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writingouthere · 1 year ago

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singledad!Sukuna x neighbor!reader-Sukuna and Yuuji really want you to join their family! role reversal from my other series, think this will just be a one-shot though. Yuuji is Sukuna's brother but he's raised him since he was a baby and Yuuji calls him dad.

cw: Sukuna is manipulative and also a murderer but everyone's happy and you're both aware so it's okay. this is really just fluff.

"I....want you to be my mommy?"

Sukuna scowled as Yuuji looked more confused than ever.

"No, no that is not what you're saying kid. You're just going to tell her about how the other kids' mommies on the playground make you feel left out."

"But they don't, Megumi's mommy always gives me a snack when I'm hungry!"

"That's not his mommy, that's Megumi's daddy," Sukuna corrected, wondering if this was just a hopeless endeavor. He could have easily followed a plan this simple when he was four, but Yuuji was too soft. This was what happened when you raised a kid in a stable, loving environment. They lost the ability to go for the jugular when needed.

"But Megumi's daddy calls him mommy?" Sukuna didn't hold back his groan. You were going to be coming back from your morning walk any minute. He didn't have time for Yuuji to not get basic directions or to explain the dynamics of that Gojo family.

"Look when we go out there, just look sad and I'll handle the rest."

"But I'm not sad, I'm happy. We're going to the park and Megumi's mommy is bringing mochi today!"

"Shit kid, do you want a mom or not?" Sukuna asked, trying not to roll his eyes as be bent down to snap on the velcro straps on Yuuji's light up sneakers.

"I don't need a mom, I have you," Yuuji said. He looked uncharacteristically defiant and Sukuna couldn't help feeling proud of his little brother.

It had been touch and go when Yuuji was a baby. Sukuna had still been a kid himself and they didn't have any money and Yuuji's mom was even crazier than Sukuna's. Their father nowhere to be seen. Since Sukuna and Uraume had spread the pieces of his corpse around the city.

Sukuna pushed these memories aside and ruffled Yuuji's hair. "I know you don't need one, we only need each other." Yuuji nodded, his little head moving with all his conviction. "But it might be nice, right?"

Yuuji seemed thoughtful before finally biting his lip and looking down at his sneakers. He tapped them, making the red and black lights flash.

"She's really nice, I like her."

"I like her too," Sukuna said and he heard the sound of your sneakers slapping against the tiled hallway. "So let's go and look sad, okay?" Yuuji nodded, determined now and Sukuna grabbed his backpack before the two brothers went out into the hall.

You were just taking your keys out of your bag and you turned to the brothers, a smile on your face. "Good morning gentlemen, it's nice to see you. Heading out?"

That was when you noticed Yuuji's downturned expression. Sukuna saw your face shift into one of concern and he resisted a smirk.

Sukuna cleared his throat and squeezed Yuuji's hand. Good boy. "We're heading out to the park, you know the one by the high school."

"Oooh, that's nice. You like that park, right Yuuji? You said it was the biggest one in the whole city," you crouched down so you could look Yuuji in the eye and Yuuji seemed to forget he was supposed to be sad for a minute because he jumped up and down, the lights of his shoes flashing in the dim hallway.

"Yeah, it has the best swings too!" You ooohed and aawed appropriately while Sukuna tried not to smack his head against the wall. Maybe he and this kid weren't related after all, fuck.

Yuuji seemed to notice his expression because he stopped jumping to look down at feet. He put out his lower lip and used the tip of one of shoes to mess with a scuff mark on the linoleum. It would have made a more pathetic visage if his shoes weren't still lit up.

"Yuuji," you said, coming closer so you could kneel on the ground in front of the boy. The sight of you on your knees did something to Sukuna, but he pushed it aside to see what the brat had in mind. So far, he wasn't impressed with the performance. "Is something wrong?"

"It's just," Yuuji let out a sad sigh that wouldn't get him a gig in a car commercial. "Megumi and his mommy will be there and it makes me feel sad because all the other kids have mommies and I don't." God, there was no way you could be buying this, Sukuna looked at you and saw that your eyes looked a little watery.

Huh, look at that. Maybe he wouldn't have to kick the kid out, after all.

"I'm sorry Yuuji, that must be hard," you said and you reached out and swiped out where Yuuji had even managed to shed a tear. Sukuna felt so proud. "But I know that your dad is really excited to take you and the two of you are going to have so much fun!"

"Could you come too?" Yuuji asked and you bit your lip. Yuuji looked up and batted his little doe eyes at you. "It would make me really happy if you came with us. We could all have fun together."

"I wouldn't want to intrude-"

"It wouldn't be intruding," Sukuna cut in. "If you're busy though no worries, I know we'll have fun just the two of us. Right, Yuuji?"

Yuuji bit his lip and Sukuna could tell he was torn between showing how excited he was to spend time with his dad and being 'sad' so you would join them.

You looked between the two before seeming to come to some kind of decision. "If you don't mind waiting while I change, I'd be happy to join you two. Should I bring anything?"

"I think we're all set. We'll wait outside for you," Sukuna said and Yuuji went up and gave you a big hug that you returned.

Sukuna took Yuuji outside to wait for you, the kid occupying himself with a mostly washed away hopscotch chalk sketch. Sukuna alternated between watching him and texting Uraume who was claiming to be over him and his nonsense. Sukuna would take it more seriously if Uraume hadn't been saying that for going on twenty years. He knew they loved him, fucking sap.

Soon, but not soon enough, you came bounding down the stairs. A scarf tied around your neck, your turtleneck exposed by the open top button of your coat. He couldn't keep letting you be single, looking all pretty like that. He was too greedy for that.

Besides, looking the way you did and knowing your big heart, it was just a matter of time before some nice loser tricked you into settling with them and he just couldn't have that. The idea of you taking someone else home to your warm apartment with it's million throw blankets and a cookie jar, an actual cookie jar, he was convinced you kept stocked up just for Yuuji, made him want to commit another murder.

"Ready?" you asked and Sukuna nodded while Yuuji took your hand in his right and Sukuna's in his left.

"Let's go!"

Yuuji's enthusiasm was contagious and the two of you chatted all the way to the park. Sukuna saw some people shoot you all looks as you walked. Sukuna was used to people viewing him with suspicion, even fear. His tattoos, dyed hair and general demeanor making people cross the street to avoid him. Something about you and Yuuji seemed to balance him out though and people reacted as if they were just looking at a cute family going out on a Saturday.

You didn't seem to notice either way and just continued talking to Yuuji about some new anime for kids Sukuna had probably had to suffer through but hadn't retained any memory of.

As soon as you all got to the park, Yuuji took off with barely a good-bye. You seemed concerned and Sukuna bumped your shoulder with his. "Don't stress, he just sees the Fushiguro kid over there. See, they're already fucking around."

He pointed to where Yuuji was chasing around a scowling dark haired boy the same age as him. Sukuna didn't buy the scowl for a second.

He had once run into the kid and his weird dads at the grocery store and the kid had scolded him when he figured out Yuuji wasn't with him. Sukuna would have knocked the kid down a peg if he wasn't actually four years old and if his 'mommy' didn't low key give him the creeps. Sukuna was pretty sure he wasn't the only person guilty of homicide currently at this playground.

"That's so cute," you cooed and Sukuna nodded along while he took you over to some picnic tables. Unfortunately one of them was already occupied.

"Aww if it isn't Sukuna. How nice it is to see your lovely face on a Saturday morning!"

"Gojo."

Sukuna was ready to leave it there but then the bastard got up and walked over. His partner continued sipping on a large cup of boba, watching from his seat although he gave you a little wave.

"Who is this, new girlfriend?" Gojo asked tilting down his sunglasses to look you up and down.

You laughed and introduced yourself while Megumi's parents did the same. Gojo grabbed your hand when you held it out and kissed the back of it, his lips curved into a smile even as he lingered, his fingers clearly holding onto where your pulse would be. Sukuna moved closer to you and put a hand around your waist, the gesture a clear sign for the other man to back off which Sukuna knew Gojo understood because the bitch fucking smiled at him.

Sukuna didn't necessarily take any of Gojo's flirtations seriously. He flirted with every mom and dad on the playground, including him when they first met. He'd even seen him flirt with the guy who worked the ice cream truck so egregiously the kid had looked on the verge of passing out. His partner never seemed bothered and Sukuna wondered if he was just that secure in the relationship or if he hoped someone would finally come along and get the annoying man away from him.

As usual though, Gojo lost interest quickly and went back to his husband who didn't say anything as Gojo lay across his lap like some kind of housecat.

"There are children here," Sukuna said. Mostly out of spite and not jealousy that the two of you weren't curled up like that.

"Don't be homophobic," Gojo said and you snorted before looking innocent when Sukuna shot you a look.

"Alright, let's go see what Yuuji's up to." Sukuna went along with your excuse, mostly just because he liked the feeling of your hand in his. The two of you wandered closer to the playground where Megumi and Yuuji were currently engaged in a game with some other kids that Sukuna couldn't have possibly guessed the subject of.

The kids alternated running around the large structure, disappearing into tunnels, jumping down to hide underneath slides and behind climbing walls. Every time Yuuji popped back up to view he would wave and call out to you both. Sukuna still felt a little warm whenever the kid called him dad and the look you gave him after made him feel caught.

"So, I can see why Yuuji was so sad those morning. Megumi's parents are just vicious monsters," you said and Sukuna was so taken aback he knew his expression didn't hide it well. You smiled and swung your hand that was still in his, turning so you could look at him.

"I don't think that's what the issue was," Sukuna managed and you nodded.

"Right, it must have been because he's so lonely," you said before the two of you were interrupted by the sound of children's ecstatic laughter. You both looked to where Yuuji was now being chased by an entire horde of children.

"I'm the curse, you have to catch me," he yelled out and the other children screamed and laughed as they tried to grab him. Yuuji had never had a hard time making friends and that was very evident in the way he got kids of all ages, even the quiet ones to join in on his game.

"You can have friends and still be lonely," Sukuna argued and you gave him just the softest look. It wasn't fair for you to see through his schemes and still look at him like that.

"Are you lonely, Sukuna?" You got closer to him, your hand still got in his and you were so warm. "Maybe I should come home with you, then?"

Sukuna couldn't have stopped himself from kissing you even if he wanted to, which he didn't. He let go of your hand so he could cup your face in both of his palms. You moaned your approval into his mouth and he responded by nipping your upper lip, pulling you up to meet him as he leaned down to kiss you. Sukuna was about to risk another arrest by taking you right here in the park before a familiar voice called out to the both of you.

"Hey now, there's children here."

Sukuna turned to give the infuriating dumbfuck a piece of his mind when you distracted him by pulling him back to you and giving him a quick peck on the lips. He could leave the fight with Gojo for another day, he supposed. He knew he'd win anyway.

You're smiling and you look so happy and Sukuna doesn't feel the least amount of guilt in getting you here. Even if you knew it was a trick.

Although.

Did this mean you knew that all those times he was "stuck at work" and needed someone to watch Yuuji were a lie too? Or that he actually could cook and the one time he set the building fire alarm off had been because he started an actual fire and not just him burning dinner and two of them didn't actually need you to invite them to dinner so much? Did you also know that your radiator hadn't just stopped working randomly but he had broke it, knowing you would call him because your super never answered, and when he said a part was still missing and you would just have to stay the night at his and Yuuji's place-

Sukuna looked at you more closely and you just kept smiling.

As Yuuji called for the two of you to come help him and Megumi on the swings, Sukuna wondered if he had ever trapped you, even once. Or if you had just let him catch you.

Watching you push Yuuji as the boy screamed for you to go "higher, higher!" he decided he didn't care. Fuck, it might just be better. Knowing you were maybe as crazy as he was.

shout out to the dad at the park today who had the audacity to play with his toddler and have a cute dog at the same time.

also I liked the end of this so much I may just write a prequel of Sukuna and reader taking turns gaslighting the other into a relationship, we'll see.

Edit: wrote the prequel, here!

#jjk sukuna #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you

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siriuslylantsov · 1 month ago

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little dad!spencer fic because i was ovulating :)

oliver's little legs hang off the edge of yours and spencer's bed, swinging as he waits. he's patient, but antsy, bouncing lightly on the mattress, as you go to grab a pair of socks from his dresser.

you kneel by his feet, tucking your fingers into the sock and stretching it out so it can fit over his toes. giggling when you tickle him, you pull the sock over his ankle and hold out the opposite one for his other foot.

he pulls his leg away with a huff, prompting you to look up at him, confused. his eyebrows crease, a stubborn line blooming down the middle, big eyes squinting, an expression eerily similar to a certain someone you know.

"come on, little man. we gotta put your socks on or you can’t wear your shoes," you murmur, reaching out with prying fingers.

he squirms further away. with an air of defiance, he folds his arms over his chest, an adorable pout tugging at his lips.

"no, i wanna wear 'nother one like daddy," he grumbles.

of course, the first thing your child would pick up from both of you would be his father's tendency to never wear the same socks.

and speak of the devil, spencer walks in, black velcro shoes in hand as he takes in the scene before him. you turn on your knees to face him and point a lazy, accusatory finger in his direction.

"you're teaching our son bad habits."

he frowns, affronted, confused by the unimpressed yet amused expression on your face. "what did i do?" he asks, his voice trailing higher toward the end like it usually does.

you dangle the rejected sock between your fingers. "he doesn't want to wear the matching pair; he says he wants to wear another one like daddy."

you think the look he gives you could knock you off your feet if your knees weren't so firmly planted on the ground. he smiles, ecstatic and proud, eyes wide and crinkling at the corners as he crouches in front of your son with you.

"is that right?" spencer coos up at the boy, holding his calf in his hand. you still can't seem to get over how small he is.

oliver nods curtly. you can't help but break into a smile. jumping to your feet, you quickly go to get a different pair.

"you're in charge of pairing his socks after laundry," you say when you return, handing a purple and blue striped sock to spencer that contrasts with the orange of the other one.

"gladly," he grins. you watch as he carefully puts it on, slipping on oliver's shoes as well. “happy?”

oliver grins, one that he undoubtedly inherited from his father, jumping off the bed in a way that almost frightens you but doesn't, as spencer's hand quickly secures itself around his waist, catching him.

spencer pulls the little boy into his lap, and his fingers mercilessly begin to tickle him. oliver squirms and squirms, trying to escape, but spencer's arms keep him caged in. gasping giggles fill the room, mingled with your own chuckles.

spencer's gaze drifts to you when he hears you laugh; god, he loves that sound.

with a shared, mischievous glance between the two of them–one that you don't notice–the attack shifts to you. spencer lifts oliver from his lap to yours, little hands reaching out to grab and scrunch at your stomach, not quite tickling you, but enough to leave you writhing.

you yelp, falling backward as the onset of poking surprises you. spencer's hand cushions the back of your head before it hits the ground, his fingers moving under your arms and tickling you as well.

“hey! no fai-” you gasp, interrupted by another laugh that bubbles out of you. you clutch your stomach, trying to cover the area of weakness, but you're no match for oliver's eager fingers. he pokes at your belly like he's pressing buttons, and spencer thinks it's hilarious.

he doubles over as if it's the funniest thing he's ever seen; you’re gonna kill him.

spencer lingers just below your armpit, where he knows you’re more sensitive, laughing, like he’s the one being tickled. you’re a mess, breathless with hair sticking to your face, your abdomen is starting to ache from exertion, when, finally-

saved by the bell–literally, as it rings through the apartment–penelope arrives. she unlocks the door with her set of backup keys, the sound providing you a brief reprieve as it distracts oliver.

“honey, i’m home! the sun is out and a picnic is a-calling,” she announces, sing-song, from the living room.

you breathe out a sigh of relief when oliver hops off you, sprinting to see his auntie penelope.

“slow down,” spencer calls after him, still chuckling quietly as he sits by your head, while you catch your breath.

“you are so done for,” you pant. “you better sleep with one eye open tonight, doctor reid.”

“oh, official titles. i’m terrified,” he feigns surrender as he looms over you, albeit upside down.

“you’re insufferable,” you mumble, looking up at him with a glare. it softens, however, when his big hands cradle your face. your eyes flutter shut for just a moment as you try to maintain the annoyed facade and ignore how warm his palms are.

“you love me,” he replies, brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. he leans down to kiss you, still upside down, his chin pressing against your nose. you begrudgingly kiss him back, your lips curling into a smile when he hums.

“c’mon, a picnic is a-calling.”

#i dont know if i like this but im posting anw #matthews nephew in the pic is much younger than i imagined oliver to be but the pic is so cute i had to use it #happy reading!#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler

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girl-in-the-chairs-void · 10 months ago

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May I say just Tyler pulling you close to him while you’re staying safe from a tornado hmmm

A lil protective moment with him is all I want 🫠🫠. Ask and you shall receive, my dear.

Pairing; Tyler Owen’s x reader

Word count; 1.2k (I got carried away just a little)

cw; tornadoes, rodeos, idk what else? FLUFFF AND a sprinkle of angst.

“Is this how they do it in Texas too?”

You looked up at the man beside you, his green eyes stilled on you. You were focusing on the rodeo he’d brought you to, men out on horses and bulls, taming the wild animals, riding their fears.

You looked back Tyler, he was still focused on you and not on the game. Heat rose to your cheeks, turning them into a red mess as you rubbed your hands nervously on the fat of your thighs. It was too hot to wear anything but jean shorts and a tank.

“Pretty much, not different from how they originally used to do back in the early days actually. But Texans have their pride.” You didn’t really have the accent to be taken as someone from Houston, but the badges- fabric patches with Velcro- you wore on your jeans at all times were evident enough of how proud you were to be from Texas.

The man chuckled, his eyes getting just a little smaller as crinkles formed around them, his cheeks lifting forming into a beautiful smile on his lips.

“Well ain’t that the right way to do it”

You both laughed, turning back to the rodeo. You tried to get a little bit comfortable in your seat, adjusting yourself before deciding to just sit a little bit straighter. Your hands reach for the arm rests, expecting the cold metal to make contact, but it never happens, instead your met with a warm, calloused palm of Tyler’s. He’s a little surprised at first, you both are, he slowly gathers the courage and weaves his hand through yours, helping you adjust.

You keep a hold of his hand, looking at him wide eyed and he’d say you look like a deer caught in headlights but that won’t do the justice to how beautiful your eyes look right now. The way sweat glistened on your body, your lips parted and slightly heavy breath of yours that fans his face. You’re mere inches away but it feels too far to him. He needs to feel you, feel those lips on his, caress your soft skin under his rough hands an-

A loud siren buzzes through the arena snapping the two of you out of it. A tornado siren. You felt the continuous buzz of the alert through your jeans, looking back at Tyler with the same look in your eyes.

We gotta get out of here.

And so, in a very calm yet hasty manner, you and Tyler take off. Calmly brushing past the crowd and scared civilians to get to his truck. It might not be enough to stay in there but you may have enough time to get somewhere safe.

Think think think, where is safe? And suddenly it hits you.

Your hands are still attached, his hand squeezing yours a little too tight when he feels like you might get swallowed by the rushing crowd.

“I got it!”

You finally get to his truck, quickly getting in and driving.

Tyler is scared, but the way a smile forms at your lips, he almost forgets you’re in the middle of fucking life and death.

“You got somewhere close?”

