#she's the one that has changed the most in my head so i figured i should

[thewritingrowlet]

The Art of Unwinding, ft. Red Velvet Irene

tags: deepthroat, anal, fingering

length: 7k

author's note: Yes, it's another Irene fic. Please bare with me.

---

“I will see you all again in two weeks after my leave,” the vice president says. “Good evening, everyone.”

Those last three words sound like the most beautiful ballad in Irene’s ears, as exhaustion promptly dissipates from her body and is replaced by a tremendous sense of relief that makes her shoulder drop almost imperceptibly. Twenty-two relentless days and nights dedicated to the project are finally over, and the promise of a week of simultaneous leave with her superior feels like a lifeline.

Her footsteps, which dragged with the weight of deadlines just moments ago, now feel lighter against the cool tile floor. The knot of tension in her neck and shoulders begin to loosen as her mind, finally freed from spreadsheets and presentations, drifts towards the simple luxury of lying horizontal in bed. Rounding the corner towards the parking lot, the familiar frown that has etched itself onto her forehead softens at the sight of Marco. He leans against their car, the soft glow of the parking lot lights catching the sharp lines of his jacket. He looks as effortlessly put-together as always, seemingly untouched by the kind of stress that has been Irene’s constant shadow.

“Hi, love,” he greets her, his gentle tone relaxing, a soothing balm to her drained soul. He opens his arms, and Irene takes her rightful place between them. “Hi,” she mutters, the scent of his perfume a welcome distraction. “The project is done, isn’t it, baby?” She nods to his question, her cheek rubbing against the soft fabric of his shirt. Marco presses a tender kiss to the top of her head, a wordless expression of his undying affection. “You’ve done so well, love. I’m so, so proud of you,” he says to her, his voice always the first to offer praise and the last to even hint at criticism. “Thank you, love. I couldn’t have done this without you,” she replies, her voice full of warmth, just like this embrace is.

Pulling away from the hug momentarily, Marco opens the passenger door for Irene, signaling her to get in. “Can we get dinner out?” she asks, the thought of facing pans and spices feeling utterly overwhelming. A kind smile stretches across Marco’s face, carrying understanding and empathy for his beloved wife. “Of course, love. Any idea what to get?” he asks back, open to any suggestion. “What about noodle soup?” she suggests, longing for something warm. “Noodle soup sounds like a good idea,” he puts the car in drive, “well, noodle soup it is, then.”

A soft giggle escapes Irene, the light sound a welcome change from the strained sighs of the past few weeks. “What is it you usually say—I’m happy to eat anything as long as I eat it with you?” Marco grins, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Yeah, something like that,” he confirms, his gaze meeting hers briefly before pulling out of the parking space.

The drive to the restaurant is a brief one, filled with comfortable silence and sights of Magnolia’s glittering downtown. As Marco smoothly makes a turn, Irene’s gaze lands on a towering office building that is similar to the one she spends her days in. High up, in several brightly lit windows, she can see small figures moving around within. “I hope they get to relax one day,” she points out, understanding all too well the late nights and relentless pressure those illuminated rooms likely hold.

Marco reaches over and squeezes her hand gently. “I hope they have a good and safe space to come home to—a haven like you have,” he adds softly, his gaze returning the road ahead. Irene pecks the back of his hand, her heart swelling with affection and gratefulness for the safety and comfort that Marco provides. “There would be no haven without you, my love,” she says affectionately.

Marco and Irene enter the restaurant, her arm wrapped around his, letting him lead her towards the register to place an order. “Two noodle soup, please. One regular and one spicy,” he says, his tone dropping to a lower register, a habit reserved for interactions with strangers. Even after all these years, the heavier timbre still sends a pleasant shiver tracing its way down Irene's spine, a subtle reminder of the very charms that captured her heart long ago.

Marco takes Irene to an empty table by the window, knowing well that she likes to glance outside when eating. “Come, baby,” he says, pulling a chair for her. “No, I want to sit next to you,” she protests with a playful pout, crossing her arms for extra mischievousness points. He chuckles, his eyes gleaming with amusement at her behavior. “Alright, let’s sit together, then.”

Irene beams as she takes a seat next to him, leaning against his strong shoulder that is most dependable, literally and figuratively speaking. She lets out a sigh, content in the knowledge that she is truly under his careful, adoring watch.

“My love…” she mutters, her finger tracing circles idly on the sleeve of his shirt. “Thank you for everything, seriously. Especially the last month, and the previous one, and the one before that,” she adds. Marco chuckles, the low rumble vibrating through her. “Of course, baby,” a kiss from him lands on her head once more, “after all, I promised you and your parents that I would take care of your every need.” Irene nods slowly. “You did, and you’re doing a damn good job,” she says, her voice honest and heartfelt.

Through the faint reflection in the window, Marco sees that Irene’s eyelids are getting heavy as sleepiness is starting to claim her exhausted body. He pulls her closer, closing the little gap there is, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her safe. “Rest if you can, baby. I’ll keep an eye out for us,” he whispers, casting a mantra to send her to sleep. Irene hums quietly, slowly losing herself to slumber, her grip on his arm loosening. “There we go,” he mutters. “That’s my good girl.”

Minutes after Irene has fallen asleep, the waiter arrives with their food in a tray, the blowing steam a clear indication of how hot it is. After the bowls are placed on the table, Marco carefully takes a sip, testing the temperature. “Too hot. I’ll let it sit for a bit,” he thinks, not wanting to give Irene food that would surely burn her tongue. “Just a moment, baby; let’s wait until it’s a bit colder,” Marco says in his head. Irene hums: she must’ve heard his thoughts. A fond smile grazes his features as a surge of adoration rises within. “Easy, baby. We’re not in a rush at all,” he whispers.

After a few more minutes, Marco tests the noodle soup once more, satisfied by how the temperature has gotten down to a more suitable level for her. “Irene, baby,” he taps her arm gently, “wake up, please.” Irene’s eyes slowly flutter open, and as she inhales deeply to get herself together, her nostrils get filled with the pleasant smell of broth from the bowls on their table. “Oh, it’s here,” she mutters. “Should we… should we eat now?”

Irene picks up a spoon, but Marco quickly grabs her hand, halting her movements. “I’m going to stop you right there,” he says softly, his eyes full of tenderness. “Let me feed you, love.” Sleepy she might be, but the kind gesture still touches the deepest point of her heart, a content smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you, love,” she says.

Irene takes a sip of soup from the spoon Marco is guiding towards her lips, sighing in satisfaction at the warmth that is spreading within. “Just what I imagined,” she muses, feeling the moderate heat in her belly. “It’s good, isn’t it?” Marco asks. Irene smiles as her cheeks grow warm. “It is, especially when I’m with you,” she confirms.

Marco patiently tends to his wife, feeding her spoonful by delicious spoonful, each pass as tender as the previous one, until her bowl is empty. After swallowing the last mouthful, Irene burps rather loudly, turning the head of a nearby visitor who glances at her seemingly in disgust.

“What are you looking at?” Marco glares at the stranger, protecting Irene behind his piercing gaze. “Your bitch, dude. She’s got no manner or what,” the man dares talk back, going as far as using a dirty word. A muscle twitches in Marco’s jaw. “Hold on, Marco. Ignore him,” he thinks briefly, but the derogative term ignites a fire within him.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Marco rises from his seat abruptly. Feeling immensely pressured, the stranger looks away, his bravado faltering instantly, folding under the sudden rise of Marco’s anger. Marco stands solid, though, his chest rising and falling as he waits for the guy to say something again, his clenched fists ready to be unleashed.

