him.

"I'll give her a kiss in a minute. Just need to finish this," Sukuna replied, pouring over his documents.

Letting out a sigh, you shuffled over, rolled back his chair, and settled onto his lap. He continued reading as you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your cheek on his shoulder, peering at him through your lashes.

"I want you," you murmured.

Sukuna paused, lowering his gaze to meet your cheeky smile. "Later."

"It's late."

"I have to finish—" He halted as you began kissing his neck, moving up to his jaw and cheeks, tracing the contours of his face tattoos.

"Please, Sukuna," you whispered near his ear.

How could he refuse you anything when you appeared so stunning, radiating with the joy of expecting another child in your four-month-old belly?

“Take off your robe and get on the bed. Spread your legs for me.” He gave your ass a little smack as you happily skipped away, shedding your clothes and clearing the bed to settle in. With a grin, you opened your legs, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Sukuna stood up from his seat, loosening his robe as he did. He sighed, watching the moisture forming between your legs. Pregnancy seemed to heighten your lusts, and Sukuna was always ready to fulfill your needs.

“What pretty, wet cunt,” he whispered softly, leaning in to kiss your chest, trailing down to your stomach, your hips, your calling clit.

Over the years, you realized Sukuna enjoyed pleasuring you more than the opposite. He feasted on you like a starved man, whether it happened in the back of the limo, in a guest room during a party, or just minutes before a crucial meeting in his office. He insisted it was his way of relaxing, often pleading with you to spend a full hour on his face as he ate you out and drank every drop of your release. It had turned into a daily routine for him. And for you.

“Oh, Sukuna, yes, yes. Right there—ah!” Your back arched off the mattress when his tongue drove into your hole, flicking and exploring your clamping walls. His mouth was latched to your pussy, sucking it in, his cheeks hollowing rapidly. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips voluntarily grating against his face, his sharp nose rubbing over your swollen clit.

Sukuna drew back as you came down with a muted cry behind your hand and lapped at the flow of your juices pouring out of you. His lips shone as he leaned over and gently kissed you, allowing you to taste yourself from his tongue. “If I don’t fuck you now, I will die.”

“Hurry, then.”

Sukuna pushed himself inside you, and that first wave of pleasure hit you so strongly that you sank your nails in his back and cried out heavenwards. He groaned and grunted, thrusts growing speed, his plump balls smacking against your ass. You loved that he fucked harder, faster, driving you to the brink of ruination.

After you'd healed from Nobara's birth, he would always make sure to get at least ten orgasms from you. From midnight to early morning, he'd fuck you in every possible position. But his favorite was always missionary, where he could have his eyes on you, writhing and whimpering beneath him, telling him it’s too much, he's too thick, all while using your heels to draw him in even closer.

Sukuna curled his arm around your waist and sat you up on his lap, thrusting up into you as you coiled yourself around his neck. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Your cunt was made for me, love. Your cunt was fucking made for me.” His hand threaded to the back of your head, grasping your hair and drawing your face back so you were looking him in the eyes without wavering, without bowing your head. He needed to know you didn’t fear him when he fucked you like this. It was an unspoken check-in, and when you smiled drunkenly, only then did he let you return to embracing him.

“Are you close?” you whispered.

“Not yet. I want to come in your ass.”

You shivered despite how scalding and sweaty your bodies were. “Do it.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Please.”

Sukuna dragged you off his cock so you could get on all-fours, raising your ass up for him. He’s only ever been in your sacred spot a handful of times but never finished himself inside it. It appeared that tonight you were both a little extra spellbound.

Mounting himself behind you, Sukuna unfurled your ass and spit on his fingers, stroking the puckered hole. He gathered the creamy liquid dripping out of your pussy to lubricate the spot. His middle finger stretched you out, followed by his ring fingers, pushing in and out until he knew for sure you were prepared for him.

Sukuna’s steel-hard cock pushed into your tiny hole. The sight of it expanding to swallow his girthy size almost made him come right there and then. He started to move in sluggish movement, grabbing onto your waist. His hips cruised, brushing against your ass, making you impatient and push yourself back.

“Understood.” He chuckled and dug his nails into your skin, dragging out to the tip and shoving himself inside. Your face pressed into your pillows, crying and trembling as he abused your asshole non-stop. “You’re taking me so well, my love. Oh, fuck, fuck.” He rutted into you like a beast, claiming your body, rubbing your clit from the front, spanking your ass, brandishing you over and over again.

You both snapped in unison.

Sukuna sagged over your spine as he bucked in every last bit of his sloppy seed. His lips kissed your shoulder blades, holding you up by one arm. Gently, he pulled out, his cock growing floppy until you flipped onto your back, hair sticking to your sweaty, flushed face, belly slightly swollen, your tits larger in size, his release mingled with yours seeping out from your holes.

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispered, cupping your face like he didn’t just fuck your soul out of you. That smirk you’d come to love appeared on his lips. You reciprocated back, stretching out your arms so he could lean down and kiss you sweetly on the lips and cheeks and toss in a praise or two for what a good girl you were as he slid into you again, slower and more intimate with his game. “I fucking love you, Y/N.”

You smiled against his lips that continuously whispered the three beautiful words and said, “I love you, too, Sukuna,” before sealing it with a long, lasting kiss.

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