You nod, giving him the directions as he hits the gas on full. It’s an old bunker you found literally yesterday when you came out to explore the town. Trying to figure out places that could be safe for the people to evacuate to. It is small, enough to fit around two or three people and you hope it’s not jammed up for the two of you to seek shelter.

The tornado is not far behind. Gaining speed and strength as it chases the two of you. You’re not ready, this was not in the plan and you’re certain that today is not the day you’ll die. Not when you’ve just stared to get to know him.

Tyler strategically positions his car, activating the drills as the two of you exit, running towards the patch of metal in the middle of the farm field.

He gets to it first, letting go of your hand mid sprint to open it up for you. Letting you climb down before getting in, the metal trap door a little too heavy with the winds and rain for him to completely shut it. So he leaves it open, letting the cold rain pour down into the bullet as he reaches for you.

You’re holding onto the pipelines, not having it in you to move further because of the wind. You feel his hand on your waist, holding onto you for dear life as your grip on the pipes tightens. One hand holding onto you and the other onto the pipe right above you, Tyler grounds himself on the floor. His feet turned soon as he tried not to move. Your hand comes up to where his rests on your waist, clutching it tighter before he pulls you even closer, chest to back.

You can feel his heart pounding, like your own, against your back. You’re both heaving. Your heavy breathes turning into calmer ones as your eyes closed, trying to breathe in his scent, feeling the way his arm feels around you. Thinking about anything but the giant tornado above your head. The smell of him engulfs you and you find yourself thinking and wanting to feel is him, him, him, him.

It’s enough. The sheer skin to skin contact, the smell of your hair right under his nose, the feel of his hot breath on your neck. It sends shivers down both of your spines and in no time the sky clears and the wind and rain passes over. The tornado moved or completely died, you’re not sure.

But you’re sure about the man that is still latched to you. Holding onto for dear life. The way he’s nuzzling his nose into your hair, his lips brushing against your scalp and leaving tiny kisses you can barely make out.

“It’s gone” your voice is nothing but a whisper. You turn in his arms, his hand still attached to your waist as you look up at him through wet lashes.

He has this wild look in his eyes, concern, fear, and love all moulded into one. You feel them dart to your lips, and back to your eyes before his other hand comes up to brush some hair from your face.

“Thank you for that” he whispers, “if you hadn’t known about this place, I’d probably be dead”

You give him a smile, squeezing his arm before snaking your way out of his grasp.he reluctantly lets go of you, wanting to keep contact with your soft skin and that close proximity that kept you warm. But he lets you go, you’re shaken, just a little bit. This wasn’t your first tornado, but god it felt like you both were about to die there.

He helps you get back up, climbing up the ladder just behind you.

The walk back to the truck is quiet, you’re only half an arm length away from him but it feels too far.

He opened the door to the passenger seat, letting you in before getting into the drivers seat himself. Letting out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in before deciding to break the silence.

“So, you know anymore rodeos that end like that?”

A/n; The ending feels rushed, idk? I hope you liked it!! Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated, lovies🫶🏻🫶🏻.

#Tyler Owen’s x reader #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #twisters #twisters 2024 #daisy edgar jones #Glen Powell #Glen Powell x reader #girlinthechairsvoid #Pav rambles #requests #Jake seresin x reader #Jake seresin

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l1m3g0r3 · 1 year ago

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I decided to draw one of my plushies I recently got because 💖💖💖

#Their true name is Lux but their nickname is Lav #They have a warmable lavender smelling pouch inside so that’s why that’s their name/nickname #That’s also what the Velcro patch is and why I included it in the drawing #I’ve literally only had them for a day or two and they already have a photo album in my phone #Might make a side blog dedicated to them #Lav #Lime’s Lav #Bunny plush #plush #plushie #digital art #not a FNAF oc wowee #The white is probably a shine in their eyes but I like to think they are pupils #Because why not

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thecoochiefairy · 3 months ago

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juno. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 8.7K word count. blackfem!reader, pregnancy!kink, onyankopon, football player!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, arrogant!onyankopon, unprotected sex, creampie, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, creaming, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, kinda aggressive dirty talk, oral [f], just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ to the anon that wanted this idea, i was already on that before you said anything, baby. teehee! this is a continuation of baby phat.

𝓐ᥫ᭡ :: onyankopon wins the super bowl.

visual. visual. visual. visual.

THE SCENT OF STRAWBERRY MILK DAUB'S YOUR SKIN. Suds captured along your curved figure, the warmth from showering now turning your ochre complexion a tone of russet. You were at peace, even with the upcoming excitement of the day thrumming in your chest.

Maybe your heart wasn’t beating fast. The vibration could’ve been coming from the song, BACKSTREETS, by DON TOLIVER, playing from the speakers instilled in your oversized marble bathroom—a place you complained was nonsensical to have so much square footage—but you couldn’t complain too much of your husbands desires, as he worked hard to achieve the exact lifestyle he wanted.

Back to being in the bathroom, your peace was interrupted by a sound that made your plump lips release a sigh. Your baby boy crying in the arms of his grandmother as he searched for you. Typical.

You try to finish getting ready anyways, annoyed with yourself as you feel tears welling within your eyes. Being six months postpartum hadn’t been easy—you loved your baby, attached at the hip like Velcro, as he was to you. You cried when he cried. But maybe it wasn’t all about you. Your baby was his father’s son, missing him just as much as you did.

Everything happened in the blink of an eye the moment Onyankopon was signed to the New Orleans Saints. He was the team’s youngest quarterback in years. The title produced a leadership the team never had before, calling dominating plays, the ball always within his control—and now, he was leading them to the Super Bowl.

With this big event coming up, you saw less of him. He only had a day or two to come home, and in that time he’d either sleep, spend as much time as he could with you, his mom, the baby, or sleep.

Through those frustrating times, you didn’t complain. You always supported his dreams. The minute he knew his team was in the game of champions, he promised to take time off after, and marry you in the Maldives as you dreamed. So you were patient.

The day had finally arrived—Super Bowl MMXXV. This was your first time being at one of his games in months, used to watching him from home. You were with him up until your pregnancy, Onyankopon not wanting to put you or the baby at risk as he traveled from city to city—in honesty, you were upset at first, and constantly expressed how much you missed him. He just wished you understood that all of this was for you, and your baby boy, Salem.

You clasp the golden charm bracelet along your wrist, short French tips glossing under the bathroom light as you’d just gotten them done. Shading your lip line with your favorite mixture of dark brown and mauve over your heart shaped lips once more, you play around with burmese curls of your sew-in, letting the hair frame your round face, freckled complexion blush from rushing the finishing touches of your makeup.

Adjusting your top, the alabaster material drapes effortlessly off your shoulder. The butterscotch crochet of your shorts mold along your round hips, a weight brought on since giving birth. Onyankopon glared at the glow you’d gotten from motherhood—your breasts were more full, your curves were curvier, and your skin was smooth, the scent of vanilla and baby products always wafting. If only you knew how much he craved you.

You wouldn’t call your mother in law dramatic. But you take a deep breath as you can hear her yelping from the kitchen of your condo, making your way downstairs to see her attempting to feed Onyankopon’s Dobermans. She holds the baby in one hand, dipping down and tossing the food into the bowls, the dogs actively watching her panic as they pant excitedly.

You sigh, “Momma—What are you doing?”

“These damn dogs—I can’t handle them!” she stutters, adjusting the baby in her arms as he begins to cry even louder from the disruption of sound.

She coos, “Oh lawd—Grandma didn’t mean to scare you, baby,” she bounces on her foot, trying to calm him down.

She then turns her irritation back to you, “Why the hell did Onyankopon get these dogs if he knew he wasn’t gonna be able to take care of them—They’re two big ass horses! They’re trying to attack me!”

“Sit,” you snap your fingers to the dogs, leaning down to clean the spilled chow from her panic, “I already fed them, momma. You ain’t have to let them inside. I know Zulu and Roux scare you.”

The dogs hike up, sitting properly as they wait for another command. She continues to bounce the baby in her arms, sighing “—I was doing fine ‘til my grand baby started crying for his mama,” she smooches Salem’s face, still a bit frazzled, “I was just trying to help.“

“And I appreciate that, okay? I just wanted you to change Salem before we leave, I know the pre-game starts soon.”

You open the patio to let the dogs back into their play area, sliding it closed as you question, “Did he poop?”

“Just a little—but I changed him a second time. I don't know what's wrong. I’ve been trying all morning while you were getting ready. Boy’s just like his father, don’t know what he wants when he wants it.”

“He wants you, momma. I swear—He just wants some milk. I promise he’s fine,” you open your arms out to take him, “C’mere, pookah,” you playfully pout, “Why’ you doing all that?”

He coos, reaching for you as his grandmother gives him over. His crying immediately subsided as he rested against your chest, tiny fingers playing with the gold pendant around your neck.

Still in a sour mood, your mother in law reminds, “I hope you bottled up all that milk he’s looking for. Can’t be giving a free show at the Super Bowl.”

You’re a bit more patient with her since having Salem, but she still managed to annoy the hell out of you at times—she was so adamant on making you do things her way.

You answer, “I pumped some milk last night—three times, so I can make it easier to feed Salem later. Lawd, momma—you being more fussy than the baby! You’ not excited for the game? You know Usher ‘supposed to be performing—that’s your man. You gotta’ jump down from the box, roll on the stage and give it to him!”

You place the tip of your tongue on your upper lip, playfully rolling your body as you bump your hip with hers, trying to lighten her mood.

She couldn’t resist chuckling, “Don’t be tryna’ show me how you got that baby in the first place. I’m excited—I just wanna make sure we don’t forget anything. Are you ready? Did you pack snacks for that baby? Some extra clothes if he spits up? You know there’s gonna be traffic in the business district.”

You reach over to the black diaper bag, golden fleur-de-lis symbol along the front as you place it over your shoulder, “All his milk is packed, extra diapers, clothes—he’s set for the next five days, momma. Can we go?”

“Alright, alright. I’m done fussing. I’m ready to see Ole Miss get they’ ass whooped, and see Usher! You think he’ll perform "There Goes My Baby?””

Your mother in law and baby were dressed similar—her wearing one of your fiancè’s jersey with his name and number, Salem wearing the tiniest jersey to match, miniature army cargos and Nike Dunks on his feet, dark hair already beginning to fro on his head, brown skin and freckled features pulling from both parents—although, Onyankopon’s genetics were much stronger.

“He better perform that song,” you smack your lips, “That’s the one that got me pregnant! Blame Urshers ass.”

You were essentially on black people time, planning to make it before the pre-game show, but arriving thirty minutes after it began. The entire street was blocked. Cameras, fans, extensive amounts of media coverage, everyone came together in pure excitement. Security motioned you towards the back of the stadium, having you all on a golf cart as they sped to the higher levels of the building.

You mentally prepared yourself to run into the group of football wives and their children. It’s not that you had an issue with them, they were just a bit too—bougie for your liking. Most of this group consisted of blonde hair and blue eyed smiles, flipping their locks and popping their gum as they spoke to you.

However, you could appreciate their excitement to see your baby. You put on a smile as you lean Salem towards the group of gushing women, a unison of “Awe!” as he chewed on the small bracelet on his wrist, blubbering nothings as he slobbered on his fingers.

Onyankopon’s mother stood beside you, watching the women crowd your baby boy, some asking to hold him only to have your soft no as an answer. She’d always try to convince you to make friends—but it only made you want to avoid it even more.

Requested by your fiancè, he made sure that everyone was comfortable as you had a private box at the top of the arena. A large sofa, on the other side was a balcony to look out on the field, close enough to the Jumbotron, with an additional tv on the inside to watch the game from any angle.

A table full of food from tenders, fries, sandwiches—to more southern orientated dishes like beignets, jambalaya, king cake, yakamein and even shrimp etouffee. When you stepped out to the balcony, you could see as people came flooding into their seats from below, watching as the players were on the field practicing, sports reporters talking through the intercom.

The chaos of the stadium was electric. People stood in their chairs, faces painted black and gold, the lights atop glowing purple, green and yellow, hype men throwing beads from the field, dancing along to the cultural music.

The noise of stomping, booing and cheering ensued as players came upon the screen. It made you anxious, but excited as well. You weren’t one for crowds, but you loved Onyankopon so much, being in the stadium made you feel closer to him.

Player after player, they appeared along the screen with a reaction from the fans—and there he was.

His hair was freshly braided, lineup sharp along the tight style. She could imagine how he complained in the chair. Facial hair around his full lips, dark pink as he reflexively clenched his sharp jaw, pulling his helmet to hold in his palm. The crowd roared at the sight of him.

He was constructed almost too perfectly. Tall, broad frame, tats swarming along his body in places that only you knew, even the ones that could be seen to everyone else. His lucky number, 74 along the countless other tats on his neck, religious cross on his cheek praising the man he constantly talked to throughout his career.

The black and gold jersey clung to the gear on his oversized frame, making him bigger than he already was. When he realized that he was on screen, he looked up—and that damn smile appeared. His tongue stuck out towards the camera, raising a muscular arm to pose, hyping himself up as he howled, the crowd returning the noise even louder. It was his signature—they loved him. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, watching as ’ONYANKOPON’ appeared brightly with his stats.

The entire building was roaring so loud, you could barely hear your mother in law as she shook her head, “That damn boy.”

You hated to admit it—That smile always made you swoon. He could turn you into a completely different person with one look. You watched as he walked towards his teammates who began to slap his helmet, hyping him up with the crowd's excitement.

Not only were the fans of your fiancè excited, but his biggest fan seemed to give a blubbering screech— Salem recognizes the face of his father as he jumps in your arms, the sound making you flinch.

“We’re looking through the crowd of familiar faces today—Oh, look at that! It seems the quarterback's fiancè is here with their adorable baby boy!”

The Jumbotron shows you, leaning against the balcony as you hold the baby in your arms. The cheers continue as you see yourself, a faint flush on your cheeks as you have no choice but to give a shy wave, heart shaped engagement ring glittering under the lights. You raise up your baby boy’s arm as you swing it back and forth, pointing to the screen for him to see himself.

The Jumbotron shifts from you to Onyankopon. He can’t get enough of you—jeweled smile, dark hair sprawling to your hips, almost able to inhale your scent when thinking about you. You hate how fine he is, running his tongue over his plump lips that turns into a boyish grin at the sight of his family.

That was the last camera on Onyankopon you’d see before it was all on business— he wasn’t just a quarterback with a family anymore. He was leading his team to a championship.

The coin toss was the lethal decision at the beginning of the game, determining who had control of the ball. You heard his voice choose heads, watching as the coin was thrown in the air, dropping down in the same second.

Tails.

Onyankopon’s team was defensive at the start, giving you the opportunity to calm Salem’s light fussing, startled by all the noise. He laid with his head resting against your chest, looking up at you as he tried to stick his fist inside his mouth.

Your mother in law sat beside you on the sofa, leaning over to ask, “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer softly, brushing a curly strand of hair away from Salem’s face as he tugged at your shirt, “He just doesn’t like all the noise. Should’ve bought him some ear plugs.”

“He’s looking for that nipple—“ she interrupts herself, gasping at the screen, “Look! There he goes!”

Onyankopon forms a stance as both teams break, searching for where to pass the ball from the line. A wide receiver manages to sneak through a guard. Onyankopon sees this and chucks the ball towards the player, him catching it perfectly in stride as security attempts to tackle him—he’s moving, fast, the both of them on the same wavelength as he runs yards across the field.

“WE HAVE OUR FIRST TOUCHDOWN OF THE GAME!”

Your mother in law was yelling his full name, jumping up and down in the air at his first point scored, going off with the crowd that rumbled the entire stadium with their cheers. She leans down to shake your shoulder, making you giggle at her excitement.

Your anxiety had spiked from that coin toss, but you had no doubt in your fiancè—especially as you saw him have control of the ball for a second time, and now, he was running himself down the field. Your eyes went wide as he ducked and dodged players flying towards him, everyone rising to their feet in doubt that he’d make it all the way to the end.

You hand your baby over to his grandmother, flying to the balcony with wide eyes, unable to help yourself watch with everyone else.

He was moving at full speed down the pitch, a ball tucked underneath his right arm as the offensive line covered him, blocking the way for opposing players as they attempted to tackle him down. He runs with ease, barely able to register his surroundings as he makes it to the end zone, the entire stadium screaming his name, shaking the floor beneath you. He’s able to dodge yet another tackle, diving down into the end zone— the crowd went insane.

“TOUCHDOWN!—And that’ll put the Saints in a two-point lead as he scores! Now if that’s not the sweetest thing I’ve seen!”

He’s standing there, cocky in the best way as his teammates run towards him—celebrating as they slap his helmet, hug his large frame, slamming their palms together in repetitive applause. You’re jumping in your spot like a schoolgirl, clapping your hands with a shout, unable to contain your excitement.

The other team was pissed.

It was a good game for the next couple of hours. It was up and down, both teams playing to their best ability, unfortunately being trumped by your home team. They were just too good, especially being led by such a quarterback. Salem’s fussing had also subsided, now more playful than anything, his grandmother unable to take her eyes off the field while her grandson attempted to stand in her lap.

“Say-Say, baby. Stay down, you can try to stand up later,” She pushes gently on his shoulders as he throws his body up, babbling nothings, the noise almost blocking out the roar of the stadium.

Nearing towards the end—things were beginning to change. Your fiancè was on the bench as they called a timeout, begrudgingly wiping his face. He could feel his body begin to burn from the physical activity. His chest heaved, but his eyes were still focused in the game.

The opposing team was up by a single touchdown and the timer was coming to an end. Onyankopon was pissed. He wants the ball. He needs it as the defensive line goes on the field. His deep voice rumbles as he calls out his players, knocking sense into them, cussing in ways you heard when he was incredibly serious. Competitive was an understatement.

When the timer begins, he calls for a pass, a deep ball down the field to his wide receiver, who was covered by one of the best defenders in the entire league. The crowd yells, his teammates doing the same, Onyankopon being doubled by one of the defensive players.

It doesn’t matter—he’s caught it. Down for one, at the three yard line. The stadium goes crazy for the pass. One more time—the play clock ticking down, he calls for the ball again. Another pass on the opposite side of the field to a wide receiver, caught perfectly. No one could move at this point—the clock running its final seconds, the crowd chanting the same three numbers. Onyankopon’s heart is pounding in his chest so harshly, he can hear his own blood pump behind his ears.

Two seconds on the clock, he calls for the ball again.

The snap, Onyankopon drops back into the pocket, he scans the field before tossing the ball towards a receiver at the back corner of the end zone. You watch as the entire stadium erupts. His teammates are on the field, running towards him with screams of victory as they run for the end zone. You can hear his deep, joyous laughter over the roaring spectators as he stands there, arms raised in the air as he gives the biggest bellow he’d ever made. The stadium is trembling.

They’d won.

The moments of world renowned joy—it was rare to feel something like that. Your mother in law is so busy screaming that you take notice at the last minute of the security wanting to guide you downstairs to the field, and you’re itching to get to your fiancè. Your hands practically shake as you scoop up your baby boy, rushing over to the golf cart to be taken where everyone celebrates.

They’re hollering like schoolboys, roughhousing with each other—tossing Gatorade onto their coach. Black and gold streamers drop down onto the field, emotions in every part of the arena.

As you’re taken outside, you hold your baby close to your chest as it’s like a mosh pit. The security has to lightly shove people out the way to get you towards the middle of the field where the team stands, your free hand holding your mother in laws.