“Marco, please,” Irene pleas, her eyes getting teary at the sight unfolding before her. “I-it’s okay, love—please.” The sincerity in her voice snaps him out of his rageful trance, and he slowly, reluctantly, settles into his seat again. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers right into her ear. “I just didn’t like hearing him say that.” Irene’s hand runs along his spine, as if trying to physically wipe away his anger. “I know, but please, just let it go,” she urges him softly.

Marco begins digging into his own bowl, his sharp stare still locked on the nape of the stranger. Occasionally, he catches the woman sitting across the stranger stealing nervous glances at him before whispering something. “Go on, escalate this—I fucking dare you,” Marco thinks, taunting the pair in his own head. “Marco…” Irene’s soft tone cuts through his mind that is still clouded with rage. “Marco, my love, I know that look,” she whispers. “Please, just… just let it go.” He nods slowly, letting his anger be washed away by her soothing voice. “Yeah, I suppose I should let it go,” he echoes, understanding Irene’s urge to calm down.

Marco finishes his noodle soup swiftly, unwilling to waste another second in this establishment. “Let’s go, baby,” he urges Irene. “We’re done here, aren’t we?” Irene nods, gathering her belongings and following closely behind him.

As they stand at the register to pay, Marco feels an unfamiliar arm draping around his shoulder. “That’s not Irene,” he thinks, so he slaps it away. “Don’t touch me, please.” When he turns to see who it is, the anger makes a quick comeback. “The fuck you want?” he barks, his voice laced with venom, instinctively moving Irene, who stays silent to prevent further escalation, to stand behind him.

“Nothing, man; I just want to say sorry,” the man says, the hostility from earlier completely gone. “No, you’re not fucking sorry. You’re only saying it because you’re scared,” Marco spits out, rejecting his apology. The man shrugs, realizing there’s no way to make amends with Marco and Irene, especially with the former. “Alright, man, whatever you say,” he turns around, quickly making his way back to his seat.

After going through the exit, Marco takes Irene to a secluded spot in the alley next to the restaurant. “I’m sorry, baby,” is the first thing he says. “I just hate hearing that term, especially when it’s aimed at my loved ones,” he reasons. Irene hugs him, holding him close, soothing him in her arms. “I know, love, but surely, we can learn from this. Maybe we can pay attention to our manners more when we’re in public,” she says, not only understanding his stance but also acknowledging her improper mannerism.

Irene pulls away from the hug, her hands drifting to find his. “Maybe we can sit at the park and relax?” she suggests. Marco’s lips begin to curve into a smile as the bitterness disappears without trace. “Alright, baby, let’s go to the park.”

With arms around each other’s back, they begin making their way to a nearby park, drawn to the allure of the round lamps like moths to a flame. Knowing that things will likely take a turn towards intimacy, they agree to sit on a bench that is not as brightly lit.

“Marco,” she calls to him, “thank you for protecting me, even if it was so scary to watch you be so angry.” He pecks her on the temple, both accepting her gratitude and apologizing for providing such an unpleasant sight. “You’re welcome, love, but let’s not bring this up again. I’m still sick to my stomach,” he begs, reluctant to visit the sour memory that is still very fresh. Irene nods, returning the peck back to him. “You’re right; it’s better to focus on ourselves.”

Irene’s gaze roams around the park, looking for pleasant things to look at, and— “Wait, did you hear that?” she asks, scanning her surroundings. “What? Hear what?” Marco looks around too, unsure of what she’s referring to. “A cat, love. I heard meows.” The meows become clearer to his ears now that he knows what they’re looking for. “Oh, yeah, it sounds like it’s pretty close to us.”

Marco thinks he sees something underneath that tree, squinting to make it out. “Is that it?” He rises from the bench, inching closer to the perceived source of the faint sound. “Oh hi, little kitty,” he bends down, looking at the kitten intently. “Are you separated from mommy?” As he inspects it further, he’s starting to get convinced that it’s not a regular street kitten, but rather one that someone has discarded—no street kitten has fur like this.

“Irene, baby, come here,” he calls to her, and she quickly joins him in looking at the kitten. “That’s a special breed, no?” In a moment of uncertainty, Irene tilts her head, trying to decide if the kitten is indeed of a certain breed. “Maybe,” she says, still unsure. “Can you grab it, love?”

Marco takes little steps towards the kitten, trying his hardest to not startle it. “Easy, little one. We’re not trying to harm you,” he says. As if able to understand him, the kitten just stays there, sitting on its hind legs, looking at him with its little eyes while still meowing endlessly. He reaches over and carefully holds the kitty in his hands; it doesn’t look too small now that he’s got it in his palms.

Irene puts her hands on her chest, overwhelmed by the cuteness of the little cat. “Oh, aren’t you gorgeous,” she says. “Can we keep it, love? Please? Pretty please?” she begs Marco to agree to keep the kitten. “I suppose we can,” he says. “But I think we’ll need to take it to the vet first.” Irene looks at her watch, the smile on her face faltering. “I don’t think there’s one that’s open right now.”

Despite the initial hesitation to take in an unchecked kitten, Marco eventually concedes; they will take this kitten home tonight and take it to the vet on Saturday. Irene hops around, excited at the thought of having a cat at home, something to distract her from the burden of life in pleasant, perhaps even mischievous, ways.

During the ride home, Irene cradles the little cat in her lap, petting its head gently with her finger and eventually managing to have it fall asleep. “Goodness me,” she exclaims, her eyes getting teary at the cuteness before her. “It’s so cute, love—look at it!” Marco chuckles, her vibrant enthusiasm rubbing off him. “I know, baby. It’s so cute and tiny,” he says, already falling for the small animal.

Once home, Irene rushes to find something to keep the kitten in, and her choice lands on an unused container from back when they were moving into this house. “Whoa, whoa, hold on there, madam,” Marco stops her, “not that one, please; that one is quite expensive.” Irene pouts, but she complies, opting for a smaller container that is less expensive. “That one is fine, yeah,” Marco expresses his approval of the revised choice.

Irene puts pieces of cardboard on the inside, serving as a mattress for the cat. Perhaps it can also function as a scratching mat since cats love scratching things. “Alright, little one, you’re going to sleep here for now,” Irene says as she carefully places the kitten in the container.

“Oh my God, you’re so cute,” she can’t resist its charms, petting it endlessly, “what should we name you, hm?” “Let’s name it Rora—you know, like roar,” Marco suggests. “You hear that, cutie? We’re going to name you Rora,” Irene echoes, relaying the news to the cat.

Irene rises to her feet, leaving Rora behind, and pads over to Marco, her face glowing with genuine excitement. “Thank you, love.” She kisses him on the lips, her hands cupping his face, happy for the chance to keep the cat. “Maybe it’s not the time for us to have children yet, but it’s definitely time to have a pet.” Marco nods, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I mean, we can try for a child if you want one that bad,” he offers. Irene chuckles, shaking her head as she does. “Give me one more year, please. I’m so close to the top,” she reasons. “Sure, baby. After all, we’re not exactly in a rush.”

-

Irene arrives at work in high spirits, looking forward to a particular thing that has been waiting for her for a few days now. As she approaches her office, her gaze lands on a cardboard box sitting on her desk, waiting to be opened. “Oh, there it is. That must be it,” she thinks, resisting the urge to scream simply out of excitement.

She sets her belongings on the desk, leaving them as is, her attention stolen by the box that is promising something grand. With a cutter, she slashes the tape that is keeping it closed, her heart pounding hard and fast in her chest. “Goodness me…” she mumbles. The content of the box is exactly what she’s been anticipating: a new, shiny plaque, signifying her new post at the company.

“Mrs. Irene Bae-Moretti. Vice President of Product Compliance and Regulatory Affairs,” she reads the text out loud, her voice breaking as each word leaves her lips. Irene holds the name plaque to her chest, her mind taking her on a nostalgic trip, showing glimpses of the things she has gone through to get here.

After wiping the tears off her cheeks, Irene places the plaque on her desk, her hand digging through her handbag to find her phone. Once found, she quickly searches for Marco’s number, and he’s quick to pick up.

“Hello, this is—"

“Marco, my love!” she talks over him, unable to contain her excitement any longer. “I’ve got it! The new plaque with the new title!” The crisp sound of his old money laugh vibrates over the call, and Irene can’t help but break down crying as she’s getting overwhelmed with emotions. “T-thank you… for… just absolutely everything,” she says in a trembling voice, pushing through the tears. “I… I could have never done this without you, love,” she adds a heartfelt declaration, making sure Marco knows how much he means to her.

“Congratulations, baby. It’s been so amazing to see you rise through the ranks,” he replies. “The sky is truly the limit, isn’t it?” Irene shakes her head, familiar with the test lying beneath the question. “N-no, it’s not,” she says. “We… we don’t have any fucking limit.” Marco laughs once more, his pride of her woven in the sound. “That’s my girl.”

As Irene cries to her heart’s content, Marco stays with her from the other side of the call, offering sweet affirmations that do not help her calm down at all. “My dear, I’m so sorry, but my meeting is about to start. How about we talk again later, hm?” Irene takes a deep breath, collecting herself just enough to properly say goodbye. “Y-yeah, that… that sounds good. See you later, Marco, and good luck with the meeting.”

Irene sinks into her chair as soon as the call ends, and as luck would have it, one of her subordinates passes by in front of her office, seeing her through the glass door. She waves at Irene, concern etched in her face. Irene waves her off, putting on a smile to assure her that she’s okay. “These are tears of joy, Melanie—tears of absolute joy.”

-

Marco cracks open a can of soda right as Irene’s car pulls into the driveway, the sound of it too familiar to him. “Ah, perfect timing,” he says to himself. He stands right between the kitchen and the living room so that Irene will catch him as soon as she steps through the front door.

Irene’s frown of exhaustion gets replaced with a beautiful beaming smile when she sees him, his rolled-up sleeves adding more allure factors to his appearances. She quickly closes the door behind her and jogs straight towards him, longing for the comfort only he can provide.

“I’m home,” she mumbles into his chest, her voice muffled by it. “Welcome home, my love.” Marco holds her tightly, sharing the warmth of his body with her. “How was work, Madam Vice President?” he asks, his manner teasing but genuine. Irene giggles, blushing slightly at hearing the new title she’s been given. “It was good, Mister Vice President,” she answers, using his job title back against him.

Marco loosens his embrace, putting enough distance between them to look at each other in the eyes. “I’ve prepared dinner for us, baby,” he tilts his head towards the kitchen, “I made everything myself—well, everything but the wine.” Irene turns her head to the side, saliva pooling in her mouth at the sight of such an appealing formation of dishes with mac and cheese in the center. “I’m not hungry, though,” she kids, but her stomach isn’t cooperating; the subtle rumbling sound just blows her cover out of the water. “Yeah, you’re definitely not hungry,” he mocks her playfully.

With fingers entwined, Marco leads Irene to the kitchen, taking her closer to the source of the pleasant smell that is swirling around them. “Mac and cheese, baby. Three types of cheese and breadcrumbs on top, exactly how you like it,” he points at the dish, particularly proud of his work. Irene beams as the steam coming out of the mac and cheese calls her name. “Did you put chili flakes in there?” she asks, trying to make sure Marco didn’t miss the single most important detail. “I did, baby,” he whispers, his hand finding its spot on the small of her back. “Just so you know, we’re now out of chili flakes.”

Marco pulls a chair back for her, and Irene mutters a soft thank you at the kind gesture. “Why don’t you have taste, baby, hm?” he urges. Irene wastes little time to take a spoonful of mac and cheese, her eagerness drawing a smile on Marco’s face. “Oh, yeah, that’s just perfect,” she says. She’s quick to follow up with another spoonful, enthusiastic to keep stuffing her mouth with this creamy, slightly spicy, goodness. “This is amazing, love,” she turns her head around, looking at him with appreciation shimmering in her eyes, “thank you so much.”

The rest of the dinner goes with a comfortable silence, both Irene and Marco savoring each mouthful of mac and cheese. Pushing her plate to the side, she reaches across the table, her hand searching for his. Marco catches on quickly, meeting her halfway. “Yes, baby?” She lifts his hand towards her mouth, pressing a soft peck to his knuckles, thankful for the simple yet hearty dinner. “You’re welcome, love,” he says, understanding the unspoken words so well.

Letting the dirty plates and mugs still sitting on the table, Marco leaves his seat, extending his hand towards Irene in invitation to spend some time in more intimate ways. Irene takes his inviting hand with a smile, the stress from work melting away with each step they take. She squeezes his hand tightly as they approach the bedroom door, her heart pounding with exciting anticipation.

“After you, my love,” Marco steps to the side, letting Irene enter first, and her nostrils immediately pick up the fragrant scent of aromatics from the diffuser. She asks, “Jasmine again?” Marco approaches her from behind, his hands resting on top of each other on her belly. “Yes, baby; jasmine again,” he confirms. “After all, this was your favorite out of the 6 scents we’ve tried.”

Irene leans back against him, letting her body be supported by his firm torso. “Marco…” she whispers. “Can we… get comfortable, please?” The peck that lands on the side of her neck sends shiver down her spine, flooding her mind with thoughts of losing herself between the walls of the most private section of the haven that is their bedroom, where they have done all sorts of things in.

Irene shivers slightly as she loses her blazer to Marco’s deft hands, the no-sleeve dress providing little protection from the cool bedroom air, but the way he promptly hugs her again warms her up right away. “You know, it’s like you’re trying to get me between your legs,” Marco whispers, his voice hoarse, hinting at how luscious she looks in this black dress.

Irene catches her faint reflection on the glass wall, the sight mixed with the scenery of their backyard. Beyond her ghostly outline, the gentle sway of trees in the evening breeze and the subtle shimmer of their small pond creates a private oasis, a natural extension of the intimacy blooming within the room. It is in this liminal space, where her own image is intertwined with the serene world outside, that she turns fully into Marco's embrace, the cool glass a silent witness to the warmth that envelopes them.

“Marco…” she calls to him, desperately longing for intimacy. “Marco, baby, undress me, please.” Irene exhales heavily when the zipper on her back begins to part, thus revealing the smooth skin of her back to his hungry gaze. With skillful and experienced moves, Marco frees Irene from her dress, letting it pool on the floor, leaving her only in her underwear.

“Is this enough, or do you want to be completely naked before me?” he asks, his whispered words hot against her ear. “I-I want to be totally bare, m-my love,” she stammers. “A-after all, I-I’m your good girl.” Marco smirks, pleased with her answer, even if she’s stuttering a little bit. “As you wish, then.” He makes quick work of her panties, yanking it down her legs, before turning his focus to freeing her plentiful tits. “Can’t be any more naked than this, can you, sweetie?” he teases.

Irene’s heart pounds in her chest, the beat fast and hard, as Marco’s hand slides down towards her crotch. He chuckles; his fingertips reach the dangerous triangle area that is covered with a small patch of pubic hair. “You’re perfect like this, baby,” he praises, still as attracted to his wife today as he was when they first started dating.

Irene yelps when Marco touches her sensitive lips, squirming around in his arms as if trying to escape. “Shh, easy, baby,” he whispers once more. “We’ll take this nice and easy, okay?” Swallowing a gulp that is stuck in her throat, Irene nods. “Y-yes, please. I-I’m not ready to go too fast just yet,” she says.