That’s when you see him. It’d felt like months, even if it was only three days. He’s being interviewed by multiple people, hand reflexively holding the top of his gear, leaning down to meet the height of the woman that politely talks to him. You can see the way he makes anyone nervous, the woman smiling and giggling as he answers her questions, a giddy smirk on his face like no other. It made you happy to see him in the spotlight. He belonged there.

You were never afraid to let him have his shine. You were patient, watching as he was on his fourth interview. On the other hand, your mother in law wasn’t so graceful about waiting.

“You just carried your team to a Super Bowl win, Onyankopon. How do you feel?”

He’s sweating bullets and out of breath, but he keeps his composure. Pulling the bottom of his jersey up, exposing his toned stomach as he wipes his face.

He lets out a deep, breathless chuckle, “Shit is crazy, not gon’ lie. I can only thank my team, the people that support me. My family, god. He’s always gon’ keep me together. A nigga is grateful for everything in this life.”

You can’t help but smile at his words, hating that you feel yourself becoming emotional. You loved this man so much.

“And how will you be celebrating tonight?”

You didn’t think he’d seen you standing there. But he looks directly at you, that hungry grin along his face as he grunts, “I’m gon’ start by seein’ my baby, lovin’ on my wife. That’s really all the shit I need.”

He leans closer to the camera, “Y’all be safe out there—and don’t be acting like niggas, tearing up the city—ion’ wanna see none of that shit!”

The interview gives one more congratulations, leaving him be. You allow your mother in law to trap him in a hug first, swinging him from side to side, “I’m so happy for you, sweetheart! Give thanks to god!”

“All praises to the highest—“ he lets out a chuckle, pulling her into his arms, her head only reaching his chest. In his mothers fashion, she begins rambling as she grabs his chin, “You gon’ keep all this hair on your face? Did you even get a haircut?—“

“See, I knew you was gon’ act like this. Imma’ give you one more hug, and you gotta let me see my girl, momma.”

She kisses him on the cheek as she pulls away, taking Salem into her own arms. You have no time to process before he lifts you off the ground, palms groping your ass with a grunt in your ear that you wrap your arms around his neck reflexively, squealing—“Onyankopon!”

He’s careless that there’s thousands of people around him, in your ear as he gruffly says, “I missed you bad as fuck. I missed this big ass,” he squeezes it in his hands, making you giggle even more, “Missed that beautiful face. You can’t be away from a nigga for that long. That ain’t gon’ happen again—you hear me?”

“I hear you,” you roll your eyes, “You won!” you shriek, wrapping yourself tighter around him, “Your first ring, baby!”

It felt surreal—he wasn’t sure what he felt, still stunned that they’d won an entire championship. His emotions were on a rollercoaster, his chest thumping like a drum as he pulled back, pressing his forehead against yours. His deep voice shakes a bit as he chuckles, leaning down into you to hide the emotions he feels.

It was extremely rare for Onyankopon to get like this. The last time you’d seen it, he held Salem for the first time. He was a man full of gratitude, and it was all hitting him at this moment. You quickly run your thumb under his eye, giggling as tears form in your own vision.

“I love you,” you say softly, in the midst of chaos around you.

He presses his trembling lips against your own, the heat of his breath making you dizzy as the butterflies in your body flutter wildly. He’s hungry as he takes every part of your lips, finding a grip on your throat as he’s dropping his tongue in your mouth.

“Boy, come hold this baby and quit tryna’ make another one!”

Your mother in law's voice comes between the two of you. Another soft giggle comes from you as you pull back, running your fingers along the braids in his hair as Salem reaches out to his father.

“I hear you, Momma. Lawd.”

He immediately pulls away, the most tender and gentle expression you’d ever seen on him as he scoops Salem out of his mother’s arms, cradling him close to his face as he snuggles him. This was something you wished you could put on pause. His big hand cups your son’s entire body, giving gentle kisses to his forehead, the baby cackling out giggles.

“You know he screeched when you came on the Jumbotron?” You tell him, attempting to pull Salem’s fist from his mouth.

He’s distracted, unable to tear his eyes from Salem as he pulls him in close, “Yeah? You see yo’ daddy, baby? What you’ think of this?”

He’s bouncing him in his arms, holding his head as he moves Salem to see everyone in the stadium, “Awe, baby—he ain’t gon’ remember all this.”

You rub his shoulder, “That’s okay, he sees you, Ony. He’s gonna remember that.”

His hand finds the small of your back, tugging you close to his side as he continues to coo at Salem, “I need to get y’all home soon.”

“You’re not going out with the team?” You question, a small frown on your face, “I thought you’ was saying all that for the cameras.”

He looks at you, “You think I wanna be with grown ass men over spending time with my family? Where’s yo’ mind at?”

You roll your eyes. Taking Salem back into your arms, “Whatever, nigga. Go do yo’ last little interviews, imma’ go call a car for your mom, I know she wants to go home.”

“I ain’t gon’ be long—like ten-fifteen minutes,” he presses a kiss under your chin, kissing the forehead of his baby boy before taking off to where the team took photos.

You look over to your mother in law, who has the same look as you, knowing that ten to fifteen minutes was damn sure a lie.

You raise an eyebrow, “You wanna wait?”

“Girl, call his driver and get me home. I’m not waiting on his big headed ass.”

You laugh, listening nonetheless.

When the chaos of the night comes to an end—you’re back where you imagined being for the past couple of days. You stare out the window from the top floor of your condo, seeing the city twinkling beneath the stars, colors flashing from business buildings to represent the city’s celebration. It could’ve been a completely different night—you and Onyankopon could’ve been with the city, partying, drinking until your organs collapsed.

But you were here. Within your shared bedroom, Onyankopon laid out on the bed, scrolling through twitter and watching the shit-show happening on Canal street.

“They go so crazy in the boot,” he chuckles, “You see this shit, baby? Niggas on street poles—they busted a window at a Chase bank!”

You continue brushing your teeth, staring out the window and watching the fireworks going off in the sky.

“Boy, don’t be acting like if I ain’t give you the green light you wouldn’t be out there acting an ass too.”

“That’s a big if. You ain’t never gon’ give me the green light. You like to keep me all cooped up.”

He gets up from his spot and walks over to you, taking a seat in the bay window as he pulls you in between his legs, “You think I’m lyin’?”

“So you wanna go out?” You raise an eyebrow, “I heard your players was finna’ go out to Visions to celebrate,” you refer to the gentlemen's club, “That’s what you was’ tryna do? Oh, aight. Go out with your lil’ funky ass friends then,” you roll your eyes, wanting to finish off your nightly routine.

“Come on, you gotta know I’m bullshittin’,” he tugs you back closer to him, “You ain’t gon’ be nice to me? I just won the damn Super Bowl.”

You briefly step into the bathroom to wash out your mouth, wiping the bottom of your now bare face. You sigh, “You could’ve gone out if you wanted to, Ony. I was just gonna come back and pass out with Salem.”

“I know you missin’ my touch. C’mere.”

Onyankopon had a bad habit of liking you more in this state. Freckles cover your nose and cheeks as you’d wiped all your makeup off, curls dangling around your face. The dark tresses hung from the claw clip you’d lazily stuck in there, trying to pull your hair out the way as you fed Salem earlier, wearing a white tee that hugs your upper half, midriff showcasing between your white panties. He couldn’t stop playing with the lace bow on the front of the cotton material.

Fuzzy Saints socks pulled the look all together—you were perfect.

He breathes low, fingers gently gripping your hips, “See, you got me feeling lonely. I need you with me, baby. Fuck allat’ club shit.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, giving him a hum as you lean close to his mouth, “You only want me, huh?”

“Don’t play. You know you’ my good luck charm.”

You’re too pretty in the moonlight for him to resist. He holds you close, pulling your mouth to meet his as he kisses you slowly—But of course, the moment is interrupted as you hear the sound of fussing.

You pull your mouth back, exhaling a bit. You sigh, “I didn’t pump tonight, so I gotta go finish feeding him.”

He groans, hands sliding down to cup at your ass as he holds you close, “Can’t you just let him cry a lil’ bit?”

You raise an eyebrow, “Would you like me to not feed you?”

His chuckle is slight, looking up into your serious stare, “That’s different, he ate not too long ago.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have given him the appetite you have, hm?” You give him a peck on the lips, “Don’t be talkin’ bout my baby!” You exclaim, disappearing out of the bedroom with that.

It takes longer than you anticipate to feed your baby, burp him, and finally get him in his crib. After a little bit of fussing, his eyes drift as he lays along his stomach, pacifier in his mouth as he drifts off, warm in a soft blue onesie.

You groan a bit as you make your way back towards the bedroom. Your chest was aching. The lights were now off, a box fan blowing comfortingly in the corner—the only light casting within the room now was from the moon. You can see the reflection of Onyankopon’s phone on his face, knowing this was his routine before he passed out. You couldn’t blame him for it.

You say quietly as you close the door, “Salem’s asleep.”

The comforting sound of the fan continues to blow. You then have a thought, slowly pressing your knees against the bed as you begin crawling towards him.

“Daddy…”

He immediately says, “Nuh-uh. You only do all that when you want sum.’ I just won the Super Bowl. Leave me alone.”

You roll your eyes, groaning, “I only had a question.”

“You got a question, huh?”

You’re already tugging at his arm until he caves in, tossing his phone to the side with a sigh, “Aight, aight. You got my undivided attention, all that bullshit.”

“Since you’re in such a good mood, can we talk about getting me a breast lift again? And before you say it—I don’t need all that self love bullshit,” you cover his eyes, not wanting to see his reaction.

“Girl, don’t start with me.”

His fingers tug at your hand until he removes it from his face, holding onto your arms, “I’m not tryna’ argue with you right now, forreal.“

“It shouldn’t have to be an argument,” you protest, “Salem is sucking me dry, all he wants is the nipple.”

“I told yo’ ass to take him off the titty, you ain’t wanna listen,” Onyankopon murmurs, placing his hands behind his head, looking up at you through the moonlight.

You flick his nose, “It’s normal for a six month old to still be breastfeeding, Ony!”

“Yeah, you’ right,” He sighs, glancing at you with a lazy smile, “I’m not sayin’ no, you got a point. I just don’t wanna have this discussion right now, aight? You gon’ have to give me some time to think about it.”

You roll your eyes, “They’ll still be my real boobs, I’m just gonna have them sit up. Although, wouldn’t I look good with some implants? Like them’ big ass anime girl boobs? Imagine!” You place his hands on your chest, “You’ll have so much more to grab!”

“You do like to be on bullshit, huh?” He squeezes softly, “You playin’ dirty, that’s foul. You gon’ have to come to me with a serious argument.”

“This is my argument. You’ not feelin’ good enough. Don’t they feel like two raisins? Exactly!” You blow out a breath, “You know, I wouldn’t be this difficult if you asked to get your dick bigger or something.”

“That’s ‘cause my shit fat,” your body jerks as he gives a smack to your ass, “You makin’ my head hurt.”

You giggle evilly, “Good,” as you roll onto your side of the bed, pressing your back against his chest, scooting back to spoon yourself into his body. You sigh at the immediate warmth, feeling as he nuzzles his face into your shoulder.

He hums, eyes closed as he wraps his body around yours, holding you close, “Go to sleep. I know you’ tired.”

“I know you’ tired.”

“Oh, aight. So we just gon’ argue all night.”

You roll your eyes at that. Silence goes between the both of you, and you think he might be asleep. You adjust yourself in his hold, turning yourself on your back to be able to face him, but still keeping yourself beneath his arms.

“You know how much I love you?”

Your voice is soft, barely audible.

A lazy kiss to your cheek.

A hum.

“Let me guess.”

“Mm?"

A sleepy, deep chuckle.

“As much as I love you?”

You smile a bit, “Maybe a lil’ more than that.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You love me the most-est,” you kiss his nose.

“I love you the most-est. We’ cool?”

You find that in the darkness, it’s possible to find every little line and fold in his face. His eyelashes, his nose, and his lips. They’re all beautiful.

You lean your face down, giving him the softest kiss in response. Your noses brush together a bit, your soft giggle huffing through your mouth.

He kisses you back. His chest rumbles in a quiet, deep chuckle, eyes remaining closed as you pull away. You find them opening slowly, staring with a gaze that makes you feel like you’re in a movie.

“You tryna’ start sum?”

Your body goes warm at the question. Your lower half throbs, but you never knew how to…say that exactly. You adjust yourself, separating your thighs a bit as you shake your head, “No. Salem’s a light sleeper, you know that.”

You move an inch, but he’ll follow you with his eyes.

“Right. That’s why you doing allat’ movin’.”

The moon is moving away from your window, making it even darker than before. You can’t see him, but you can feel his body. His presence, his aura.

You exhale a bit, breath uneven as you say, “Go to sleep, Ony.”

His hand traces over your hip, up and down. You can feel his eyes on you, staring and searching the outlines of your body.

“You gon’ say what’s on your mind?”

It’s like he flashes in your mind all at once. His smile, his laugh, his arrogance on the field, the love he had for Salem, the glare he gave you when he—

“…Just a lil’ restless,” you say softly.

No response, nothing for a short moment. That’s when you feel your head being nudged up a bit, his lips beneath your chin, gently dragging his mouth over your neck. The feeling makes you swallow, frowning as you gently adjust yourself again.

You can feel his lips and tongue on your skin. He’s going agonizingly slow, not moving any lower than your neck, and it’s driving you crazy.

You attempt to press your hand along his jaw to halt his movements, but as you do, he finds that spot. It’s the area right under your ear, in between your neck. It makes your eyes roll, your body trembling in response. You’re unethical as you whimper, “O—Ony, I don’t wanna wake up Salem…”

He’s now on the other side of your neck, still agonizingly slow in his affection. You can feel his patience thinning, as his lips drag onto your shoulder next.

“You think you can keep quiet for me?”

That warmth in your body returns as Onyankopon lifts his face, meeting his tongue with yours, catching your lips under his mouth. You give a light gasp, pulling your face back a bit from the embarrassment of being that reactive—another unfortunate side effect that came after pregnancy.

”C’mon, Mama. Gimme’ yo’ mouth.”

You listen—even as your body shudders, whining softly with a push back against his lips, his kiss consuming you. Your mind is fuzzy at this point.

“There you fuckin’ go.”

Your lips are met with a wet sound. He’s sloppy in his kiss. His tongue moves along your own, warm thumb brushing along your cheek, dragging over your throat, up until it’s at the bottom of your tee, tugging the fabric up to place along your collarbone. The top sits right above your breasts, Onyankopon already lowering himself, sucking your brown nipples in between his lips in repetitive pops, grunting each time the soft skin hardened below his mouth.

You attempt to slow him down as you arch yourself opposite of his mouth, which travels between the dip of your chest, tracing down to the ink scattered along your stomach. This position was a terrible idea—his mouth was all over you now, hands firm and demanding, your lower body tingling.

You can sense the pressure building within your stomach which makes your breathing grow more uneasy as your whole body tries to cope, but fails with each kiss he leaves—he’s going lower, lower…

It’s as if being in complete darkness somehow made things more intimate. You can’t see him, but you can imagine his eyes on you—lustful, coaxing—he’s scooting your lower body closer to his broad shoulders, your pedicured feet dipping in the sculpted muscles of his back as he spreads your thighs open, his warm mouth re-introducing itself as he’s dragging his tongue on your ankle, leading up to sucking your toes in his mouth.

“Got a nigga needing you.”

At his admiration, you give him your whimper quietly—secretly. He knows it was there as he starts between sucking your toes, teasing, causing you almost to wince as you bite against your bottom lip—the warmth surrounds your ankle from him sucking at the arch of your foot.

You move uncomfortably in your pleasure as he pulls his tongue over the same area again—the throbbing between your legs becoming more harsh as he tugs at the curve of your foot, giving you goosebumps.

He knew you loved his mouth. Couldn’t stand it, almost. His tongue could take you to heights only sex toys could've attempted, making his mouth a formidable competition. Yet, as amazing as he made you sound—his groans, his talking pushed you farther than anything else, leaving your ears constantly ringing.

As his mouth was your guilty pleasure, your scent was his. A milky vanilla, it was like some type of aphrodisiac pheromone. He circles his tongue over your ankle before pulling it back to his shoulder, lowering himself down to meet with your inner thighs.

He’s grunting, “Always smell so muhfuckin’ good, baby.”

Another baby gasp is taken as his beard tickles along the sensitive skin near the back of your knees, forcing shivers up your spine as his tongue explores further along, his grunt dragging a jolt up the soft flesh on your legs.

Your soft sounds echoed throughout the darkness as your lower lip became a captive against your own teeth. Ony was tasting at the edge of your inner thigh now, his beard brushing against the same spot on your skin, almost predatory as he dragged his tongue across the seam.

This was dangerous territory—especially when he growled at the syllables to his name from your lips, you breathily panting, “B—baby…”

The anticipation grew larger for you by each second, inch he moved, becoming too loud to be masked anymore within the silence that enveloped the pair of you. There would soon be tears coming, you knew that.

And here they were. They form lightly in your eyes, and you hate that. You sniffle through the darkness, clasping his braided hair as you spread your legs a bit, “Ony, please…”

The desperation within those words, mixed with your softness that clung onto his fingertips made him arrogant. His hand presses between the cradle of your thighs, pulling you up to a point where his warm breath huffs against the entirety of you. He can imagine your pussy—bubblegum pink, camouflaged by the brown of your outer lips—pretty.

“You gon’ be loud?”

You press your fingers into your mouth, shaking your head in the darkness. Your body jolts as his palm effortlessly pops your ass, the skin shaking as he grunts, “Use that fuckin’ mouth, girl. ‘Know you hear me talkin’.”

You shake your head as you whimper, “Can’t, Ony. Don’t wanna wake the baby.”

It’s right as you finish that sentence. He gives your clit the softest kiss, letting his lips hold the nub in between them, savoring the tremble your body does in response. He spreads his tongue over you slowly, almost testing the ripeness, grunting, “Ooh, shit. Why this shit tastin’ like that?”

His head tilted to consume more, Ony losing himself, his chin bobbing his mouth as he’s groaning, becoming lost in what he’s doing. The back of your palm meets with your mouth, turning your face into the pillow as your eyes screw shut. They roll all at the same time, feeling your hand tremble above your face as you whine, “O—oh my g…”

Each leveled sound causes his eyes to half-lid in satisfaction, making the pitch black around you almost rotate as he goes on. You were soft. Ony pushed against you to eat you better, lifting you off his shoulders at moments just to bring you down onto his face, chasing to smother himself in your taste.

Your folds are being spread open by his tongue, clit encapsulated by the raindrops of your saliva, hood pulled back as he sucks on it abrasively—your legs are shaking.

You hold onto his hair as your chest heaves, back to panting, “S—slow baby…mmph…”

“Quit allat’. Keep it up, I’m finna’ have you cryin’ on my face.”

He never told you anything twice. Even with his words, he gives into your plea. Slightly. Ony lets off for a bit, letting you drown in his beard, before he drags his tongue back up to its peak, latching onto your clit like a pacifier.

Onyankopon takes you slow, as slow as you like now as his eyes watch yours in the pitch black. His lower face is wet, your pussy catching the mess of your arousal, coating a sheen against itself, reflecting back in Onyankopon’s facial hair.