Marco’s touch on her “dangerous triangle” sends a fresh wave of shivers through Irene. He traces the delicate curve of her hipbone before his fingers dip lower, parting the soft curls with a gentle exploration. Irene’s breath hitches as his fingertips find the slick heat waiting there, a silent testament to her arousal. He presses lightly at first, familiarizing himself with her readiness, and Irene leans further into his touch, her head falling back against his shoulder as soft moans escape her lips. The rhythmic pressure begins to build, each stroke deliberate and knowing, coaxing forth a deeper response from her body.

A low groan rumbles in Irene’s chest as Marco’s fingers dance with increasing intimacy. He finds the small, sensitive nub hidden within the folds and begins to tease it with a feather-light touch, sending jolts of pleasure through her. Her hands tighten on his arms, her body swaying slightly with each exquisite sensation. The world outside the glass wall fades away as her entire focus narrows to the building pressure within, Marco’s knowing touch expertly guiding her closer and closer to the edge.

The breath catches in Irene’s throat, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as the gentle teasing intensifies into a more insistent rhythm. Waves of pleasure crash through her, each one stronger than the last, tightening her muscles and stealing her focus. Her body begins to tremble, her grip on Marco’s arms growing fierce as she rides the escalating sensations. A soft cry breaks free as the peak washes over her, a series of intense pulses radiating outward from the core of her being. Her head lolls to the side, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the echoes of the climax reverberate through her, leaving her limp and utterly sat in his arms.

Noticing her trembling legs and shaking knees, Marco guides her towards the bed, having her sit on his lap while he offers soothing touches. “Easy, baby. Easy does it,” he whispers, his hand running gently in circles on her belly. He holds her tight as she collects herself, smirking to himself at the fact that he can still pleasure her thoroughly with just his fingers. “Just like when we were 26, isn’t it, baby?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement. Irene nods feebly, still riding the last bits of her climax. “Y-yes, my love. J-just like when we were 26,” she continues.

Marco helps her lie flat on the bed, and Irene looks at him with loving eyes and a beautiful, content smile. “I don’t want to stop here, Marco,” she says. “I… I want you inside me.” Marco replicates that smile, tucking a stray strand of hair on the back of her ear. “Gladly, baby, but let me get you some water first.” He quickly makes a trip to the kitchen, filling a bottle of water for his beloved, and returns to the bedroom. “Here, baby.” He watches her intently as she takes small sips of water from the bottle and wipes the excess off her lips.

Rising from the bed, Marco begins undressing, letting Irene see his good physique without restrictions, and she can’t help but lick her lips at the sight of his erect manhood. “Can I have you in my mouth first?” she asks, missing the sensations of having her mouth filled with his sizable member. Marco nods, moving Irene around the bed until her head hangs off the edge. “Mm, yes, take my mouth, love.”

Irene opens her mouth as wide as she can, allowing Marco to fill the space with his shaft. He sighs deeply in pleasure as his shaft enters her mouth centimeter by delicious centimeter, pushing his hips forwards until the entirety of him disappears in Irene’s mouth and throat. “My God…” he mutters, his fingers tracing lines along her bulged throat. “You’re amazing, baby girl…”

Marco begins moving back and forth, rubbing his shaft against her soft lips. Irene, being used to this, doesn’t gag at all; she just lies there, letting Marco use her mouth and throat cavities for his own pleasure, offering muffled moans to signal to him that she’s content with this.

Marco continues his rhythmic movements, his hips gently thrusting as Irene’s mouth and throat work their magic. He lets out a series of low groans, his hands now gripping her breasts, his knuckles turning white with the intensity of the pleasure building within him. Irene’s hands reach up, finding purchase on the back of his thighs, deepening the connection. The sounds in the room are now solely the wet, sucking noises of her mouth and Marco’s increasingly ragged breaths.

The pace intensifies, Marco’s thrusts becoming deeper and more urgent. He can feel the tightness of her throat, the insistent pressure that is driving him closer to the edge. His vision starts to blur at the edges, and he lets out a strangled groan, his body tensing. A series of involuntary spasms wrack his frame as his climax washes over him, a potent release flooding Irene’s mouth. He groans loudly, his body shuddering, his grip on her tits tightening even further as the waves of pleasure subside, leaving him weak and panting above her.

Marco retreats from her mouth, positioning Irene in a more comfortable way, and wipe off the mess on her beautiful face. “Thank you, love,” he offers a heartfelt gratitude for her, still panting heavily from his high. Irene laughs softly, touched by his simple but genuine thanks. “Of course, love,” she says. She reaches for his face, her thumb stroking his cheek, adoring this man before her. “I love you,” she mutters. “I love you more, baby.”

“Give me a moment, please. We can continue after this,” she adds, exhausted but keen to keep going. Marco nods in understanding, punctuating it with a fleeting kiss to her lips. A gesture that is uncomplicated yet meaningful; he’s never the one to shy away from kissing her, even if her mouth was filled with his release just moments ago.

Marco joins her in the spacious mattress, cradling her from the side and offering pecks. “You know,” she begins. “I think I want something more tonight.” Intrigued, Marco asks, “Yeah? Such as what, baby?” Irene’s smile carries the desire lying underneath it, her nails lightly scratching his chest.

“I want you back there, daddy.”

Marco’s jaw clenches: it’s been some time since he’s granted access to her rear hole—and the eccentric name tells him that she’s serious. “Is that so, baby?” he asks, getting very aroused at the thought of being connected in such a naughty manner. “I mean, if you feel like it. I was just... expressing my desire,” she says.

Marco’s hand moves from her butt cheek towards her tight pucker, his mind running wild with imaginations of getting in that hole again. Irene’s heart begins racing once more as she feels Marco’s finger tracing the shape of her anus. “You want it too, don’t you?” Marco nods, his finger pushing slightly into the snug ring, trying to find its way in. “You bet I do,” he answers, no hesitation in his voice.

Irene moves to straddle his thighs, stroking his member to make sure he stays hard. “How long has it been since we last had anal, love?” she asks. Marco’s breath quickens as her soft hand traces a path along his cock. “Two months, maybe three?” he offers his estimation. She giggles. “Well, it’s been long overdue, hasn’t it?”

Irene turns around, showing him the bubble butt she’s very proud of, and uses her hand to guide his cock towards her ass. She gasps when her muscles give way to his invading member, almost out of practice after about two months of not taking him back there. She keeps lowering herself, taking more and more of him, the stretch bordering on pain and pleasure at the same time.

“Oh, God, so deep, so full,” she blurts, savoring the fullness of being penetrated in the asshole. Irene lifts herself off Marco’s lap slowly: the way her tight anal walls drag along his length oh-so-tightly never gets old.

The friction intensifies with each of Irene's deliberate movements, the slickness easing the initial tightness into a pleasurable burn. Marco’s hands explore the curve of her waist, his thumbs pressing into the small of her back, urging her deeper. He can feel the exquisite clench of her inner muscles around his shaft, a sensation that sends shivers of pure sensation through him. His breath hitches, and he lets out a low growl, his hips instinctively meeting hers, thrusting upwards in a primal rhythm.

Irene throws her head back, her hair cascading down her spine, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. The feeling of being so completely filled, so intimately connected, sends waves of pleasure radiating through her entire body. She increases the pace, her movements becoming more frantic, her soft cries echoing in the room. The intensity builds, a tightening coil of sensation in her core mirroring the building pressure within Marco.

Marco’s control begins to slip as the pleasure overwhelms him. His thrusts become deeper and more forceful, his groans louder, his body arching with each upward surge. He can feel the precipice nearing, the point of no return. His vision tunnels, and every nerve ending in his body is focused on the intense friction and the exquisite tightness gripping him.

With a final, guttural cry, Marco’s climax erupts, a powerful surge of release flooding his senses. He grips Irene’s hips tightly, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm as he continues to thrust deeply within her. Irene, caught in the wave of his pleasure, cries out as well, her own climax joining his in a shared explosion of sensation that rocks them both to their core.

Irene shudders as her forbidden hole gets flooded by Marco’s virile seed, a feeling that is truly like none other. Still intimately connected with him, she falls backwards onto him, his firm torso supporting her weakening body. “Irene…” he whispers right into her ear. “Thank… thank you, baby.” A small smile plays on her lips, satisfied with both the pleasure and his appreciation of her efforts. “You… you’re welcome, love,” she replies, her breath ragged and heavy.

-

The soft morning light filtering through their bedroom window illuminates the peaceful stillness of their bodies intertwined beneath the sheets. Marco stirs first, his gaze falling upon Irene's sleeping face, a serene smile gracing her lips. A wave of pride washes over him as he remembers the previous day's news and their passionate celebration. He carefully brushes a stray strand of hair from her forehead, careful to not wake her, and slips out of bed, eager to start the day and subtly acknowledge her new title.

Perhaps he can prepare her favorite breakfast, leaving a small, elegant note addressed to "Madam Vice President" beside her plate?

With lighthearted and swift movements, Marco quickly whips up some toast and latte, along with her favorite blueberry jam and peanut butter to complement them. “Hehehe.” He can’t help but laugh at himself, his heart swelling with excitement and pride at the fact that she’s managed to reach the top, all by her own efforts and supported by his tireless, steadfast presence by her side.

Marco takes the food to the bedroom, hoping that the smell alone will be enough to wake Irene, and he can’t be more right: she begins opening her heavy eyelids as her nostrils pick up the pleasant aroma of toasted bread and freshly made coffee. Marco sets down the tray on the bedside table and joins her in bed, cradling her from the side.

“Good morning, baby,” he greets her, punctuating it with a tender peck to her head. “How did my favorite vice president sleep?” She chuckles, smacking his chest lightly. “The vice president is sore,” she quips. “Her husband was… quite passionate last night.” Marco laughs, squeezing her more tightly in his arms. “Well, the vice president’s husband must love her so much, huh?”

Irene stretches languidly, a contented sigh escaping her lips. "The vice president appreciates the breakfast in bed, Mister..." she trails off, mirroring his earlier tease. Marco leans in, a playful glint in his eyes. "Mister... what, my love?"

Irene reaches out, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger. "Mister... vice president who knows exactly how to celebrate a promotion," she whispers, her gaze softening as she meets his eyes. "Thank you, Marco. For everything. Never could have done this without you, and you know I’m not lying."

He captures her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Anything for you, Madam Vice President. Now, eat up. You have a big day ahead of you." He gestures to the tray laden with her favorites.

As they eat, their conversation flows easily, touching on Irene's excitement and slight nervousness about her new responsibilities. Marco offers words of encouragement and unwavering belief in her abilities, reminding her of all the hard work and dedication that brought her to this point. The air in the room is filled with a quiet joy and mutual admiration, a perfect start to Irene's new chapter.

As Irene prepares to leave for work, Marco stands by the door, his eyes filled with pride and affection. He straightens her blazer, a small, loving gesture that speaks volumes about his unwavering support.

"Go get 'em, Madam Vice President," he says, his voice filled with genuine admiration. Irene leans in for a lingering kiss, a silent promise of their continued partnership and love. “Yes, sir,” she answers, her voice firm and steady. “See you later, Mister Vice President.”

Marco offers her a wry smile, a hint of guilt rising within him. “I’m sorry, but I’ll probably come home late.” Irene’s second kiss erases that guilt quickly, the gesture carrying the assurance that he needs. “Please be safe out there and come home to me in one piece,” she says. He nods, energized by her words. “Of course, baby. Thank you.”

Stepping out into the bright morning, newfound confidence radiates from her. The city, bustling with its usual energy, seemed to hum with a different tune, a soundtrack to her ascent. With Marco's love as her anchor and her own hard work as her wings, Irene steps forward, ready to embrace the challenges and triumphs of her new role, their shared journey continuing, stronger and more intertwined than ever before.

[satorucci]

Toji with his daughter? And a huge breeding kink

dad toji <3

♡ cw: incest, stripper reader x dad toji, breeding, possessiveness, manipulation, slight dumbification, slight hunter x prey dynamics/references, not proofread bc it's 1am :(((

currently listening to: your girl - lana del rey

nonnie note: thank you for this ask, nonnie! sorry it's so long! i love toji, so i went overboard :') i hope this satisfies your needs, i know it is a bit more on the ambiguous side for reader, but i wanted to do something a little playful <3 either way, i hope you enjoy mwah

author's note: remember kids, this is fiction! do not treat real-life adult entertainers like this, n' abide by what makes them comfortable!

MDNI

♡ dad toji, who you've never had the best relationship with - well, actually, who you've never had much of a relationship with. after he walked out on your mom, her downward spiral happened rather quickly. your childhood memories were filled with images of a woman in constant mourning, kneeling on the floor, head smashed into the duvet of her bed as she cried. spilled and empty liquor bottles littering your home. you wondered what could have possibly been so good about that man, your father. he'd walked out on her for another woman - one he claimed had changed him. you were so young when it happened, you didn't know what any of it meant. all you knew was that suddenly, you had been left alone with your mother who quickly turned into a drunken mess.

♡ dad toji, who hasd no contact with you after the age of five. sometimes you thought of him - tried to remember the face of the tall, muscular man who'd abandoned you and left you with a sorry excuse for a mother. sometimes your mother would mention that you resembled him, usually during her drunkest moments, when she wanted nothing more than for you to disappear from her sight. and in these moments, you hurriedly made yourself scarce, scrambling to your room or the basement where you would avoid each and every mirror you passed. if you resembled that man in the slightest, you didn't want to know. you found yourself trying to actively forget even the most minor of details about him - his raven hair and that scar on his lip.

♡ dad toji, who has little to no idea about who you are when you become a ward of the state at age 16. social services had tried reaching out to him multiple times, exhaustingly telling him over and over "mr. fushiguro, you do have a daughter. we're trying to find housing for her. wouldn't it be better that she be raised in a home with one of her biological parents?" to which he always responded, "nope, don't got a kid that age. at least, not one i remember. if she's really my kid, then i'm sure she'll make herself a way in life."

♡ dad toji, who, in reality, wanted nothing more than to move you into his house. but he was nowhere near being a fit parent. whatever your mother had done to get you removed from the home was sure to be less traumatic than living in toji's one-bedroom flat which was devoid of life. he had two children, neither of which he'd seen in a decade. contrary to popular belief, it wasn't because he didn't want to see them - it was to keep them away from him. from his lifestyle, his job, his lack of parental devotion. toji, who was scarred, physically and mentally, from years of earning less-than-clean money, didn't want to be hindered by a kid, nor did he want to bear the burden of fucking one of his kids up, though it seemed the girl's mother had done of fine job of that, anyways.

♡ dad toji, who sometimes wonders what you're up to two years after social services kept blowing his fucking phone up. no one ever called him about his son, so he figured he was doing just fine in the adoptive home he'd grown up in. the guy who'd adopted him, though despised by toji, seemed like a decent parental figure. the girl on the other hand, toji wondered about. you would be 18 by now, and he'd received no phone calls about you being in a prison or some shit, so he figured you had made your own way. he didn't remember your exact birthday, but he thought it'd passed some months ago, if the timeline he remembered was to be trusted. "ah, fuck it. why the fuck do i care?"