You hated how shy he made you, as if you weren’t going to marry this man soon. You’re bolder through the darkness as you beg, “Want your tongue in me, Ony…”

His tongue draws circles around your opening, your head coming up to watch, even if you can’t see. He’s pushing his tongue inside. He curses at the twitch in response—God. Your walls quiver, sucking around the thickness, molding in response to the texture of his tongue.

He could linger here all night—he’s moaning, overshadowing your whine of pleasure, his mouth plunging back down for yet another stroke into your pussy, arousal gushing around his lips, spurring fleshy sounds as your eyes roll back, “Fuck,” you almost sob, “Fuck…”

“Takin’ my mouth like some muhfuckin’ dick. Nasty ass bitch, just fuckin’ my face,” he can’t stop moaning to you, “Keep fuckin’ me.”

He continuously brings you onto the tip of his tongue, thrusting into your heat as if trying to get you to flood. He eats, slurping up your spillage like a dessert, a reward he could argue is better than his championship—he deserved you.

It’s as if the both of you are addicts—feening for another fix. He lifts himself from between your legs as he crashes his mouth against yours, able to taste yourself off his tongue.

You’re sloppy as you kiss each other, Onyankopon’s large frame hovered over yours in an almost terrifying manner, locking your legs back along his shoulders. His tip smacks along your clit, the weight of his length always leaving a presence against your pussy, even when it was gone, even when he was away.

This was always the most difficult part for you. But you were so wet, you hoped you wouldn’t do much complaining today. You pull your mouth back as you press your forehead against his, hand along the side of his face, breathing slightly into his mouth. He digs his forehead into yours as he takes one of your hands above your head, intertwining your fingers as his other is holding up your leg—Onyankopon dropping in, stretching your folds as he slowly sinks into your pussy. Your eyebrows furrow a bit, holding onto his face tighter. Your breathing is more labored than before, and the moment you feel him curving for your cervix, you gasp, pulling his face closer to yours, a sloppy moan rushing from your mouth, thighs trembling at the discomforting pleasure.

“Gimme’ my fuckin’ pussy,” he grunts, “This shit mine, actin’ like it’s not,” Another ravenous pull that caused him to grunt as he slowly bucked his hips—stretching your folds until he bottomed out, sinking in against your walls fully.

Your moans were chaotic. You found yourself reaching for his shoulder, digging your nails into the skin as he lowered himself more, growling, “Better gimme’ that shit,” tears within your eyes as you whined, eyes rolling back as you relaxed for him.

You had no choice but to let him get this deep into your stomach. You’re trying to tuck your face in your shoulder, his strokes long, the slowness making it all the more evil.

He had a hold of your hips, almost cradling you within his hold, slamming you down onto his dick. As much as you said he loomed above you, Onyankopon knew he encased you. He could smell his son off of you sometimes—just another reason to bring his hands underneath you—burying himself deeper, lips near yours, sucking against your chin in a feigned fashion.

You gave a pathetic cry, pulling him even closer, “Onyyy…”

“You got my dick in yo’ fuckin’ stomach,” he teases breathily above your lips, his fingers crusading against the plump flesh on your thighs, coaxing you to open wider for his greed.

“You feelin’ it, huh?”

He won’t stop talking. It’s because he knows he has you right where he wants you. You’re quieter than he’d want you to be, but it’s because you’re cumming, nearly pushing his dick out as you feel yourself coating his entire length. Your eyes haven’t resurfaced to the darkness as they’re still in the back of your head.

You pout, “You’re so fucking deep, Ony…I love you,” you promise to him, sniffling as you listen to your skin slapping against his, “I love you…”

“I love you too, Mama. Keep talkin’ to me.”

He didn’t care if you were already this stupidly drunk because of him. He needed you lost.

If you thought this was the hardest part of his offense, wait until he flipped you onto your side—your knees close to your chest, Onyankopon’s left arm holding your hip, beginning to tug you down onto his length, ass ricocheting off his abdomen. Your body feels exhausted, your curls masking over your face, unable to have the energy to move them as you could only take his strokes.

“You hear me?” He repeats, arrogance feigning, “A nigga love you. You’ gon’ give me another baby?”

Your eyes are rolled back for the umpteenth time, turning your head a bit to feel him from the darkness, frowning from how much pleasure fills your body.

You can’t help but ramble back to him, “Gonna give you another baby, Ony. Promise.”

His hips are smacking into your ass—hard, hard enough to send ripples of pleasure that course down to your ankles.

“You gon’ marry me?” He questions, sliding his hand up to reach your throat, using that as leverage to drop you down onto him, the connecting skin wet, slapping together in a symphony, “Ain’t finna’ give my pussy away?”

“This your pussy, Daddy,” you whimper to him, cheeks flushed, knowing he had you talking crazy. You hold onto the pillow below your head, “Gonna’ marry you, baby…so proud of you…”

“You proud of me, baby?”

“Mhm,” you whine softly in response, to which he replies,”I’m proud of you, Mama. Takin’ dick like a fuckin’ pro. Gon’ be a pretty ass momma all over again. Gon’ give me a lil’ girl.”

His words, the love he carries—being a father, being a husband, being a man. You wanna give him as many babies he wants. You want to spend the rest of your life with him.

You sob, “Cum in me. Cum in me, Ony…”

"Quit beggin' for my cum. Take it.”

He groans, speeding up, stretching you so wide with every hit against your cervix, even feeling that faint pain doesn't ruin the waves building as you cum again. He pushes himself forward, pulling your hair out your face as he nastily kisses you, moaning, an action filled with affection, lust, love.

The pleasure you give to each other is like no other this time around. It might’ve gotten so good—too good. He hovers atop of you, breathing heavily as you feel that familiar warmth fill your walls.

You pull his mouth closer as you repeat for the thousandth time, “I love you, Onyankopon.”

He’ll kiss you, a bit harder in response. His words are mumbled over your lips.

“I love you so much fuckin’ more, girl.”

When you go to return his kiss one more time—the baby monitor screeches—Salem’s cry interrupting you both. You press your forehead against his chest, giggling softly.

Onyankopon lets out a small sigh, chuckling in response to your amusement.

“I got him, Mama. Gon’ head and go to sleep.”

He finally turns on the lamp beside the bathroom, planting another kiss along your forehead before standing from the bed.

You lay your head along the pillow as you watch him search for his basketball shorts, unable to help but watch his bare body move around the room, back muscles flexing naturally.

When he turns back as he feels your eyes, you drop them directly to his dick as you innocently question, “What?”

Onyankopon smirks, amused at your lingering gaze—pulling on his shorts, concealing his lower half.

“I thought you was’ tired? I ain’t do my job?”

You were exhausted, but your tired daze had you smiling at him, and maybe you were still a little horny.

You give him those eyes, “I am. I’m just watching.”

“You gon’ keep getting pregnant with them’ eyes. You’ need another round? Cause we can really have a Super Bowl: Champions of Dick—“

“No, jesus. I’m going to sleep. Go feed my child.”

“I ain’t got no milk in my chest!”

“Onyankopon.”

“Aight, aight. You love me?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Positive?”

“Onyankopon!”

“Aight, lawd. Bye.”

#ony x black reader #onyakapon #onyankopon smut #onyankopon x you #onyankopon fluff #onyankopon x black reader smut #ony smut #onyankapon #onyankopon x black y/n #onyankopon x reader #aot onyankopon #aot smut #aot

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ssahotchnerr · 2 days ago

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Could you maybe write another little blurb where the bau team calls reader and hotch mom and dad? That is like one of my favorite things in the world!!

parental units

i'm so glad you asked <3 cw; fem bau!reader, established relationship, teasing from the team (lovingly), aaron and reader are down bad for each other, your usual (brief) cm violence

"Why do they always need to run?" Panting, you loosened your vest as Aaron handed the unsub off to one of the officers. "Why can't they just willingly turn themselves in."

"You're awfully quick for someone who despises cardio." Aaron teased as he assisted you, undoing your last velcro strap. Same as you, he was normalizing his breathing, but for his own reasons.

The unsub had attempted to escape; you bolted right after him into the dense trees, fleeing into the darkness.

You can hold your own; strongly, confidently, and Aaron knew that. He didn't worry about you in that regard, whereas he worried for you. However, you were out of his line of sight for a good five minutes, the sound of a stray gunshot nearly causing his heart to give out.

Thankfully, the unsub had missed you and hit a tree instead. He and Morgan caught up as you had the guy shoved into it, cuffing him. A few scraps were present on your face to show for your hustle through the trees, but you were unfazed; it was as if you hadn't been shot at at all. Contrary to Aaron, still regaining his composure.

"Oh please," you shook your head, holding onto your side. Your eyes held a playful glint, "I stay in shape just to keep up with you."

His lips formed into an easy smile. "Is that so?"

You hummed softly in return, stealing a second to check him out. "You're very... enduring."

"I aim to please, sweetheart. Over and over again."

You blushed as Aaron laughed lightly, playfully bumping his shoulder into yours. Behind you, the sound of crunching leaves halted, as did the following footsteps.

"The two of you couldn't have waited what, five? Ten more minutes?" Derek groaned, his nose scrunched in disgust as his hand stretched outward. "The guy isn't even in the cruiser yet, and you're already all over each other?" With a subtle shake of his head, mischief in his tone, "this is why we drive separately."

You snorted a laugh. "What?"

"No one wants to ride with Mom and Dad." He shrugged, failing at keeping a smile at bay. "We prefer the cool car."

"You all cram into the SUV... to avoid us." Aaron's expression quirked, his eyebrows lightly furrowing. "Do we need to have a discussion about road safety?"

"The cool car?" Priorities. Slight offense was intertwined with your amusement, your gaze switching between the two of them. "We're cool."

Another famous Derek Morgan grin. "Eh, that's debatable."

"Emily willingly came with us though." You protested, but it was beginning to make sense. The reluctance, the way they all nearly fought over seats, the newly formed rule when applicable: Hotchners always ride together. "So we can't be that bad, right?"

By now you have reached the others, illuminated by the red and blue flashing lights.

"Drew the short straw this time." Emily shrugged, her lips pulling up mischievously. It was clear they were just loving this. "Loser rides with the parents."

Your mouth dropped open, a surprised laugh escaping you. "Seriously?"

"We love you both. We do," Dave reassured, holding his hands up in surrender. "But I already get carsick. Don’t need to add witnessing your foreplay on top of it."

Aaron's brows drew into a line once more, humorously crossing his arms. "Maybe you just have a weak stomach."

Spencer perked up, inputting, "You know, carsickness is-"

"No need for fancy, genius scientifics here Reid." Emily offered you a smirk, feigning a gag once Aaron's hand habitually found the small of your back. You don't think he even realized he'd done so. "They're gross."

"In that case," Aaron rolled his eyes, his brows relaxing as they lifted playfully - it was your turn to poke fun. "My wife and I will be getting into our SUV now. Go ahead, draw your straws. And if whoever loses has a problem with us showing our affection, they can feel free to walk back."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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httpsserene · 6 months ago

Text

𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 - 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ saw this tt about how these two toddlers shared their dad's notoriously rough bed head and this post when i opened tumblr last night and had to write smth for it! sorry, for the baby content 💀 i'll get back to writing y'alls requests now xxx

the careful messiness of brunette curls has been charles’s signature hairstyle for ages. it suits him, and when paired with his dimples and green eyes—it’s no wonder why every italian and monegasque prays for his success on sundays. well, maybe bleeding rosso corsa and winning two championships driving the famed red car are the proper reasons.

if only they knew that the artful styling of his curls is nowhere to be found after he sleeps. when he wakes, his hair is in absolute disarray—the deep brown ringlets are clumped together as they stick straight upwards and yet they manage to point in every direction possible.

when you first moved in with charles, you convinced him to buy a satin pillowcase to combat the bed head. it didn’t help, and neither did the bonnets you tried to have him wear. no matter if the ties were knotted, buttoned, or even velcro-strapped tightly, the bonnet would end up by the foot of the bed and his hair was in it’s usual disordered state by the early morning hours.

so, your morning routine begins with taming charles’s severe case of bed head. he awakens slowly as your fingertips gently untangle the deep brown ringlets, moaning lowly and nudging his head into your hand like a large cat when your nails glide along his scalp. you carefully guide each curl back into their assigned positions, tutting disapprovingly at the one strand that never seems to stay in it’s place.

charles’s chest shakes with a chuckle at your slight irritation and he shifts to meet your eyes, tenderly directing your hands away from his now orderly hair to his lips, pressing kisses to your fingertips before pulling you forward to cuddle into his chest.

you didn’t expect to have to deal with more than one head of messy hair. unfortunately, it seems like your daughter inherited her father’s bed head.

your mornings now consist of charles climbing out of bed at the first crackle of noise through the baby monitor, rushing to scoop the 9-month-old from her nursery and have her join the two of you in bed. he crosses the doorway with your daughter cradled to his bare chest and leo yipping at his feet—she stares up at at him, a perfect reflection of the sea green pools of his eyes, the absence of a bonnet, and the chaotic sprawl of his brunette curls. you’ve never been bothered with the fact that she’s an exact replica of her father, as some tried to tease that your genes didn’t do more than deepen her complexion. however, you always joke back that it means that she’s been blessed to be as beautiful as charles is.

she coos and babbles up at her father and he dutifully responds in french as if he understands her baby gibberish. he sits in bed with her on his lap and she beams, her little arms and grabby hands reaching towards you. you smile back widely, stealing her from his lap and greeting your babygirl with a flurry of kisses pressed all over her cute little face. her giggles ring through the air as you pull backwards to watch her laugh and, there’s another trait she shares with her father; deep dimples decorate her chubby cheeks and you can’t help but press your thumb into them with adoration.

charles picks up his first baby, plopping the mini dachshund in bed, and leo bounds forward to press his own kisses to your daughter’s socked feet.

addressing charles’s wild bed head will have to wait as you settle her back in his lap. you rest your head on his shoulder, apologizing for interrupting the clearly important conversation the two were having. you start fixing the jumbled ringlets on her scalp with the softest touch of your digits and she nuzzles up into your hand the same way her father does. he continues from were he left off, asking your daughter if she thinks a one-stop strategy is too ambitious for the next race and she babbles back to him in reply.

charles nods in agreement, promising her that regardless of a one-stop or two-stop, he’ll bring back his third championship trophy for her.

#charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader #charles leclerc x black!reader #f1 x black!reader #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 fic #serene's chapters.#⋆⭒˚｡⋆. series special: formula 1 #♡ ༘*.ﾟ love interest: cl.

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emilys-bangs · 4 months ago

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baby, if your love is in trouble | e.p

Tags: emt!reader, flirty!emily, blood and injury, established relationship (we won’t question how they went from point A to point B), canon typical injuries, quite a few mentions of blood in this one oops, medical inaccuracies, use of petnames, reader is pissed but emily’s a smooth mf with big brown eyes

Summary: You get called to a scene and find your girlfriend—yet again—all bruised and bloody. She flirts, you don’t reciprocate. Requested here.

Word count: 2.2k

Part one (you don’t have to read it to read this part)

When you arrive at an abandoned warehouse, the last person you expect to see is your girlfriend. The surprise is muffled; you were aware this wasn’t outside the realm of possibility once Emily told you two weeks ago that the unsub they’re hunting is local.

Even in a messy, crowded scene like this, crawling with FBI agents and police officers alike, it’s easy to spot her amidst the chaos. She doesn’t notice you, leaning against a cop car and shying away from a lanky guy who reaches out with his finger, attempting to prod at her bleeding nose. A crumpled tissue is held between her fingers; it’s soaked through with blood, barely an inch of it unblemished white. Emily doesn’t seem to mind it as she glares and avoids the guy’s touch, swatting at his hand with hers.

“It’s not broken, Reid.”

“I’m just saying, it looks a little swollen—”

“Emily.” You say unthinkingly. She turns, her ponytail swishing as her eyes meet yours.

The first thing you notice is the bruises on her face, a violent galaxy etched around her right eye. The cut on her cheekbone, dried blood crusted around the skin you just recently discovered you loved to kiss. Not the way her brows lift in surprise, her mouth parting to breathe out your name.

“Hi,” she says. Her voice is muffled into the hand holding the tissue.

You can’t reply for the nausea in your throat. Emily’s coworker is frowning at you, no doubt mentally tearing this interaction to pieces. It kickstarts your brain into action, practicality forcing its way over the queasy roiling in your stomach.

“Are you hurt?” You ask him.

He shakes his head.

Jaw set, you meet Emily’s eyes and try to pretend they’re anyone else’s. “Come with me, please.” You say tightly, one hand listlessly extended to her body.

This time, it’s easier to wrestle her into the back of the rig. Emily wordlessly shoves off of the cop car and lets your fingers grip her elbow, lets you drag her to the ambulance and force her to sit on the hard metal ledge. The heat of her eyes follows you as you get your kit, burning holes into your face when you set it down next to her and pinch the sodden tissue she’s holding. Her hand falls away, exposing the bottom half of her face; a blooming cut on her lip stains her chin red.

Your mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Hi,” Emily says again, softly. “I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here.” She tilts her head to meet your gaze.

You don’t let her.

She exhales a low sigh. You ignore it as you toss away the bloodied tissue and scan her face, surveying the damage but not settling on the near magnetic pull of her eyes. What you find is harrowing: bruises on her temple and brow, a black eye, a cut on her cheek. They’re quickly darkening into deep reds and purples, visciously marring her ivory skin. Oh, and not to forget her bloody nose and split lip. Her face is a kaleidoscope of color.

Jesus.

“What happened?” You ask, reaching for the straps of her kevlar. Velcro separates, screeching as you rip the wretched vest off of her body. Shoulders, hips; you free her, then toss it carelessly into the ambulance.

“Can I get a hi first?” Emily retorts tiredly. You finally meet her eyes, the weight of them a physical blow to your gut. The black eye doesn’t help. “Hi?” Her fingertips skim yours.

You swallow thickly. Grab her hand, squeeze. “Hi.” You say back.

A smile flickers over Emily’s face. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m okay, I just got a little banged up.”

A little.

Your lips purse. “What happened?”

Emily laces her fingers through yours. You need to pull away, but you can’t help the way your shoulders loosen under her touch. Her skin is warm, thumb skating over the back of your hand with her head ducked.

“Doesn’t matter.” She murmurs.

“Emily.” You take your hand back. The movement isn’t quite so gentle; Emily’s brows dip into a frown as she winces, a low curse escaping past her lips. “What?” You demand. Taking her hand again—carefully—your eyes travel until you find a dampness on her shirt sleeve, the blood almost invisible against the navy blue fabric. You cut it off to expose a long cut, the width of her arm, just above her elbow. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, most of it staunched into her shirt.

Nausea stirs again.

Your jaw is tightly set as you let go of Emily’s arm and snap on a pair of gloves, eyes fixed on your hands and the forceful sting of the elastic. If you look up, if you find the face of the woman you’re half in love with rather than some nameless stranger’s face, you’ll fucking lose it. Already your breathing is shallow, not enough oxygen filling your lungs as you try your best not to breathe in the scent of Emily’s blood.

“Hey,” she says quietly. You let the silence answer as you clean around her cut. It looks deep, deeper than you can manage, but at least it’s clean. Emily’s ragged inhale sours your mouth when you place pressure on it, stopping the flow. Blood blooms on the gauze, and—maddeningly—she still persists. “I’ll be home tonight.” Her voice is only slightly choked. “All on my lonesome. Would you like to keep me company?”