♡ dad toji, who had no clue that you'd aged out of the system when you turned 18, never finding a family that wanted such a "damaged" teen. by 18, you'd tried all there was to try. alcohol, drugs, sex, money. you'd clawed a path for yourself in this world without the help of your mother or your father, and you'd continue to do so. as soon as you hit 18, you found yourself dressed skimpily, twirling around a pole in a dirty club at a stripping audition. so long as you had a body, you had access to money, and you'd drain the pockets of anyone dry so long as it got you what you needed in life. you didn't have the luxury of affording wants, but maybe this could be a new beginning for you.

♡ dad toji, who doesn't know that his sweet little girl has become one of the most requested dancers at one of the hottest strip clubs in Vegas. the nightlife is dangerous, and you tiptoe a fine line with every customer you grant an audience. the customers you serve range far and wide - most are bald or graying old men, hoping for a secret reprieve from their wives, some are incredibly attractive men, too young to hold the wealth they do - and they throw it at you in droves as you take your top off, revealing perky tits, and gyrating your hips on their laps, "accidentally" grinding your cunt against their hard cocks. "anything for the money" is what you tell yourself.

♡ dad toji, who finds himself on a rare night out in the Vegas strip. for once, he's not here on official business, just hoping for a casual drink and maybe some action from one of those pretty, pretty girls who work at his favorite strip club. he hasn't been in two years and he's oh-so-curious to see what new stock they have. when he enters the club, it's packed from wall-to-wall with (mostly) men, eyes glued on the stage in front of them. even those in the very back are doing all they can to get a close-up of the beauty on the stage. from where toji is in the crowd, he can already tell she's not one of the usuals from a couple years ago, oh no, this one is new, and she's lively. she looks like fun. twirling around the pole, skimpy pink and white lace on display as her tits are nearly popping out of her tiny top. everytime she squats, the crowd gets a view of the tightness of her cunt against pink lace. toji can almost make out her clit in the getup, and he can think of no one else he'd rather drag back to his flat and fuck the sense out of. he imagines this one looks really good when she's fucked dumb.

♡ dad toji, who doesn't realize his daughter is the one gyrating on the stage when he walks in. toji, who doesn't realize that when he walks up to the owner of the club and requests "the new one in pink", that he's referring to his own daughter. toji, who, for the first time in a long time is thrumming with excitement as he waits in the private room for his woman of the night to come in and grind against his already-hard cock. when you walk in, he can't help but tilt his head back and smirk. yeah, you're just as pretty up close as you were from the back of the club.

♡ dad toji, who stops you before you get right to business. "woah, woah, pretty girl. slow down a bit. i like to get to know someone first. i'm a bit of an old man, so i can't keep up with a quick pace right off the bat." you let out a customary giggle, but he's attuned to notice the bit of annoyance that flashes behind your eyes. oh, you'll be fun. this time, when you start, you start slowly, circling the table in the center of the private room with intentionality, locking eyes with the man splayed across the curved loveseat. his stare causes a bit of intimidation to bloom in your gut. he's so intense, watching your every movement, examining you as if you were something of value and he was determining exactly what that value was - almost as if you were something to hunt. you'd seen those eyes only a few times before in the club, but these kinds of men weren't the type to request private dances, they were the type to hide behind the dumpsters outside of the dressing rooms, waiting to ambush dancers and ask them for their number or something more. this one - this one was bold. and undeniably attractive.

♡ dad toji, who notices the slight flush of your face as you struggle to maintain eye contact with him. he can't help the grin that spreads across his face as he readjust on the loveseat, making his hard-on more noticeable. for your entertainment, of course. you move in slow circles, using the table as a prop that you dance around, eventually stepping up on it, and dancing on it. there's a small pole that protrudes from the table, and you use it to do small spins and swings, nothing too elaborate, as they're not as sturdy as the ones on the stages. his eyes never leave you, they never wander listlessly from one part of your body to the next, they always wander with purpose. surveying each and every part of you. the sparkle in his dark eyes isn't lost on you every time you lift your leg in the air, giving him a peek of your cunt straining against the fabric of your panties. you hope he can't see the wetness.

♡ dad toji, who is thrilled when you finally step down from the table and the real show begins. your hands lightly creep up his thighs, touch as light as a feather, before you turn your back to him, giving him a first-class view of your hips and ass as you grind into him. you're delicate, unlike how you were on the stage. there, you were electric, but in this small room, one-on-one with a dangerously attractive man twice your age, you move with caution. toji wants more. he wants what he saw on the stage. as you grind into his lap carefully, cutely, his hands come up to roughly grip your thighs. you let out a gasp and quickly turn around. "there's a not touch policy-" toji cuts you off with a firm squeeze, and his thumbs rubs gentle circles into the fat of your thighs as you look down at him. his eyes meet yours, dark and sinister, but gazing up at you as if pleading with you. "you can't tell me you don't like it, darlin'. tell me you don't and i won't touch you again, but i promise i can make this worth your time, too." his hands travel up your thighs, finding their place on your lovehandles, kneading them lovingly. "n' i'm a really good tipper." you gulp down a protest and simply nod your head.

♡ dad toji, who, as you face him, and lower yourself onto his clothed cock, finds his hands roaming across your body. you're oh so delicate. so easy to maneuver, to sway. he wonders what in your life has led to you being so malleable. maybe a shitty boyfriend or an absent father. he chuckles to himself at the irony. what if his own daughter is out doing this shit because she had no daddy growing up? oh well, not his problem. not at this very moment. toji's hands guide your hips as you grind down on him, forcing a harder grind, more pressure on his aching cock. he can feel the outline of your cunt's lips against him and he wants so much more from you. his hand reaches for the flimsy string in the back that holds your top together, pulling it and watching as your tits come into view right in front of him. the music in the background is causing the room to vibrate slightly, the dim lighting in the room adding to the ambiance of sinister pleasure that's about to take place.

♡ dad toji, who forgets that he's in a professional establishment as he takes one of your perky nipples into his mouth and you gasp, a small hand finding its way into his hair and gripping harshly. "ah! t-too much-" he releases your nipple with a "pop!" and stares up at you. "wan' me to stop? i was just about to show you what a good patron i can be", and again, you give in. you let him do as you please, because you can't deny the throbbing in your own cunt. you don't know what all he's about to do to you, but you know that you've only ever slept with one customer, telling yourself you wouldn't make it a habit, but you think you might be about to break that rule.

♡ dad toji, who sucks on your nipples harshly while you grind against him. the dance has ceased and left only desperation in its wake. you're desperate to get off, and you can feel his hard cock beneath you. his hands guide your hips back and forth, back and forth, at a fast pace, your clit catching on his cock with each swipe and you feel as though you can barely catch your breath. toji, who reaches a hand up into your hair, tugging it harshly causing you to let out a breathy whine, and buck his hips up into your cunt repeatedly. his mouth only leaves your tits to leave small kisses along your chest, your neck, you jaw. you want more. you have to have more, but it can't be here. before you can pop the question, toji is, once again, staring at you with those onyx eyes. "wanna get outta here? my place is only a few minutes away." you know it isn't smart to say yes, but you want the raven-haired man in your lap to fuck you into another plane. so you nod.

♡ dad toji, who handles you with no mercy the moment the two of you cross the threshold of his door. his hands are all over you, your face, your neck, your back, pressing your body firmly against his own. he quickly discards the jacket around your shoulders - you'd been so turned on when leaving the club early that you didn't even change. you simply threw on a jacket that would cover your skimpy clothes as you left, struggling to keep up with toji in your high heels. your back hits the wall harshly as he's forcing his tongue into your mouth. you lean into the messy kiss, nipples hardening from the kiss and the cold air of his flat. he hikes your leg up, pressing his cock against your cunt, grinding lewdly. "so wet, you're soaking my clothes, too, darlin'" he whispers into your ear. you try to shy away from him, as if the comment had embarrassed you, but toji uses his free hand to grasp your cheeks, making you face him. "keep your eyes on me". his voice is a low, dangerous growl, and you comply.

♡ dad toji, who nearly drags you to his bedroom. you take note of how empty his living space is. there are no pictures, no decorations. it looks as if someone has just moved in, but you don't have time to make any deductions about this before you're being thrown on the bed. toji is on top of you in seconds, handing tracing up your arms, spreading them flat against the bed, and locking hands with you as he continues to kiss you into oblivion. you unconsciously rub your legs together, begging for some sort of relief, and toji laughs breathlessly when he notices. "my pretty girl wants more, hm?" and you nod. "use your words, then. tell me what you want." you look at him in disbelief. you'd been with dominant men before, but they didn't play with their food before devouring it. "tell me, or you'll get nothin'", and you can tell he's dead serious. you muster up your courage to tell him, "i want you..." he cocks his head and grins before leaning close to your ear. "want me to what? finger you? eat you? fuck you? what'd ya want from me? wanna hear you tell me." all of the above. you want him to do all of the above, but you don't think that's the response he wants. "i want you to use me". and that's all it takes for toji's self-control to snap.

♡ dad toji, who's making you hold your knees up as he lap at your soaking cunt, pink panties long gone. his tongue dips in and out of you at a rapid pace as the sound of squelching and your whines fill the room. the whines turn into loan, exasperated moans when two thick fingers find their place knuckle-deep inside of you as his mouth never leaves your clit. you don't know how long you can keep holding up your legs as they're already beginning to shake. toji cocks his head, angling his fingers even deeper and brushing against that sweet, sweet spot inside of you as he continues to lick your clit. pressing a flat tongue against it, using the tip of his tongue to tease you, sucking your clit into his mouth, as his fingers absolutely abuse your insides. you've never met a man like this. when he brings you to your first orgasm, it's so intense, you're not sure you'll be able to continue, but before you can even catch your breath, toji is rising from the spot on the bed where he was kneeling, wiping mouth and licking his fingers, before reaching for the waistband of his pants.

♡ dad toji, whose cock is the biggest you've ever seen. veins protrude, full of blood and arousal as his cock twitches in his hand. "what? ya scared?" you take a deep breath and shake your head, trying to convey some sort of confidence in your response. toji just laughs. "well, then, if you're not scared, then you're gonna be a good girl and take daddy's cock like a champ, right?" daddy? yes. yes, you'll be a good girl for daddy, so long as it's toji. "yes, daddy. i'll be so good". and toji thinks he might be enamoured by you. his hands find purchase on either side of your head, caging you in with no escape. he's so big, looming over you as he leans down to kiss your forehead. it's the kindest thing he's done all night, the only gentleness he's shown you.

♡ dad toji, who guides his cock inside you with little mercy. you find yourself holding your breath as the stretch burns your insides. "breathe" he commands, and you do, in small spurts. his hands find your knees, spreading them further apart for easier entrance. toji grunts. "damn darlin', you're tight. thought i'd worked you open." you try your best to focus on breathing as his cock splits you wide open, and by the time he bottoms out, you're sweating. your hands find his arms, holding onto them for some sort of support as you catch a big breath. he begins to pull out, and then slams his cock back in. in an instant the breath you'd collected is gone. toji begins at a breakneck pace, his cock bullying your cervix with each thrust. you can't help the near-screams that fall from your lips, and toji devours each one, grinning down at you as your grip on his arms get ever-tighter. your cunt grips him like a vice as his pumps in and out of you, over and over, listening to your coos and cries with so much pleasure.

♡ dad toji, who frees one of his arms from your grasp, to find your clit. he rubs small circles around it as he continues thrusting into you like he'll never get the chance to fuck a cunt like this again. your cries turn slowly turn into mindless whines, "please, please, keep going, keep going!" and toji obliges. he leans down, biting down on your neck, imagining what you'd look like pregnant and full with another one of his kids. if it were you, he thinks he just might stick around. you're so perfect. "good, huh, pretty baby? wan' me to keep fuckin' you good?" you nod furiously, nails digging into his arm. he leans down, biting down on your ear and you let out a cry. "wanna stay with me, have my kids?" for a moment, you're caught off guard, but the rhythm of his cock and the way he's stimulating your clit proves to be too much for you to think straight. "yes!" you scream. "yes, give me your kids, please! fill me up, make me yours!", and again, toji obliges you.

♡ dad toji, who was wrung three orgasms from you before he has his first. "wan' me to cum inside you, darlin'? wanna be daddy's girl forever? wanna be a mommy? raise all my kids, hm?" you nod over and over, begging him, "please make me a mommy!" toji's pace quickens as he begins to near his high. he can imagine you now, stuck in his house, round and pregnant with his kids, the whole world knowing that you're his and his alone. the thought alone is enough to make him cum, but the way your cunt is gripping him like a prayer has him going over the edge. "okay, baby, i hear you loud and clear. don't let a single drop go to waste." and you respond with a series of "yes daddy's" as toji cums harshly, fucking his seed even deeper into you. he keeps his cock in you, as your cunt pulses and spasms around him, cumming again. his pretty little stripper. hopefully, his pretty little wife, one day. who says you can't turn a whore into a housewife? toji's sure he can. if it's you, he can. toji, who slowly drags his cock out of you, only to replace it with his fingers. pushing his cum deeper yet into you, and placing a kiss on your lips.

♡ dad toji, who, surprisingly takes good care of you after fucking your brains out. he brings you water, snacks, a towel, but he doesn't let you wipe the cum from yourself, not yet. "we're guaranteed a baby if you keep it in a little longer", and you roll your eyes as he chuckles. "didn't know they had girls like you at that club." he says. you mumble back to him, "didn't know they had patrons like you, either. speaking of, where's my tip?" toji stares blankly at you before laughing. "was the tip you got not good enough, darlin'?" oh, it definitely was, but you still want your money. as he laughs, you notice a scar on his lips. one you haven't noticed all night long. it reminds you shockingly of your father. the one who walked out on you, the one you haven't seen in over a decade. "grab my wallet. it's on the nightstand beside you. just take what you want." you lift your eyebrows in surprise at him, and he shrugs. "you earned it." you don't argue with him, taking the wallet and opening it up.

♡ dad toji, who stares at you confused as you look at the wallet in horror and disbelief. "the hells wrong with you-" he begins, but before he can finish, he's cut off by you holding up the wallet, showing him the sole picture he'd ever had of his daughter. the one he kept with him always, the sole reminder that she was real and somewhere out there. "why do you have a picture of me?"

[ethosiab]

I told myself i wasn't going to redo any of my reference sheets before artfight this year, guess what I did lmaooo

[cuteniaarts]

Wine stains on porcelain

(Alternatively: @katkastrofa and I have created 5 OCs in 3 days and I suffer from chronic “I wanna draw the little guysssssss” disease)

[im-smart-i-swear]

guy trapped in a hell of his own creation: haha ive never done anything wrong in my entire life. and im always right:] anyway. why did my little brother move out:(

its so funny to me that at first glance tashi seems like hed be the most 'normal' out of all the clones but at least all the others are slowly healing n shit while hes just getting more and more insane each day and one day hell snap and explode and maim someone

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[botanicsoul]

The Secretary

agedup! Katsuki Bakugou x (Fem) Reader

MDNI!! (18+)

description: Your entire world flips when you become the explosive hero’s secretary. In the world of high stakes and even higher tension, will you be able to resist his pull, or will you find yourself lost in the heat of it all?” (this bitch is loooooong)

❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❀ ❊ ✿

Pro Hero Dynamight has always been known to overwork at his agency.