There’s a few things you’d like to do to her right now. You voice none of them.

When you’re certain the bleeding has stopped you grab a roll of gauze, wrap it around her arm. “We could order pizza. Get that cheese crust you like.” The first layer dampens; the second doesn’t. Neither does the third, but you still wrap another layer for good measure.

A low sigh tickles your ear.

“I miss you,” Emily says, velvet soft.

Work had gotten in the way more than usual these past few days, both yours and hers. You missed her too, more than you think is in any way logical, but you can’t rise to her flirtations when she’s half beaten and bloody. Just the sight of the bruises on her pale face turns your stomach.

You snip the gauze and tuck the end under the layers. Her shirt is in tatters now; you don’t linger on the fact that it was one of your favorites on her.

“It’ll probably need stitches,” you lift your gaze from the bandages around her arm and grab another antiseptic wipe. You don’t mean to catch her eyes. It’s accidental, a stupid move that freezes you in place, stops your hand from meeting the cut on her cheekbone.

Her pupils are blown wide with adrenaline, the black carving out her irises until all that’s left is thin brown rings. And still they’re captivating. Emily shakes her head, tongue darting over her lip. “Honey, talk to me.” She says desperately.

You exhale a short breath through your nose. “What do you want me to say?” You murmur, dropping your eyes from hers and focusing your attention on cleaning her wound. The skin scrunches beneath your touch as she winces; guilt stabs you in the chest. Your heartbeat quickens, the pace of it making your hands shake. Briefly, ever so briefly, your eyes fall closed.

You can’t do this. Fuck, you can’t, not when it’s her.

“I already asked you what happened and you didn’t answer.” You toss the wipe away. Looking down, you take a moment to breathe in before grabbing the antiseptic ointment. She’s fine now, you try to remind yourself. Mostly. At least she’s in one piece.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.” Emily says. Her fingers find your chin; she pinches it gently and tilts your face up, to her tentative smile. It tugs at the cut in her lip. “I’m fine now.”

You can’t tell if it’s profiling or if she can genuinely read your mind.

An exasperated breath parts your lips. “You have a skewed definition of fine.” You huff, dabbing ointment on her cut. Emily’s lashes flutter closed, a frown digging its way between her brows. You bite down on your lips, immediately hating yourself. “Hurts?” You ask quietly.

“Mmm,” she doesn’t verbally confirm nor deny. It’s answer enough. By the time you peel a bandage and are placing it over her cheek she’s opened her eyes. “Maybe you can kiss it better?”

“You’re bleeding.” You say flatly.

“Babe,” she murmurs, frowning as if you’re being unreasonable, “don’t be like that.”

Her too calm tone sparks fire in your blood.

“Like what?” You bite out. “Like someone whose girlfriend is beaten and bloody because of god knows what trouble she was in? How exactly do you want me to act, Emily?”

“Girlfriend?”

You falter. “W-What?”

Emily grins stupidly. “You called me your girlfriend.” Her eyes glitter.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It knocks over the guilt, the nausea, swarms of butterflies crowding your lungs. God, what are you, fifteen?

You huff out a flustered breath. “Well, aren’t you?”

You’d had this conversation weeks ago. Not over an intimate, candlelit dinner; rather Emily had found romance in the early morning light of her bedroom. Body warm over yours, she’d grabbed your sleep-pliant hand, murmured into your knuckles if you would be her partner, let her be your girlfriend.

It had taken a few slow blinks of your eyes, chasing the blurriness from your vision and sharpening her tentative silhouette, before you’d said yes.

“I am. It’s just the first time you’ve called me that.” Emily’s arm goes around your waist. Her smile is transcendent and bloody.

“Don’t try to distract me,” you rub at your temple. “I’m still mad.”

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. Her fingers squeeze your side. “Cross my heart.”

The childish promise makes you huff out a humorless laugh. It thins out quickly, dissolves into the air between the two of you.

“You can’t look me in the eye and honestly tell me you’re fine, Emily.” You sigh. This close, you can’t help yourself. You gently cup her jaw, your thumb just shy of the broken skin at her bottom lip. It’s wet with fresh blood, the cut deepening with her careless smiles.

Emily gives you another one. You internally wince, wishing she’d stop. “Okay, well, I’m banged up.” She murmurs, leaning into your hand and blinking long lashes at you. “At least I have you to stitch me back together.”

Stupidly, thoughtlessly, your heart jumps. With no regard for the violence on Emily’s face or the complete lack of privacy of the scene around you. It’s basically your first meeting, reincarnated.

“And if I wasn’t here?” You mumble half heartedly, beginning to crack under her persistent flirtations. “Do you flirt with all your EMT’s or just me?”

Emily gives you a soft smile, a dizzying flash of dimples. “Just you, sweetheart. Only ever you.”

The saccharine drip of her voice only makes you feel more like shit. Here she is, actually, physically hurting, and taking the brunt of your sour attitude because you couldn’t stand seeing it for yourself. You don’t know how she wipes the pain almost clear from her voice, how she can brave injuries that make you squirm at the thought of bearing them yourself, but somewhere beneath all the worry, there’s awe.

“That’s reassuring,” you say lamely. You give her fingers a squeeze, attempting to convey what your dry tone can’t as you lean away. “Just please don’t get so banged up next time.” Reaching for another patch of gauze, you gently press it to her bottom lip. Her knee bumps into yours. “You do already have my attention, y’know.”

A whole lot of it. Who are you kidding, probably all of it is hers.

Emily tucks the gauze into the corner of her mouth. “Like to have it at all times.” She mumbles.

You shake your head, breathing out a slow breath through your nose as the corner of her lip turns up. The ring of bruises around her eye has darkened into purple, capillaries bursting in blooms to chase away the unblemished expanse of her skin. It’s a terrible contrast, unmistakably stark and dripping violence. Still, you try your best not to shy away from her gaze.

“Will you come home with me?” Emily asks again.

You’re nodding before you know it. “Yeah, baby. Is that okay?” It’s a miracle she still wants you around after your wretched demeanor.

“That’s a stupid question, Y/N.” She says, so bluntly a laugh is forced from your lungs. It bubbles past your lips, making Emily’s smile stretch into a beam.

“Don’t fucking do that,” you scold, grimacing when fresh blood soaks the bandage. “God, you’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot girlfriend.”

It’s no use trying to staunch the blood. Her grin is so wide you discard the gauze and reach for her jaw instead of another one.

When you finally kiss her, the metallic taste of her blood flooding your mouth, you know you’re in too deep.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights @professorsapphic

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #fic #divider by saradika #emt!reader

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smutstationchoochoo · 2 years ago

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Desperate

COD Men x FemReader

Hear me out: a sex pollen fic where reader isn’t affected but he is and he is gone.

Word count: ~3.6k

A/N: It’s just the poorly written sex pollen drabble of my dreams, it’s fuck or die lads. Insert your favorite COD man here. Please forgive me for any spelling/grammar mistakes and my complete lack of knowledge regarding military things, all I know is that these men are hot and I love them.

Warnings: sex pollen, unprotected PIV (wrap it up), overstimulation, dubious consent (consent is sexy folks)

Banner credit: @cafekitsune

You all had been briefed at 0200. The flight to Berlin left at 0300 where the team would be infiltrating a terrorist hideout, a suspected manufacturing site for a new chemical agent. You were told that as long as you didn’t ingest it, you would be fine.

The fact that it had been made airborne was not in the fucking briefing.

The team had been split into pairs, you and he took the North side of the suspected warehouse. The size of it should have tipped you all off. Everything was running smoothly until 3 combatants had come from the door at the end of the corridor. He called for cover and ran ahead. You dropped two before he even got a stride in. The other he disarmed in seconds and then with a deafening crack, both men slammed through a door and into the resulting room. A brief struggle then silence. You heard him start to call the ok, his voice in the comm sounding clearer than earlier, then a noise, a pop, and the sound of air. You froze, watching a gas spill from the open door and dissipate immediately. Just when you started moving again, a growling, “Don’t,” tore through the comm. Then, the sound of ripping Velcro and something hard (his helmet you realized with a sickening drop) hitting the concrete floor echoed out to you. Soft murmurs that grew into angry outbursts of fuck fuck fuck transformed into one that became a groan of what sounded like complete and utter pain. You didn’t even have to think, the severity of the situation settled in. “It’s a gas,” you barked into the comms, “Northside hit, need medevac in 30, going dark.” You waited for confirmation, seconds after getting it and receiving news that the warehouse was almost cleared, you went to find him.

You knew what it did, you all did. Jokes had been made, smirks shared, but you all knew how bad it was. You weren’t even close to prepared. He was sitting against the far wall or rather pressed into it using it to keep his now shaking frame upright, gear strewn around the room, combatant on your immediate left with a mask (his mask, the masks you all were wearing just in fucking case) gripped in a dead hand, an empty canister mockingly sitting in the middle of the room.

You gripped the combatant by his legs and dragged him to the hall, before slamming the door shut upon reentry and grabbing a near chair to jam the door. You immediately began stripping yourself of your outer tactical gear until you both matched in only your boots, pants, and base shirts and then you turned your attention to him. Now kneeling by his side you took him in, looking for any other injuries noting nothing serious. That almost made you laugh with relief until you saw the front of his pants and him frantically palming the growing outline. You swallowed and quickly looked at his face shocked back to the reality of the current situation. The usually stoic, always larger than life, incredibly strong man in front of you was reduced to tears dripping from his now blown and hazy eyes, falling down flushed cheeks and landing on the front of his shirt that clung to his hyperventilating chest. You knew he had been shot, stabbed often, and left for dead a time or two, but this…

Shiny and new neurotoxin, you remembered the brief, attacks the nervous system, causing the mark to feel intense arousal and as if they have been lit on fire, specially formulated not only to cause pain but a complete and utter breakdown of will as victims often experience hallucinations and loss of self. If left in the system, it raises the core temperature until convulsions set in, and then heart attack occurs. Do not touch it.

No one had to ask how it was worked out of the system. Then again, they all believed they were too smart to touch the shit. Couldn’t do much about breathing it in when your mask was ripped from your face though.

Your hand pressed to his slick forehead now radiating heat, and feeling as if it could burn you like an open flame. At the touch of your blessedly cool hand, he hissed a low fuck through his gritted teeth, keening into your touch. You swallowed, hand tilting his cheek to look up at you when you asked, “Can I help?” His hair was sticking up at all angles from the helmet being hastily pulled from his head, and he looked up at you and gave one weak nod, “Please.”

Upon looking at the desperation pooling in those dark eyes (those eyes you often were caught staring at) any small reservations evaporated from your body under his burning gaze. You swiftly reached out, mercifully helping him escape from the now too-tight pants, the bite of his zipper. The moment your skin brushed against the head of him he was bucking up against it. You had to reach the other hand out to steady yourself against his shoulder, another touch that jutted his hips and had him twitching into your grip.

“Is- is this helping?” you croaked out, struggling to swallow, struggling to contain the wave of arousal that was threatening to course through you. He nodded, chin slack against his chest as he watched your hand work against him, moving up and down against the veins seemingly trying to break through his skin. No thoughts went through his mind other than the knowledge that you were jerking him off and that it felt so good that he could cry in relief. But then something shuddered within him, something loud and fast like a wildfire, burning just as much, and hot thick ropes of cum spilled over your hand. He couldn’t even cry out, it happened so fast. His breath was coming out in loud pants, when a new thought, the thought that he had just come in maybe thirty seconds flashed through his mind but it was quickly replaced with the horrible realization that the feeling of being on fire wasn’t going away. It was getting worse, out of control, containment measures failed. At this, he let out a sob as his hips moved of their own volition into your still soothing grip. It wasn’t enough, he knew, you knew, it wasn’t enough.

You stood, and he whimpered at the loss of your touch but all sound stopped in his throat when he watched you decisively unzip your pants and pull them down to your ankles underwear included, kicking off a boot, and one pant leg. When you straddled his lap he desperately pulled you down onto him, your exposed core grinding down where he wanted you, where he fucking needed you, that’s when he began to talk. Begging you to help him, saying that he’s sorry over and over, that he needs your help, incoherent babbling from a breaking mind, please it hurts so bad, I-I don’t, I can’t- fuck, I need you... All cool, calm, collectedness burnt to fucking ash. Just a man reduced to pure longing and want. A longing and want that might be what was threatening to kill him, not the toxin, just the build up over the days, weeks, months he had been around you threatening to crush him. He almost wants to die, this was never how it was supposed to be. He wanted it to be good for you, you deserve that, you deserve better, he could have given you better-

But now what was he? A heaving chest under a sweat soaked shirt beneath eyes that watch you like some feral animal. Hands wanting to claw at the clothing now so heavy, hot, and itchy against his burning skin, but instead were gripping onto your hips like it’s going to save him from burning to a crisp. The broken moans tearing their way from his throat when you line up his painfully hard cock to your entrance makes you throb, and then his choking cry as you slide down on him punches the air from your chest.

“Does this feel ok?” you panted out after a moment, struggling, trying not to drown in the pleasure of him stretching you, filling you. He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t even nod. His forehead falling to your shoulder in utter relief, mouth dropped open as he repeats your name over and over like an apology, a thanks, a goddamned prayer. How all he can do is sit there on the floor of some warehouse, back against a wall, the only thing resembling his usual strength is that ironclad hold he has on your hips as he helps you drag yourself up, then, accompanied by the tortuously obscene sounds of your wetness, back down. Brokenly pleading with you not to stop, don’t stop, fuck p-please don’t stop. You feel like molten heaven against his cock, your moans like angels (or devils, he’s too far gone to care at this point) singing through the blood rushing in his ears. One of your hands again steadies yourself on his shoulder, the other steadying him, an anchor point, with your achingly gentle hold on the nape of his damp neck (so gentle that it breaks his fucking heart, he wanted to give you more, you deserved more) as you ride him. Your hips rock once more, twice more, before his body seizes up with electricity that ricochets up his spinal cord and reverberates through his skull. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your hips, teeth grinding and eyes slamming shut, as he releases inside of you with a shattered cry. The sound of you gasping, now clutching, raking your fingers into him, has his hips continuing their rutting up into you, pushing his cum as deep as he can within your walls.

He stills for 10 seconds at most, panting breaths thunderous between you two, before pulling you into his chest, his hips slamming up into you, hard and hot as if he didn’t just fuck you until he could see every neuron firing behind his eyes. His hot open mouth finds your shocked one in a perfectly surprised “o,” more apologies pushing from his lungs and into yours between loud wet kisses as he listens (is blessed with thank you God) to you beginning to come apart. You couldn’t help it, as you ground down into his thrusts, even though you knew the threatening climax was going to be terrifying. Your breathing was ragged now as well, the air becoming harder and harder to drag into your lungs in between you cursing and moaning, and then- fucking hell- you’re at the precipice. Before you can even utter a syllable you are being flung over the edge. The pleasure rips through you, waves breaking against the rocky shore, with such intensity that it hurts, causing you to dig your nails into his skin, and bright spots to dance behind your closed eyes while the distant feeling of wetness registers from between you two. He explodes again with a gasp, feels you clench around him like a vice, his name, his real name, forcing its way from inside you and into his mouth with every pulse and it tastes so so good that he can’t stop, he never wants to stop, just filling you up until it drips from you, filling you with him because you’re his, his. Even when you both whimper and shudder with overstimulation, his arms shaking in their grip around you, he can only press his forehead to yours, rolling it desperately, as he begs for your forgiveness. I can’t stop, it won’t stop, I’ll make it good, please next time I’ll make it good.

“It is good,” you whisper to him with hitched breath from each thrust, trying to reassure him, “It’s ok, it’s ok.” You don’t know if he can hear you, his eyes are wild and don’t seem to even register that you are actually on top of him, that he’s inside of you, that he has made you yell out his name over and over and over. You don’t think he even knows what he is saying. Next time.

His own voice comes to him from somewhere far away, through the flames licking at his mind, please- fuckin’ hell please, just a little more- I just need one more, I need you, please don’t stop, I don’t want to stop nearly unrecognizable as he comes inside you again and again and again.

It isn’t until the medevac came and he was sedated that what just happened began to sink in. For a week, a fucking week, he’s in critical condition. No one talks about it, at least not in the way you all did before this. You saved him, you’re told. You don’t want to think about it, if you think about it then you think about how good it felt, how fucked it is that it felt good, and how everything is gone. If you think about all he said, you’d overthink, give meaning where there was none. He probably won’t be able to look at you anymore. You went to see him that first day. You sat next to him for mere minutes before bolting, the fear of him waking up and looking at you with disgust, telling you to get out in that icy voice you knew so well, sent you running straight to the mats to train until you wanted to scream. That’s all you did now, and that was where you decided you would stay until you died. That is until someone came and found you, told you he was awake, and that he had asked for you. The whole walk to the infirmary had adrenaline coursing through you, you wanted to run, to fight, to freeze right there in the hall and never move another fucking muscle. The thought of losing him, him being there but not wanting to be near you anymore made you feel sick. It had been so long, so long of repressing those feelings that flared in your chest when he smiled at you during sparring, the feeling of him seated next to you on a flight, his eyes catching yours just so you could stay with him. Well, you thought with dripping ire, that had literally and figuratively been fucked now hadn’t it?

You knocked, heard his gruff voice, and entered. You stopped dead in your tracks three steps into the room after mistakenly looking up and finding him staring at you from where he sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed, looking like he was about to head out on another call. You were desperately trying not to shake but your hands gave you away. You could take on a man twice your size without batting an eye but this?- you were terrified.

The moment you walked into the room, all his time that morning when he first woke thinking about what he would say to you, how he could face you, was knocked from his mind. You had saved his life. He never wanted that. He wanted to give it to you, it was yours after all. He didn’t know when it had become yours, every single part of him, but if he had to wager a guess it was the moment he found you in his life. And it might all be ruined.

The memories had started coming to him immediately after waking up, almost more clear and real now than in the moment. It jolted him awake so hard that the attending ran into the room for fear that his hammering heart had in fact given out. Once his breathing had calmed a little, he tried to sift through the fog. His recall of the smell of you, the arousal dripping from between your legs, mixed with your sweat and the familiar scent of your grapefruit and ginger shampoo, nearly pulled a groan from his chest. The soft touch of your hands, cool and strong against the fire that spread through his blood, had brought him back. The feeling of you breaking, the soft whines, the way you said his name… the things he had said, he couldn’t just shut the fuck up could he?

He had to bring his hands up to cover his eyes, willing the images to go away, just for a moment, please, he just needed some time, if only he had time- next time. Next time, he had told you. A desperate promise, a reassurance, trying to tell you that it wasn’t just the chemical coursing through him, it wasn’t just his hijacked nervous system. Did she know? Did she understand? That’s when he asked for you, without thinking, just wanting to see you, to explain. He had never been good with words unless it was biting sarcasm across comms or coolly delivering ultimatums in an interrogation. Then he remembered, the thing that sent his heart barreling through his chest for the second time, the machine next to him screaming. It is good, you had said, it’s ok, it’s ok, you had whispered.

He ripped the monitors off his chest, ignoring the doctor's protestations, found the clothes that had been brought in for him and got dressed. Now that you were standing here before him he was unsure. You looked scared, and he could count on one hand all the times he had seen you in such a state.

His staring was unnerving, more unnerving than if he had shouted, yelled, grabbed you, anything but this, this was fucking torture. You had to leave, just get off base, go somewhere, anywhere but here- the sudden sound of your name shook you from the reverie. The tone had your eyes finding his immediately.

He stayed seated, scared that if he stood, if he made his way to you, you would run, and you both knew that you were much quicker than him. If you ran, if you left, he would never catch up. Only when his knuckles began to ache did he realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the mattress in an effort to keep himself there. It was hard to look at you and not remember the way you had looked when you pressed your hand to his forehead, when you had thrown your head back in pleasure, when you had grabbed his face when he was too exhausted to continue but thankfully no longer felt like he was burning alive. It was hard to remember and not stride across the room and hold you. He took a breath and forced his shoulders to relax in a way that he had done so many times before.

“I-,” he started, his voice cutting through the room, his normal voice, the one you recognized as him and it set you slightly at ease from sheer familiarity, “I’m so sorry.” Now he had to turn his eyes downcast.

“What?” Your response, the shock in your voice, forced him to look at you again. Your hands itched at your sides, confusion rippling across your face.

His eyes narrowed, he knew you so well. Always blaming yourself. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I’m sorry that happened, I’m sorry you were put in that position,” the word choice made him nearly cringe. He continued, “I never-I didn’t want it to happen that way.”

Your brain jolted, standing there in shocked silence, his words thundering through your ears accompanied by the pleading of next time.

He pressed on, desperately trying, “I know you, you’re going to think this was your fault. It wasn’t. There was nothing either of us could do, thank you for your, uh, help. Just- fuck, please just say some-,”

Shock still swept through you, the words escaped your mouth before you could think, “Did you mean it?” You figured by the way he leaned back that he knew what you were talking about. Then he held out a hand, palm up, an offering. Before you knew it, you had crossed the room, putting your hand in his and letting it gently pull you between his legs. His giant frame meant even sitting on the gurney that his gaze was level with yours, and those eyes searched your own when one word sounded through the room.

“Yes.”

This word broke you. One fucking word, one word that answered every glance between you two, every smile shared, a word you brokenly whispered into the night when you had a hand between your legs thinking about him knowing you shouldn’t. You hadn’t cried all week, but now the giant tears rolling down your cheeks felt like a release. When his free hand, warm and rough, swiped them away you couldn’t help leaning into it, just as he had done. All tension, all fear, dissipated from the room. That hand continued to just below your ear, cupping your neck, and gently pulling you forward to press his head against yours, eyes shutting, just resting there against each other in the moment.

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” you sighed.

You could feel the smirk that you knew was slipping across his mouth.

“Well, I did say next time.”

This time when you rode him with the small bed creaking beneath the movements, he stopped you any time you tried to speed up (it was your turn to beg and plead), keeping you at a languid torturous pace. That way the bastard had all the time in the world to whisper into your mouth, letting you taste each word, all the things he would do to you next time and all the times after that.

Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think! :)

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cuntyji · 18 days ago

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LOVE IS A FOUR LETTER TUG ‪‪❤︎‬ RYOMEN SUKUNA X FEMALE READER

Synopsis: They say fate works in mysterious ways, but no one ever mentioned it could be petty, nosy, and just a little bit theatrical. Tethered by something neither of them asked for, two very tired people must now navigate a world where privacy is a myth, insults are practically foreplay, and the universe apparently thinks it’s hilarious. There’s no guidebook for this sort of thing — just a suspiciously persistent string and the overwhelming urge to win every argument, even if no one remembers what it was about. After all, love might be written in the stars… but this story? It’s scribbled in crayon and aggressively underlined in red.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, fluff with crack, red string theory with possible inaccuracies (this is my interpretation of it), (mentioned) yuuji, nanami, choso, geto, gojo, uraume but they're a cat (they/it pronouns), office worker! sukuna and reader, modern au, implied reincarnation/lovers in every lifetime trope

Note: red string art by vidhic0re on pinterest, red divider by enchanthings

‪‪✶⋆.˚ Ao3

You were never one for romance clichés.

Soulmates? Sounded like a scam from a desperate deity with too much time on their hands.

Fated love? Cute, if you're into spiritual tax fraud.

Red thread of fate? Sounded like something a drunk poet made up while tangled in yarn.

You’d entertained the idea once or twice — late at night, probably during your fifth rewatch of a trashy show, tears pricking at your eyes as two characters found each other across continents. Then the next morning, you’d stub your toe on the coffee table and remember that your only soulmate was pain and poor impulse control.

So you can’t really be blamed for not noticing it happening now.

Not with the humid press of bodies in the metro car, the stale air thick with too many armpits and not enough personal space. Your headphones had long since died, your patience hanging on by the fraying thread of your tolerance for humanity. And then —

Snag.

“—You fucking kidding me?”

You jerk around, already tensing for a fight. A man stands before you — or rather towers, broad-shouldered, impossibly tall, and stupidly pink-haired. Like, offensively pink. His eyes are sharp, crimson, and burning with indignation. Tattoos coil down his arms like they’ve got somewhere to be.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he’s already hissing, tugging at his shirt. Your watch, of course, is gloriously embedded in the fabric near his waistline. Because God, or fate, is an asshole.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, dickhead,” you snap, trying to free yourself without causing a striptease. “If you hadn’t shoved your way in here like you own the place—”

“Shoved?! You clung onto me like I’m your long-lost sugar daddy—”

“Please, you couldn’t afford me.”

He bares his teeth, and for a second you think he might just eat your soul for fun.

You yank. He yanks harder. Somewhere, a sleeve audibly tears. A grandma beside you makes the sign of the cross.

“Stop moving!” you shout.

“Then stop yanking like a rabid raccoon!”

And just beneath the chaos, something else stirs.

Delicate. Quiet. Crimson.

A thin, glowing thread coils out from the fabric of reality — slow, curious — like it’s stretching from an ancient nap. It slinks around your pinky like a cat testing warmth, then tugs itself toward his hand. Wraps, binds. Neither of you notice, too busy trying to kill each other with passive-aggressive tugs and very active-aggressive insults.

“Jesus Christ, your shirt’s made of velcro or what?”

“Maybe your watch is cursed. Did you rob a priest?”

“Why are your abs out—”

“Why are you looking at them—”

You both freeze.

Your faces are this close. Breath shared. You can see the specks of gold in his eyes. He can smell the faint shampoo in your hair. The train jostles again, and your bodies bump together, awkward and too warm. He blinks. You blink.

And that little red thread? It pulses once. Content. Smug, even.

It had only been a few minutes, but it felt like years. Years of verbal sparring, the kind that leaves mental bite marks and a permanent twitch in your eye. Years packed into that hellish metro ride — the suffocating crowd, the friction of bodies, and the absolutely unholy closeness of you and Sukuna, the pink-haired plague on your peace.

It was a symphony of irritation: your bickering crescendoed, echoing off the glass, punctuated by the occasional dramatic gasp (yours, because how dare he bring your mother into this?) and a startlingly feral hiss (his — honestly, who hisses like that? You still weren’t over it).

“Your mom should’ve taught you how to dress like a functional adult,” Sukuna had scoffed, voice sharp enough to pierce through metal.

“And your dentist should’ve filed down your fangs, Edward Cullen,” you’d snapped back, right before his pupils dilated like you’d just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real. He looked like he was ready to bite you. Like literally bite you. You wondered, not for the first time, if he was just feral or if the metro air made people feral.

And then — click.

Freedom.

Your watch finally popped loose from his clothes, the poor thing traumatized but intact. You both immediately fled to opposite doors like bitter divorcees pretending they didn’t share a Netflix password.

“I hope the next time we meet, I’m deaf,” you shouted across the train.

“I hope the next time we meet, you’ve been replaced by a potted plant — it’d have more brains,” he snarled.

You both stomped off the train at your stop, muttering curses like two gremlins banished from the underworld. Behind you, the invisible red thread simply stretched further, smug and undisturbed, lengthening itself like some magical slinky that refused to be cut. It trailed behind you both like the worst kind of cosmic joke, blissfully unaware that you were both one wrong word away from starting an actual fistfight in the middle of the platform.

After what felt like an entire saga of mentally cussing him out, climbing three flights of stairs because the lift was always slow, and mentally filing an angry complaint to the universe, you finally reached your apartment door. Peace at last.

Well, almost.

You turned toward the elevator, digging through your bag for your keys, and there he was.

There. He. Was.

Leaning casually against the elevator doors like a shampoo commercial gone wrong, arms crossed, pink hair gleaming under the shitty hallway lights, and that same smug little curve on his lips like the universe had just handed him your misery on a silver platter.

You blinked.

He blinked back, slower, smugger.

“...Are you stalking me?” you asked, flatly, because honestly, at this point, what else could this be? He barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “You wish. I’m moving in.”

You stared at him. Your brain short-circuited. Your soul left your body and came back just to kick you in the shin.

“What.”

“New tenant,” he said with a little wave. “Landlady said the floor had good lighting. Guess she forgot to mention the infestation.”

“Infest—infestation?!” You nearly dropped your keys. “I hope you fall down the stairs and land teeth-first.”

“I hope your kettle explodes next time you try to make tea, dumbass.”

You both glared — the kind of glare that had probably made old gods weep and babies cry. Somewhere, the elevator dinged softly, its doors opening to welcome one (1) petty pink-haired menace and one (1) emotionally done human.

You both stepped in without looking at each other. The red string followed, still wrapped around your little fingers, stretching gently behind you both — a silent, glowing third wheel that refused to take a hint.

Fuck your life. And fuck fate too, while you were at it.

You really, really thought the next morning would be better.

After the disaster that was yesterday — the metro, the snarling pink-haired gremlin, the revelation that said gremlin lived on your floor, and the fact that you now had to cohabitate oxygen with him — you’d gone to bed with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that promised at least one thing would go right the next day. Just one. Just a sliver of peace, maybe, a moment of normalcy to prove that the universe wasn’t actively putting you on a hit list.

But hah. Nope.

Because you open the front door, step into the hallway in your slightly wrinkled work clothes, clutching the little baggie of food like a knight bearing gifts, and there he is.

Kneeling beside the apartment building’s most beloved freeloader — the white stray Uraume who ruled your collective lives with an iron paw and a fluffy tail — is Sukuna. Hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower, wearing the kind of shirt that looks like it was bought solely to be hated, crouched down with a tin of wet food in his hands, and smiling.

Smiling. At Uraume, of all things.

Not at you. God no. His smiles for you usually look like they come with optional knives.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you blurt out, the cat food bag crinkling in your hand like even it is alarmed.

“Feeding the cat,” he replies without looking up, his tone smug, too casual, too comfortable. “What does it look like?”“It looks like you’re encroaching on sacred territory,” you snap, stomping closer like you’re about to perform an exorcism. “It’s Wednesday. My day.”

“They don’t know days,” Sukuna shrugs. “It’s a cat. They don’t give a shit if it’s Wednesday or the apocalypse.”

Uraume, for their part, is sprawled between you two like a tiny fluffy deity watching its mortal worshippers squabble, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily as if amused by the sheer idiocy in front of them.

“They know me,” you insist, pointing an accusatory finger. “I bring them tuna. They purr for me.”

“They just purred for me,” Sukuna says smugly, leaning down to stroke their belly. They stretch like royalty, perfectly content. “Face it. They like me better.”

“They tolerate you,” you sneer, crouching down too, now both of you on either side of this indifferent god, cat food containers in hand like offerings in a duel. “Also, why are you using that cheap-ass brand? Uraume’s got a refined palate.”

“You feed a stray like they’re your tax-dependent,” he scoffs. “No wonder it acts like a brat.”

“Uraume is royalty.”

“Uraume has fleas.”

“So do you, probably.”

Uraume chooses this moment to pounce — not on either of you, but at the air just in front of them. They bat at something, paws swiping with focused glee, and you blink.

“...Is she high?” Sukuna mutters, watching as the cat wiggles their butt, springs, and lands on a very specific patch of empty hallway.

“Zoomies,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure. “They do that sometimes.”

Uraume keeps chasing something you can’t see — something red, something delicate, something that dances just ahead of their claws, curling through the air between the two of you. Something threadlike, and taut, and glowing — though not to your eyes. You both just keep bickering, oblivious.

“Seriously though, can’t you go menace someone else?” you grumble, finally standing and dusting off your knees.

“Can’t you find a new hallway?” he shoots back. “This one’s mine now.”

“God, you’re like a mold infestation.”

“And you’re like the stain on a public toilet seat.”

There’s a pause. Uraume is now gently gnawing on the air between your hands, satisfied. You look down. You look up.

And, with a sigh, you finally mutter, “...What’s your name, anyway?”

He looks vaguely surprised, then smirks. “Sukuna. And yours?”

“Why? Gonna hex me with it?”

“Can’t hex someone without a name. Now cough it up.”

You tell him. He repeats it, rolling it around his mouth like he’s testing how annoying he can make it sound later. “Figures,” he says, straightening up. “Your name sounds like it comes with unsolicited opinions and a constant need to be right.”

“Your name sounds like a rejection email from a demon,” you fire back.

Uraume sneezes. The red string flickers, coils tighter.

And neither of you still have any goddamn idea.

Despite your better judgment — and trust, it really was against every instinct for self-preservation that you had — you were starting to accept the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Sukuna wasn’t entirely the worst.

Not that he was good. No, you would never say that. If anyone ever dared to suggest that Sukuna had an ounce of decency in his entire six-foot-something frame of walking rage, you would probably burst out laughing and then list ten reasons why they should be on a watchlist. You were just… developing the world’s strongest tolerance, like some psychological cockroach capable of surviving nuclear-grade assholery. Yeah, that had to be it.

Because there was no way that Sukuna was a good person.

Not when he once looked old man Nanami in the eye — the sweetest, politest senior citizen in your apartment complex, the one who offered you coconut cookies every Thursday — and said, with no hesitation, "If your grandkid doesn’t shut up by 10 p.m., I’m gonna eat him. Protein is protein."

You were there.

You saw Mr. Nanami’s soul briefly leave his body while clutching little Yuuji, who was just trying to learn how to walk and scream at the same time. You were genuinely surprised Sukuna wasn’t served legal papers the next morning. (You think the only reason Nanami didn’t call the cops is because he didn’t know how to explain ‘My upstairs neighbor threatened to eat my toddler with his whole chest’ without sounding like he was the unhinged one.)

And it wasn’t just the elderly and the infants. Sukuna’s temper was democratic — he picked fights like they were his cardio. Someone sighs too loud? Fight. Someone stands too close in the elevator? Fight. Someone dares to exist within a five-meter radius while also having a smug aura? That was instant fucking fight. You’d honestly gotten used to hearing vague yelling down the hall and not reacting until someone used your name. That was the protocol.

But then there was Gojo.

White-haired menace. Lives somewhere close enough that the chaos occasionally spilled into your airspace. Visits Geto every few days, usually late at night, wearing clothes that screamed "I think rules are suggestions" and a smile that could probably trigger a lawsuit.

And every. single. time. Gojo entered your building, it was like watching two angry cats lock eyes across the hallway. Hissing. Posturing. Threats that sounded like they were ripped out of a trashy sitcom. Once, you woke up at three a.m. to actual growling outside your door.

“For fuck’s sake,” you’d yelled, groggily throwing it open, “Go home or kiss already!”

Both of them had frozen mid-snarl, their hands halfway to each other’s throats.

“Shut up, we’re not into each other!” they barked at you in perfect unison, like that wasn’t the most suspicious thing they could have said.But here was the kicker: he was never like that with you.

Oh, he was still rude. He called your music taste garbage at least twice a week and once accused your bathroom cleaner of smelling like a rotting lemon corpse. But he didn’t fight you. Not like that. Instead, he held elevator doors open with his back against the buttons like it was nothing, barely even glancing at you as you skidded across the floor with your laptop bag flapping behind you like a dying bird.

“You always run like the building’s on fire,” he’d mutter.

“Maybe I’m trying to escape your energy,” you’d shoot back, breathless.

He always told the trash guys to wait when you were sprinting down the stairs with two bags of waste in hand — one dry, one wet, both swinging dangerously. He’d lean against the rail and bark, “Oi, she’s coming,” before casually flicking his cigarette and watching you descend like a chaotic meteor of domestic failure.

“I could’ve managed,” you once grumbled, tossing the bags in as the garbage truck revved.

“You would’ve tripped and died. Then I’d have to feed your cat.”

“Uraume’s not even mine.”

“Then why does it hiss when I call them my cat?”

Touché.

He wasn't nice. He wasn't.

Not to other people. And not in a way that made it easy to like him. But maybe he was conveniently decent to you.

Probably because he wanted a favor someday. Or he was playing the long game.

Or maybe it was just that he found your chaos mildly entertaining and liked being the one person who got to annoy you without being hit.

Definitely not because he liked you.

Right?

Right.

It wasn’t like you two would wait for each other by the elevator every morning. No, absolutely not — you were both far too emotionally constipated and aggressively independent to admit to something as wildly intimate as synchronized elevator rides.

And yet.

Somehow, like clockwork, you’d step out your apartment door and he’d be there — leaning with one shoulder against the wall beside the lift, arms crossed, coffee already in hand, expression set to his usual ‘who the fuck woke me up’ setting. And on the rare days you were early, you’d pretend you weren’t glancing up from your phone every five seconds just to see if you’d hear the familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of his heavy shoes dragging toward you.

You never greeted each other like normal people. God forbid.

“Oh look, the hallway’s ugliest plant finally bloomed,” you’d say sweetly.

“Aw, how cute. A raccoon in office clothes,” he’d grunt, stepping into the elevator first like the absolute bastard he was.

You two always made it a point to bicker through the entire ride, then all the way to the station. And then — just because the universe hadn’t punished either of you enough — you somehow took the same line to work.

It’d start off harmless — like Coachella 2025, which you both agreed was a walking tragedy, but couldn’t agree on why.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call it a comeback if the vocals sound like someone left a kettle screaming on the stove.”

“They were experimental vocals,” Sukuna huffed. “Not everyone wants the same autotuned garbage you listen to.”

“Says the man whose Spotify Wrapped had three songs Fetty Wap songs in it.”

“Hell yeah it did.”

Or you’d end up arguing over Nanami’s latest sweets — the ones he passed out in neat little boxes with origami on top and a handwritten note. And Sukuna, who had the nerve to say “This tastes like diabetes” with a scrunched-up face, had the audacity to later be caught in the act — crouched in front of the communal fridge, shoveling the leftover sugar-drenched delicacies into his mouth like he was trying to erase all evidence.

You stood at the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“You want me to get you some insulin, champ?”

He didn’t even stop chewing. Just said, around a mouthful of icing, “Fuck off. It’s called recycling. I’m saving the planet.”

And your little morning routine would be incomplete without the stop at the rickety cafe around the corner — a shoebox-sized shop tucked beside a bookstore, smelling like toasted bread and too much cinnamon. The place was run by a sleepy-eyed, nose-ringed man named Choso, who you later found out was Sukuna’s cousin through what had to be divine punishment.

“He looks like he listens to sad violin music in the dark,” you once whispered.

“He does. But he also makes good coffee. Don’t let the existential energy fool you,” Sukuna muttered.

The place was always packed, but somehow, your order would be ready by the time you got to the counter. Tea for you, coffee for Sukuna. Every damn day.

Except for the one time the cups got swapped.

You didn’t notice until you took a long, scalding sip and promptly had your soul exit your body.

“Why does this taste like shit and caffeine?” you coughed.

“Because you’re drinking my coffee, dumbass,” Sukuna muttered from his end, eyeing your cup like he could will it back into his hands.

Neither of you had time to swap. So you just… drank it.

You were wired until 4 p.m., typing up emails like a possessed gremlin.

Meanwhile, Sukuna? Snored in the middle of a team call. Snored. In his swivel chair. (He still claims the spreadsheet was boring enough to induce a coma.)

And maybe the most ridiculous part of it all was the way the day would end — with both of you pretending like you weren’t keeping an eye on the metro clock, waiting.

“You’re late,” Sukuna would grumble when you jogged up to him, hair windswept, tie lopsided.

“You’re still ugly,” you’d pant, and both of you would file into the train like two mismatched puzzle pieces forced into the same space.

And sometimes, between the back-and-forths and the sleepy evenings, the rocking of the train would lull one of you to sleep. And it was always the same — if he passed out first, head thunking against your shoulder, you’d just sigh and adjust your bag so it didn’t jab him in the ribs, pretending it wasn’t a little warm having his weight on you.

And if it was you, drooling slightly, head falling against him? He’d hiss a bit. Complain. Say things like, “Great. I’m a fucking pillow now,” under his breath. But he’d stay still. Wouldn’t shove you off. And he’d glare at anyone who even so much as looked at the seat beside you like they were thinking of sitting there, as if to say: “Touch her and die.”

And yet you both swore — swore — that none of this meant anything. Just morning routines. Just bickering. Just accidentally tolerating each other. Totally normal. Nothing weird about it at all. Right?

By the time the elevator dinged on your floor and the two of you stepped out, it was the usual symphony of tired bones and overworked brains, the air thick with the shared scent of corporate despair and too-sweet coffee you shouldn’t have had at 4 p.m., but did anyway. Your body ached, your bag hung off your shoulder like dead weight, and Sukuna was just behind you — jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, tie loose and mouth full of complaints he hadn’t started voicing yet. But then —

A tug.

Sharp and sudden, like a fishing line catching tension, like the universe pinched your pinky in a moment of bratty playfulness. Your hand jerked slightly, and you looked down, frowning.

And oh. There it was again. The string.

The same one you thought was a caffeine-induced fever dream. The one that had flickered into existence before, soft as spider silk and just as annoying, but now it was solid — scarlet red, humming faintly with a shimmer of something that felt way too personal and real. It wound snug around your pinky, stretched across the two feet between you, and found its twin grip around Sukuna’s hand.

And he was staring at it too.

His face was unreadable — which was new. Gone was the usual smug, twitchy grimace of a man permanently five seconds away from telling someone to choke. No, right now he looked… quiet. Contemplative. Like he’d seen this before.

Like he knew something.

“Hey,” he started, voice unusually low, not his usual bark or snarl, but a drawl trying to reach for something softer, something that made your stomach twist unexpectedly, “There’s something I—”

But his words were promptly obliterated by the sudden thump-thump-thump-thump of tiny hands and knees against the floor.

A pink blur came barrelling up the stairwell like a demon on all fours — two-year-old Yuuji, in all his diapered, wide-eyed, suspiciously-strong-for-his-age glory. He practically launched himself up the final step and planted himself directly between the both of you, letting out a squeal of delight as he sat on the floor and began excitedly grabbing at the air.

No — not the air.

The string.

Your eyes widened as his chubby fists tried to catch the flickering red thread, cooing and giggling and babbling nonsense in toddler tongue as if the world’s most entertaining toy had just appeared before him.

“Reeeeddddddd!!” he crowed, crawling into Sukuna’s office shoe like it was his new throne.

You blinked. “Wait. You can see this too?!”

Yuuji looked up at you, beaming, nodding with the pride of a war general. “Pretty!”

“Oh fuck me,” Sukuna muttered under his breath, eyes darting toward the stairwell just as the loud clomp of formal shoes came echoing behind the kid.

Nanami appeared — flushed, panting, tie disheveled like he’d just run a full marathon in work shoes, one hand clutching the stair railing for dear life. He stopped dead when he saw where Yuuji had gone.

“Oh thank God,” he gasped, bending slightly with his hands on his knees. “I thought I was going to have to file a police report.”

“Your kid just speed-crawled up three floors,” you pointed out, vaguely horrified.

“He does that. I can’t stop him. He’s like a golden retriever possessed by Satan,” Nanami said, coughing.

Meanwhile, Yuuji was now crawling in circles around the two of you, still trying to catch the red string, occasionally grabbing at your legs or Sukuna’s pants like the thing was taunting him. You and Sukuna exchanged a look — not your usual annoyed-glare combo, but a genuinely confused what the hell is going on look.

And again, you noticed the way Sukuna was looking at the string. Not shocked, not panicked. Just tired. Thoughtful. Like a man who had been putting off something inevitable and just ran out of time. You tilted your head. “Okay. What do you know that I don’t?”

He looked like he might say it. Really say it.

But then Yuuji yanked at the thread hard enough to make it pulse — and you felt it, a zap of something warm curling around your chest like it’d coiled straight through your ribs.

“What the hell?!” you flinched.

Sukuna sighed. Muttered something under his breath you didn’t catch. And then, looking straight at you, jaw tense:

“…I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“You better,” you hissed, heart hammering for reasons you refused to unpack right now.

And behind you, Yuuji was still squealing with joy.

“Red! Red! Red!!”

Nanami quietly took out a juice box from his briefcase and bribed him down the hall. You couldn’t help but think he had the right idea.

Because if you thought the red thread was a joke, now you were the punchline.

And Sukuna?

You were starting to think he’d been reading the script the whole damn time.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been lying there — not really. The air in your room was heavy, too still, the kind of quiet that felt a little like grief, or maybe a little like denial, something sharp and slow and suffocating all at once. You were on your back, lights still on, phone somewhere lost in the folds of your sheets, your speaker untouched and silent for once — no pop music or shitty love songs to drown out the thoughts.

Just silence.

And the thread.

That fucking thread.

It glowed faintly against the backdrop of your ceiling, rising gently from your pinky like a tendril of smoke, an unwanted, uninvited thing that refused to leave. You lifted your hand, half-wishing it would vanish if you blinked enough times.

It didn’t. It shimmered in the low light, stubborn and elegant, like the universe had decided it was feeling poetic this week and picked you as its tragic metaphor.

You gave it a slight tug, just to see.

The resulting sting shot through your finger like a spark, making you flinch — and from behind your wall, you heard him.

“Oi!” came Sukuna’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him, rough and indignant, like you’d just elbowed him in the ribs. “What the hell was that for, you—?!”

You immediately turned your back to the wall, rolling with a sigh so dramatic it could have won awards. You stared at your curtains, dull in the soft glow of streetlights outside. “Not now,” you muttered to no one, hoping the string would relay that too.

There was silence. Maybe for five seconds.

Then another tug. Gentler this time. Hesitant.

You glared at the wall. “What?”

A long pause. And then:

“…You’re not gonna talk to me?” Sukuna’s voice came quieter now, like he didn’t know what to do with it either. “You’ve been quiet for hours. I thought you’d… I don’t know. Start yelling or something.”

You sat up a little, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes. “Yeah well,” you muttered, “I’ve used up my yelling quota for the month. Thanks for that.”

There was a rustling on his side. A beat. Then another tug — not a sting this time, but something like a nudge, like a poke in the shoulder.

“I didn’t think you’d freak out,” Sukuna admitted, voice low. Too honest. “Figured you’d laugh. Say it’s stupid. Call it a dumb romance trope or whatever.”

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to your knees. “It is a dumb romance trope,” you whispered. “Except now it’s… real. I can feel it, Sukuna. It hurts when you pull it. It glows. Why does it glow?!”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud:

“…Because it’s always been there.”

You froze. Slowly, you turned to face the wall.

“What?”

Sukuna exhaled — you could hear it, rough and frustrated, like he was mad at himself more than anything. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought maybe I was just seeing things for a while. It didn’t show up for you yet. But I’ve—”

A pause.

“I’ve seen it. Since the day we met.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

He’d known? This whole time?

“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” Your voice cracked mid-sentence, sharp with something you didn’t know how to name.

“Would you have believed me?” he bit back, not harsh — just defeated. “You already thought I was insane when we met. You still think I’m insane. Imagine if I’d told you there was some red fucking magical string tying our souls together, huh?”

You opened your mouth to argue. He would’ve sounded completely unhinged. You dragged your hands over your face, trying to breathe through it. Trying not to feel like the floor had dropped out beneath you.

“What does it mean?” you asked, quietly now. “Why us?”

A long silence.

Then Sukuna, tired:

“…I don’t know.”

You swallowed.

“But it’s real, right?”

Another beat.

“Yeah.”

And neither of you spoke after that. But the string pulsed once — soft, warm — and for the first time, you didn’t tug back.

The days after that were strange — soft in the kind of way that crept up on you, like the first breath of cold after a long summer. Not that either of you would admit it, of course. Not in words, not directly. Sukuna still barked when you burned your toast too loud at six in the morning, and you still scoffed when he sprayed too much cologne and gave your sinuses a five-hour long panic attack. But even the insults were different now, frayed at the edges with something gentle.

When Sukuna left for work with his tie somehow inside out — you’d swear the man had to try to do that — you clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes like you wanted to stab him with a fork, then silently pulled it off and fixed it for him. He grumbled under his breath, as always, but didn't move a muscle while you smoothed it out.

And when you tied your hair back with such rabid intensity that you gave yourself a headache halfway through lunch, he reached over the table without looking up from his phone, tugged the scrunchie loose with one hand, and shoved a protein bar into your other.

“Don’t pass out before five,” he muttered.

You didn’t even say thank you.

You didn’t have to. The red string hummed for you.

And it was little things like that, really — like how you’d pick up his package when he wasn’t home, and he’d grumble and call you nosy, but then you’d find your favorite sour candy stuffed inside the handle of your apartment door.

Or how you’d snatch the umbrella from his hand because “You’re gonna get electrocuted holding metal near the power lines, stupid,” only for him to give you the umbrella in the morning again, saying it made your ridiculous frog print raincoat look less lonely.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But you were on the road.

And sometimes, you swore you’d been on it before. Like the rhythm of this whole mess felt familiar, not just in this life.

Maybe once you were a dog and he was a cat, and you spent your days yowling and chasing each other up fences, knocking over trash cans in the name of something feral and tender.

Maybe once you were thunder and he was a crooked old mountain, always meeting, always crashing, never quite learning the other’s shape but staying anyway.

Maybe once you were two flowers growing on either side of a forest, reaching for each other across centuries of sunlight.

Maybe once you were nothing but stories told by firelight, over and over, in every tongue — about the fox who chased the wolf through storm after storm, until both of them finally curled up together under one tree.

And maybe, just maybe, it was always you and him, clawing and biting and bickering and loving.

Because now, in this life, here you were again.

In a train too crowded for comfort, someone’s armpit too close to your face, someone else’s elbow poking your spine, and yet you were standing on your tiptoes just to peer through the sea of heads, holding up your pinky so the string between you would tug. Not hard, just a little nudge.

And across the crowd, Sukuna turned.

He was pretending to read the ads above the windows, face bored, mouth twitching like he was already planning to insult your taste in shoes or how your hair looked like it lost a fight with the wind — but when he felt the tug, his gaze softened, just a little.

Then he looked at you. And without a word, he tugged back.

You smiled just a little, and the train rolled on.

Outside, the sun broke through the clouds like it had been waiting all morning.

Inside, the red string pulsed with something warm.

And for once — for maybe the thousandth time across a hundred lives — you wouldn't have it any other way.

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itneverendshere · 1 month ago

Note

ooo what about reader getting jealous over brothers best friend! rafe … maybe at like a party or something u know they love a good hallway randevu also when they gonna admit they like each other i cant with the longing im like a dog in heat i need my babies together already

some fights you're never gon' win, just keep your eyes off him- r.c (+18)

pairing: kelce's sister! x hockey!rafe warnings: smut; angst (just a little); they like to fuck in public spaces MY BAD

You weren’t the jealous type, never had been.

You’d had boyfriends before, hooked up with guys, even had a situationship or two that never quite made it to the finish line, thank god. But you never cared about what they did outside of you.

You never felt that ugly, possessive twist in your gut when they so much as talked to another girl. You didn’t keep tabs on past hookups, didn’t lurk at parties, watching who they left with. You didn’t waste time wondering if they were thinking about you when they were with someone else.

It just wasn’t you.

And yet—

The sound of Katherine Hughes’ voice made your skin crawl.

You had only gone to the bathroom to fix your lip gloss, but the second you stepped in, you saw her standing at the mirror, practically pouting.

Her friend leaned against the sink, clearly exasperated. “You’re really still mad about it?”

Katherine huffed, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “I just don’t get it. Last year, Rafe—”

Your body went still, nearly dropping your lip combo on the floor.

“—he was all over me.” She ran a hand down her torso like she was admiring herself. “I know I’m his type. He literally shoved me off his lap."

Wait— she sat on his lap? At camp? Who the fuck does she think she is? And more importantly— why didn’t he tell you? Then again, why would he tell you?

Her friend rolled her eyes. “Maybe he’s just over it.”

Katherine scoffed. “He’s a guy. They don’t just get over good sex.”

You knew he had a past, you did too, you weren’t naive. But still

Her friend laughed. “Oh my God, shut up. How long was it again?”

Katherine smirked, a slow, satisfied thing. “Two hours.”

Your stomach twisted into na ugly shade of green.

You didn’t care. This wasn’t you—jealousy, possessiveness, the kind of messy, insecure shit you always swore you’d never fall into. Two hours, not twenty minutes, not a drunken mistake, not some meaningless, forgettable fling.

You forced yourself to breathe, fixing your lip gloss, to keep your face neutral even as your heart pounded. It was stupid, so stupid. This was old news, before you. Right?

Her friend’s eyes widened. “Wait, was that in the hot tub?”

Katherine’s smirk deepened.

“Obviously.” She sighed dramatically. “I don’t know what changed. I thought for sure when I saw him at camp this year, we’d pick up right where we left off. But he rejected me.”

That ugly jealousy turned into something stupidly satisfying, you knew you were fucked when you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling like a vindictive bitch. Rafe had been at hockey camp last week, he had been surrounded by the same girls at hockey camp this year—had the chance to do it all over again.

He could’ve had her again.

But he didn’t, he said no and came back to you the second his feet touched the campus grounds.

Not that it mattered, it didn’t change the fact that he had touched her at all. That was the part you couldn’t ignore, it wasn’t that she had him first—she was the type of girl Rafe had always gone for.

The exact opposite of you.

Why didn’t he tell you? Not that you ever asked, not that you wanted to hear about every girl who ever touched him. Suddenly, you weren’t just picturing them together. You were hearing it. Feeling it, like a splinter wedging deeper under your skin.

You weren’t just different from the girl he used to date, you were the opposite of them, and as stupid as it was, as irrational as it felt, the insecurity stuck under your skin like velcro.

You knew your worth, had seen the way men fell over themselves for you, their voices dropped an octave when they spoke to you, their hands got restless, needing an excuse to touch you. But you never liked them enough to second guess yourself.

You hated that it hurt, it was so stupid of you.

You hadn’t even been with Rafe last year. Shit, you were probably with someone else at the time. You weren’t some virginal, untouched thing waiting for him to realize you were right in front of him.

But none of that mattered, because you’d already come to terms with your feelings. You liked him, liked him so much it made your stomach act up.

By the time you made it back downstairs, your mood was shit.

The music was too loud, and you didn’t want to be here anymore. You spotted your group in the corner—your brother, his teammates, Kie laughing at something JJ was saying—but your focus zeroed in on the one person already watching you.

Rafe.

His brows furrowed instantly, not giving time to fake a smile before he was moving through the crowd without hesitation. You hardly made it two steps toward the couch before he was in front of you, ducking his head to meet your eyes.

Stupid height.

“What happened?”

You didn’t want to answer or admit that some stupid conversation in a bathroom had gotten to you.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him. “Nothing.”

He didn’t buy it, following you without hesitation, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His face was frustratingly serious, like whatever was bothering you had become his problem the second he saw it.

“Princess,” he murmured, using that tone that usually got you to fold like a pretzel. “You were fine five minutes ago.”

You dropped onto the couch, crossing your arms. “I’m fine now.”

Rafe snorted, settling beside you, thigh pressing against yours.

“Yeah, sure.” He tipped his head, studying you. “Did someone say something to you?”

You’d rather die than let him get the embarrassing information out of you. This wasn’t like you, you didn’t let jealously could your judgment.

“No.”

“Who? Do I have to punch another guy?”

“No one.” You stared at the drink in your hand.

Rafe scoffed. “That’s a lie.”

“Would you drop it?”

“Not a chance.”

You exhaled sharply, tipping your head back against the couch. “It’s stupid, Rafe. Let it go.”

Rafe snorted, settling beside you, thigh pressing against yours.

“Yeah, sure.” He tipped his head, studying you. His toned arm settled along the back of the couch, fingers trailing lazily across your shoulder. “Then why are you pouting?”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “I’m not pouting.”

He grinned, “You are, though.”

He just looked so soft, so amused, fond, and it made your stomach squeeze in a way you hated. His fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, a quiet, earnest plea.

Your lips parted, but you didn’t know how to say it without sounding crazy or revealing how deep he’d already gotten under your skin.

“No wonder people think you two are dating. Can y’all scoot over and stop touching?”

Your face burned instantly at your brother’s lack of inner voice, and you moved slightly, but Rafe? The asshole just smirked, draping his arm over the back of the couch again, still playing with your braids.

Half the school already thought you were dating, the other half knew it was a joke, but no one knew you were sleeping together.

Well—maybe Kie. But no one else.

Your brother just shook his head, going back to his conversation about Star Wars with Pope, while Rafe leaned in, “You’re gonna make everyone think the rumors are true.”

You scoffed, shoving his hand away. “Shut up.”

You knock back the rest of your shitty mixed drink, hoping the burn do something to you. It didn’t.

“C’mon,” he said suddenly, standing and reaching for your wrist.

You hesitated. “Where are we going?”

“We need more drinks,” he said easily, flashing a charming smile at your brother before tugging you up.

You knew better.

You knew Rafe well enough to know that wasn’t why he was pulling you away, he was already guiding you through the throng of people toward the kitchen, grip firm, and within seconds, you were stepping into the quieter kitchen, away from prying eyes.

Rafe turned to face you, leaning against the counter . “So, are you gonna tell me what’s got you looking like you wanna kill someone, or do I have to guess?”

You crossed your arms. “I told you, it’s stupid.”

“Don’t care.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. You just don’t want me to know.”

Your breath hitched, and his smirk widened.

Bastard.

“You gonna keep standing there glaring at me, or you gonna tell me?” he pushed, stepping closer.

You should’ve walked away, but he was too close now, fingers already playing with the hem of your skirt, his breath warm against your temple. Your body betrayed you, leaning in instead of pulling back, craving his touch more than your next breath.

You had always been the problem—wanting too much from someone who probably didn’t even think about you half as much as you thought about him.

“Katherine.”

Rafe blinked. “What?”

You clenched your jaw. “Katherine. Hughes.”

Recognition dawned in his eyes before something else flashed across his face—and then— he laughed.

You shoved at his chest, pretending his pecs didn’t make you want to let him fuck you against the counter. “Fuck you, Rafe.”

“Relax,” He caught your wrist easily, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. “You jealous?”

No. Yes. God, yes. You hated the thought of him with someone else, hated that he had the power to make you feel like this. You wanted him in a way that scared you, a way that made you feel dizzy and reckless and so completely gone for him you hated it.

“No,” you snapped.

His smirk deepened. “You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You huffed, trying to yank your wrist free, but he didn’t let you go. Instead, he reeled you in, forcing you to look up at him. Your heart pounded against your will, screaming at you to give in, and stop pretending like he wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

“Two hours? Really?”

“You mad about the time, or the girl?”

Your jaw tightened. “Neither.”

“Right.” He dragged the word out, playing with the hem of your skirt again, content with just standing there, crowding your space, keeping you close “So you don’t care that she’s talking about it? Saying my name, braggin’ about it like it meant somethin’?”

You rolled your eyes. “Why would I care? We weren’t even—” You stopped yourself, hating the way your voice wavered.

Rafe hummed, fingers trailing higher, teasing the inside of your wrist. “We weren’t what?”

You didn’t do this, get insecure over some girl talking shit in a bathroom, and you sure as hell didn’t let men get in your head.

“I’m done talking about it,” You grabbed a red solo cup and poured yourself another drink, pretending you didn’t feel him watching your every move.

Rafe let the silence sit for a second before he spoke again, “Y’know she don’t got shit on you, right?”

Your hands stilled.

“She doesn’t,” he continued easily, “Not last year, not this year, not ever.”

You turned to him slowly, narrowing your eyes.

“Did you—” You hesitated, your stomach tightening, but you forced yourself to ask. “Did you sleep with her again? At camp?”

Rafe’s head jerked back like the thought alone offended him. “Fuck no.” He reached for your hip, tugging you in, molding his body against yours, lips ghosting over your ear. “You wanna know why?”

You swallowed. “No.”

“Because I was thinking about you.”

His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go, his fingers sliding up to lace through yours.

Friends with benefits, that was the deal, it had been easy, simple (no, it hadn't). You weren’t supposed to think too hard about what it meant, because it didn’t mean shit.

You straightened your spine, pulling away to get some space.

“You’re single, Rafe. You can sleep with whoever you want.”

The words felt like poison on your tongue, but you said them anyway.

His grip tightened before he forced himself to let go, clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

His nostrils flared, and for a second, you thought he might snap—but he never did, not with you.

“Talk like that. Like I don’t give a shit.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You had settled for this—late-night or early morning sneaking around, whispered conversations in the dark, pretending like it didn’t mean something to you.

You were scared of ruining everything, of losing him, of making things weird with your brother. You hated this, how he looked at you, he was waiting for you to say something you weren’t ready to admit.

Rafe groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you, exasperated.

“Princess, I don’t even remember what it was like.”

You lifted a brow. “Two hours and you don’t remember?”

His lips twitched. “The only time I care about is the time I spend with you.”

Corny. Stupid. But effective.

He took the cup from your hand, setting it down before gripping your chin, and tilting your face up.

“I’d do two hours with you, though,” he mused, deliberately, enjoying the way your breath hitched. “Maybe three.”

“Rafe—”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, a taunting almost kiss. “Might make you beg for four.”

“You love pissin’ me off, don’t you?”

“A little.”

He knew exactly what you wanted from him, even if you were too stubborn to admit it. You scowled, yanking your wrist again, but his other hand found the small of your back. You loved how easily he manhandled you.

“You mad?” His voice was soft.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignor your skin burning where he touched you. “No.”

“Yeah?” He dipped his head, his lips brushing against your temple. “You sure?”

Your fingers curled into fists. He smelled so good, like cedar and expensive cologne, you wanted to drown in. It made you dizzy, it made you stupid.

You swallowed, exhaling through your nose. “I don’t care.”

His lips brushed lower, the edge of your jaw this time, a ghost of a kiss that sent your stomach into knots. “Mmm.”

You felt the smirk against your skin before he pulled back enough to look at you, eyes burning into yours. You were so fucked.

“You gonna admit it? That you’re jealous?”

You lifted your chin, eyes narrowing. “You wish.”

You wanted him to kiss you, shove you against the counter and make you forget every single thing that had you in your head five minutes ago. You wanted him to ruin you in every possible way—because, at this point, wasn’t he already?

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if it’s making you look at me like that.”

His fingers pressed, against the pulse at your throat. God, how was he so good at this? At getting under your skin? At knowing exactly what to say to make you melt?

“You’re still thinking about it:”

“I’m not.” You tilted your head away, a mistake, because it let him drag his lips along your throat, featherlight, ruining you.

He hummed, not believing you for a second. You think it was the way he held you, or how your brain was fried from the way his fingers splayed against your back, pressing you into his chest, but suddenly, you couldn’t shut up.

“It’s just—” You exhaled sharply, hating how the words came out unfiltered. “It’s not even about her, okay? It’s just—she’s really pretty.”

Rafe pulled back just enough to look at you, brows slightly raised.

You kept going, couldn’t stop now.

“I mean, maybe it’s just me, but I don’t like the idea of being one of many—”

You barely had time to yelp before Rafe moved, hands curling around your waist as he lifted you like you weighed nothing, squirming against him in protest.

“Rafe!”

You gasped as your ass met the cool marble of the counter, legs automatically parting as he stepped between them, caging you in.

His hands spread over your thighs, his grip possessive, “Who the fuck said you were ‘one of many’?”

You glared, mouth opening—probably to be a brat, deflect, keep running—but Rafe wasn’t having it. His hands flexed against your skin, fingers digging in enough to make you inhale sharply.

“You think I do this for anyone?” His nose skimmed yours, so close you could taste his breath. “That I look at anyone else the way I look at you?”

He leaned in, lips ghosting over yours, so close it was agonizing.

“Look at me."

You did, you shouldn’t have.

Rafe had always kissed you like he meant it—needy, but this was different. His mouth slanted over yours, stealing the breath from your lungs, tongue sweping against your lower lip, before slipping inside to taste you.

You felt his broad chest against yours, his fingers digging into your waist, one hand curled around the back of your neck, tilting your head so he could kiss you the way he wanted to, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek with tenderness.

His other hand gripped your thigh, yanking you closer, leg over his waist, until there wasn’t even a sliver of space between you.

And God, his mouth—You wondered if he wanted you to feel him, know him in a way no one else ever had. His lips parted just enough to let out a needy groan, your hands weren’t much better.

You clawed at him—at his shoulders, at his hair— pulling, as the kiss spun you further into something overwhelming.

“Y’think I could ever fuckin’ touch them like this?” His voice was all gravel, punctuated by the way his lips traced a desperate path on your skin, his teeth scraping, nipping, “Could ever kiss anyone like this?”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, coming out in soft, needy groans between kisses.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD—MY EYES! WHAT THE HELL?!”

You didn’t have a second to register your brother’s voice before Rafe groaned against your mouth, forehead falling to your shoulder as he exhaled sharply.

You, on the other hand, scrambled to push at his chest, heart pounding. Your lips were swollen, still tasting Rafe on your tongue.

Kelce made a gagging noise from the doorway.

“Seriously! Seriously?! In the kitchen? Where I eat? My sister, really?!”

Oh God. You ruined it.

Your eyes burned. “Kelce, I—” You stammered, hands tightening on Rafe’s shoulders without thinking. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

Kelce groaned, dragging a hand down his face, and your breath hitched, chest tightening with guilt. He was going to kill Rafe, he was going to kill him, and then he was never going to speak to you again, and their entire friendship was—

“Oh, my God, stop looking like you’re about to cry,” Kelce cut in, exasperated. “I knew y’all were gonna do this eventually, but in the kitchen? That’s so nasty.”

You blinked.

Rafe snorted.

Kelce pointed at him immediately. “Don’t laugh. I’m not over this. I’m in shock. I need time. I need alcohol.” He spun on his heel, muttering under his breath. “I knew this was coming, but did they let me prepare? No. No, they did not.”

You stared at Kelce like he was the dumbest person alive.

“You’re not mad?”

Kelce stopped mid-stride, turning back with a look of pure disbelief.

“Mad?” He scoffed. “Oh, I was mad a month ago when I first realized y’all had this weird, unresolved tension. But I worked through it. I processed it.” He gestured vaguely between you and Rafe. “I’ve had time to grieve.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Grieve?”

“Yes! My best friend and my sister! Of course, I grieved! I had to come to terms with the inevitable—but did I expect to walk into my kitchen and witness a live-action Bridgerton scene? No! No, I did not! I’m traumatized!”

You swore he was obessed with that show.

Rafe nuzzled into you like he wasn’t the reason your brother was spiraling. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t usually kiss her in the kitchen.”

You shoved him, feeling your face heat. “Rafe!”

“I’m leaving. I need to bleach my eyes, and if either of you ever do this in a common area again, I’m calling Mom.”

Your stomach dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

Kelce’s eyes gleamed with pure older brother menace. “Try me.”

Rafe grinned against your jaw, “You sound a little dramatic, man.”

Kelce threw up his hands. “Yeah? Well, tell me how you’d feel walking in on me sucking face with your sister, huh?”

Rafe’s whole body went stiff. “I’d kill you.”

Kelce clapped his hands together. “Exactly! Thank you!” He pointed a finger at Rafe as he backed away toward the living room. “Y’all need to relocate. Immediately.” He turned on you. “And I need so much therapy for this.”

The second Kelce’s footsteps faded down the hall, Rafe’s mouth was on you again. You didn’t have time to breathe before he devoured you.

“You still think I want anyone else?”

“I just—” You tried to speak, but he didn’t let you. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging to make you whimper, and the sound made him groan like it was his favorite fucking thing in the world.

Your head fell back against the cabinets, hips arching into him, chasing his body. He was so big, caging you in, making you feel small in the best way, and it was driving you crazy.

“Say it, baby,” Rafe rasped, dragging his lips back up to your ear. “Tell me you know.”

It was so easy now.

His hands pushed under your skirt, finding the soft lace underneath. It’s why you wear them more now—skirts, the tiny little panties that barely cover anything—because it meant Rafe could take what he wanted faster.

And fuck, did he want you.

"Always so ready for me, huh?" he murmured.

You whimpered, shifting your hips, silently begging for him to move, to stop fucking around, and he laughed.

"Lucky me," he mused, finally slipping a finger inside.

You nodded—not thinking, just chasing the way his touch made you feel.

"Words," he ordered, slipping another finger in, slow and teasing.

"Yes," You gasped, body arching against his. "Always for you, Rafe. Always—"

You broke off into a moan when he added a third, stretching you right, curling in that way that made your knees weak, pumping his fingers harder, faster, pressing his palm against your clit. He was hard against your thigh, you yelped at the friction, rocking against him, chasing the release you knew he was going to drag out—because he loved to watch you fall apart for him.

"Rafe," You breathed, pawing at his belt. "Please, I need—"

But the door swong open for the second time.

A sharp, choked inhale—like someone just got punched in the stomach.

Your lashes fluttered open, and there she was..

Katherine.

Standing in the doorway, eyes darting between you and Rafe, lips parting like she was trying to find the words. But here’s the thing—Rafe didn’t stop, didn’t even notice her.

His fingers, if anything, he curled them deeper, pressing up against that perfect spot inside you that had your knees buckling. Your moan was breathy, desperate, and you didn’t bother quieting it—why would you?

Katherine was still standing there, eyes blown wide, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying to say something. Ohhh, now she got it, she understood why Rafe never wanted her.

You tilted your head, watching her as Rafe dragged his lips down your neck, sucking bruises into your skin, and smirked. And then, just because you could and you were a petty jealous bitch, you lifted one hand and gave her a little wave.

Her face crumpled, running out of the room. But Rafe still didn’t notice and the second the door slammed shut, he was grabbing you, placing you on the ground, spinning you around, bending you over the nearest surface.

And all you could do was laugh because in about thirty seconds when Rafe finally shoved his cock inside you, you wouldn’t be thinking about anything else.

A sharp slap landed on your ass, making you gasp, trembling against the countertop. “Keep your legs spread.”

You bit your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction, but then—then he was pushing inside, stretching you open, and your smirk vanished into a breathless moan.

Rafe groaned, his fingers digging into your skin, “Always letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in,” he tsked, his tone full of amusement. “You love this shit, don’t you?”

He was pulling out slow and slamming back in, setting a pace that had your fingers scrambling for purchase against the cold countertop. His rough hand slid up your back, curling around your, pushing your cheek against the counter, the pressure sending a shiver down your spine, making your walls flutter around him, and he hissed, hips stuttering.

His lips ghosted over your ear, “Bet you get off on it. Knowing someone could see you like this. Knowing I can’t keep my hands off you.”

Your stomach clenched at his words, your breath hitching, you did love it. Loved the way he lost control when it came to you, how reckless he got when he needed you.

“Rafe,” you gasped, your fingers slipping against the countertop, struggling to keep yourself up as he slammed into you. The edge of the marble bit into your hips, but the pleasure drowned out everything else.

He chuckled darkly, dragging his lips up your spine, “Yeah, baby?”

Your head dropped forward, your nails scratching at the surface beneath you, but you didn’t answer, couldn’t really. He was fucking you too good, ruining you in the best possible way.

Rafe wasn’t having it.

“C’mon,” he murmured, his hand slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit. He pressed down enough to make your whole body jolt, clenching around him. “Use your words.”

A desperate whimper slipped from your lips, your brain melting into static. “F-Fuck, I—” You swallowed hard, shaking against him. “I’m close.”

His fingers tightened around the back of your neck, not enough to hurt, only hold you where he wanted you. To keep you right there—his.

“Fuck, Rafe—”

“I know, baby,” he sighed, pressing his chest flush against your back, “Feel good?”

You could only embarrassingly squeal in response, hips twitching as he rolled his into yours, setting a tempo that had your legs shaking.

He smirked, knowing what he was doing to you. “Yeah, you do,” he murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of your ear. “Always take me so fucking good.”

His hand slid around your front, fingers trailing down your stomach before slipping between your legs again.

“Rafe,” you gasped, your head falling back against his shoulder.

He nipped at your jaw, his pace never faltering. “Say it.”

Your walls squeezed him at the command, “Feels so—” You sucked in a sharp breath as he suddenly rolled his hips in deeper, you felt him in your stomach. “God, Rafe—”

He groaned, his pace quickening, “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

His other hand curled around your throat, tilting your head back so he could kiss you—hot, wet. His tongue swept against yours, claiming you in a way that had you melting into him, completely fucking his.

“You like this, huh?” His fingers slipped lower, teasing the spot where you were wrapped around him. “When I fuck you like this? When I take what’s mine?”

Your breath hitched, “Yes—fuck—Rafe, I—”

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty, throbbing, whining in protest, but he spun you around, gripping your thighs and lifting you onto the counter. His hands hooked under your knees, spreading you wide.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing, torturing. “So fucking pretty like this.”

Your hips jerked, desperate for friction, for anything. You scowled, about to snap back, but then he thrust into you again, deeper this time, stretching you wide, making your mouth fall open in a silent cry.

His dropped to your shoulder as he bottomed out. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

You clenched around him just to be a brat, and he growled, pulling back and slamming into you harder, making you yelp. His hands found your thighs, gripping them tight as he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you with long, deep strokes that had your head spinning into another galaxy.

“God, Rafe,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back.

He lifted your legs higher, adjusting the angle so he could hit deeper, his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, spreading you wider, lifting your legs higher against his waist, and you swore you blacked out for a second.

“You gonna come for me?” he murmured, dragging his lips across your shoulder, biting, soothing with his tongue. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock?”

A sharp, breathless moan tore from your lips as your orgasm crashed over you, pleasure making you go limp in his arms, your thighs trembling against his waist.

Rafe groaned as you pulsed around him, his rhythm stuttering, “You feel so fucking good—”

With one final thrust, he followed you, his body going tense, a low groan leaving his lips as he spilled inside you, eyes stuck on the way his cum flowed down your skin.

He bent forward, his lips ghosting over yours, his other hand moving to press against your stomach, just above where he was still inside.

“You feel me? Still full of me?”

You nodded because truthfully, you were still too dazed to do anything else.

Rafe moaned, tilting his head to catch your lips, but he didn’t kiss you right away. Instead, he stayed there, so close, his breath fanning over your mouth, thumb pressed against your lips, coaxing them open, and you let him. Neither of you spoke, just listening to each other breathe.

Then, softly—

“Be mine.”

Your eyes fluttered open. “Rafe—”

“I-I don’t want anyone else. I don’t even look at anyone else."

Your heart pounded.

“Say yes.”

Your fingers curled around his nape, pulling him in. “Yours.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief, “Don’t wanna pull out.”

A shudder ran through you at his words. You felt every twitch of him still buried inside, still hard, needy, he could keep going forever.

“I wanna keep you like this,” His lips trailed up your neck. “Dripping with me, stuffed full of me.” You whimpered, and he smirked, “You like that, don’t you?”

You did. God, you did.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me hard again,” he warned, his voice tight, breathless.

His hand was still pressed against your stomach, feeling himself inside you, and he groaned into your mouth as he rocked his hips again, still buried deep.

“You’re still so fucking tight. Squeezing me—god, I can feel you pulsing.”

Your breath hitched as he rolled his hips again, slow, torturous, making you whimper. Your body was too sensitive, every nerve ending raw, but it didn’t matter. The ache just made it sweeter.

“Rafe, I—”

“I know,” he murmured, dragging his tongue along your lower lip before sucking it between his teeth. “You’re still shaking. You came so hard for me.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding the mess between your thighs, dragging his cum back inside you with slow, deliberate strokes. Your thighs clenched around him, a shiver running through you at the filthiness of it.

“You take me so well,” His forehead rested against yours. “Made for me.”

You moaned as he pressed his fingers deeper, teasing, his cock twitching inside you at the feeling.

“Too much,” you gasped, but even as you said it, your body betrayed you, arching into his touch, seeking more.

“Liar,” Rafe chuckled darkly, nipping at your jaw as he pulled his fingers away, only to lift them to your lips. “Open.”

You did, letting him press them into your mouth, tasting both of you on his skin. His eyes darkened as you sucked his fingers, his hips jerking involuntarily.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Rafe turned your head, capturing your lips in a slow, consuming kiss, he wanted to mark you in a way that went deeper than bruises. When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice was hesitant.

“You meant it?”

You blinked up at him, still dazed. “What?”

“When you said you’re mine.” His thumb traced lazy circles over your mouth. “You meant it?”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I meant it.”

A shaky breath left him, and then he was kissing you again. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and you let him, melting into his touch as he kissed you. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your hip, his other hand sliding up your spine.

When he pulled back, it was only by a breath, his lips still brushing against yours his blue eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, locked onto yours. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Your heart flipped, and before you could even process the words, he was kissing you again. You sighed into him, tilting your head, deepening it, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a little, and he groaned, pressing himself closer.

“You’re not even trying to stop.”

“Why would I?” he complained against your skin. “Not done with you yet, baby.”

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