Go above and beyond until something is perfect. Every file, every mission plan, every recruit—flawless or you’re wasting his damn time. He doesn’t do breaks. He doesn’t do patience. And he sure as hell doesn’t do mistakes.

People line up to work for him.

Because once you’ve worked under Dynamight, you can work anywhere. You’ve been sharpened by fire. Agencies compete for people who survive even six months at his side.

But just because everyone wants the job doesn’t mean they keep it.

He doesn’t notice most of his staff—doesn’t care to. The only people who get a fraction of his attention are his sidekicks and his PA team. The rest of you? Replaceable. Background.

That’s what you were. Just background.

A newly hired secretary brought in to replace the last one—fired, rumor has it, for leaving a single classified folder out overnight. You were pulled from a random list. No connections, no special qualifications. Just a name picked in a moment of desperation.

And from the beginning, you kept your head down.

Did your job. Stayed quiet. Didn’t try to get in his way. You figured if you didn’t bother him, you’d survive longer than the last girl.

And for a while, it worked.

Until he looked at you.

⸻

It was barely a glance, the first time. You were handing him a folder, and your fingers brushed his. That was it.

But the next day, he asked for you by name. “y/n go to this next meeting for me in 40 minutes and take some notes have it on my desk by 3”

The day after that? He called you into his office to retype a document you knew damn well his PA could’ve handled. He started showing up at your desk more. Asking questions. Staring a little too long when you answered.

No one said anything, but the change was obvious.

Your name started circulating in whispers.

Not in a good way.

Because Dynamight had a reputation. Not just for being a perfectionist or a hard-ass—but for being a flirt. The kind who smiled in interviews and left parties with models on his arm. He was cocky, crude, and didn’t hide the fact that he could get whoever he wanted. He was in the tabloids almost as much as he was on the news. You weren’t his type. Not even close. So whatever attention he was giving you? It had to be temporary.

⸻

Recently one of your male co-workers had been interacting with you a little more than usual lately. He’d stop by your desk for small talk, lingering longer than necessary and dropping subtle hints of flirting—hints you quickly brushed off.

One afternoon, as he stood by your desk chatting about the new coffee shop that had just opened a few blocks from the agency, you heard the unmistakable sound of heavy, aggressive footsteps echoing through the hallway. The air shifted. The floor seemed to still as the explosion hero’s voice cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade.

“Kato,” Dynamight said dryly, voice low but so loud and commanding that it echoed across the entire floor. “Leave my secretary alone and get the hell back to work.”

Everything went quiet.

You could feel the eyes of your coworkers flicking between you and Bakugou, the tension thick in the air. Kato blinked, visibly flinching before muttering something under his breath and practically scrambling away. After that? Silence. No more desk visits. No more awkward compliments. He disappeared.

A few days passed, then a week. You hadn’t realized just how quiet it had been until you were in the break room, talking with Yumi, one of the only people you were actually close with at work. She was leaning against the counter, sipping her tea when you brought it up.

“Hey, Yumi,” you said casually, trying to sound nonchalant as you stirred your drink. “Have you seen Kato around? Last time we talked, he mentioned grabbing coffee at that new place nearby.”

Yumi gave you a look over her cup. “Oh? You don’t know?”

You blinked. “Know what?”

She lowered her voice, leaning in slightly like she was about to share a secret. “After Dynamight yelled at him, Kato got transferred to the other floor—support tech. Apparently he asked for it himself.”

Your eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Word is he went to HR the same day. Said something about ’not wanting to interfere with higher-up dynamics.’” She raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “You ask me? I think he got the message loud and clear—and maybe a little scared. Bakugou doesn’t exactly play subtle.”

You felt your cheeks warm, not sure if it was from embarrassment or something else entirely. You looked away, but Yumi smirked.

“He’s totally territorial over you, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart was beating just a little faster. “He’s my boss.”

Yumi laughed. “Right. And I’m just here for the free snacks.”

⸻

Things started getting more odd after you grabbed your paycheck, scanning it quickly. Your eyes widen. There’s an extra $200 in there. What the hell?

You head straight to HR, a bit confused. “Hey, I think you guys messed up my pay. There’s, uh, an extra amount in here.”

The HR rep looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “No, we didn’t mess up. You got the raise from the boss yesterday. Didn’t you know?”

You blink. “A raise? From Dynamight?”

They nod. “Yeah. He approved it. It’s all there. So… enjoy the extra cash?”

You stand there for a moment, trying to process it. He didn’t say anything about a raise.

Later, you march into Bakugou’s office. He looks up from his desk, not even bothering to look surprised.

“Aren’t you supposed to be re-organizing those files? I told you I needed that done today y/n” he grumbles, like it’s just another day.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were giving me a raise?” you ask, arms crossed. “I went to HR, and they said it’s from you. You just… threw in a $200 bump like it was nothing?”

He shrugs, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, and?. You’ve been working hard, so you get a bump. Don’t make it a big deal.”

You stare at him, trying to hide the confusion. “But you couldn’t have just said something, I thought it was a true and honest mistake? I didn’t want to get in trouble or anything.”

“Not my problem. It’s in your paycheck. Deal with it,” he grunts, turning his attention back to his papers.

“But I-“ you were quickly cut off by his desk phone ringing.

“y/l/n can’t you just fuckin’ thank me? now get back to work don’t ever question me again” he says before answering the phone.

You stand there, a little speechless. You eventually turn around and leave his office just to sit at your desk still confused as ever.

⸻

work had been piling up, you started staying later than usual at nights. But this night was different.

It was supposed to be simple—just a few files left to organize, highlight, and prep for tomorrow morning. Everyone else on the floor had cleared out hours ago. You liked the quiet. No one breathing down your neck. Just your thoughts and the occasional creak of the building.

Then the elevator dinged.

You didn’t look up until you heard the crash—something hard slamming against the wall near the lift.

And then, there he was.

Him.

Pro Hero Dynamight. In full gear. Hair still wild from battle, jaw tight—and in his arms? A woman.

Not just any woman. A model. One you’d seen in magazines, ads, maybe even a billboard or two. And they weren’t just walking. They were clawing at each other, lips locked, her dress hitched halfway up her thighs. His hands all over her.

He didn’t even glance your way—until he did.

Right as he shoved open his office door.

His eyes locked on you. Smoldering. Unbothered. Maybe even a little amused.

And then he shut the door behind them. Click.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. Then you heard it.

The moaning. The banging. The desperate, ugly sounds of sex through that too-thin wall, and you didn’t even hesitate. You gathered your things, barely breathing, and booked it for the elevator before your face could give anything away. You didn’t look back.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way he stared at you.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

⸻

The next morning, you came in earlier than usual—half-hoping, half-praying you wouldn’t have to see him.

Your desk felt different. Like it had absorbed last night’s shame. The pens in your cup were crooked. The light too bright. You reorganized your files twice just to stop your hands from shaking.

You told yourself he wouldn’t bring it up.

He wouldn’t have to.

Because it meant nothing.

To him, it was just another Tuesday night. Another random girl. Another fuck.

And then… you saw him.

Striding across the hallway from his office—jacket slung over his shoulder, hair freshly wet from a shower, and a goddamn coffee in hand like he hadn’t just traumatized you twelve hours ago.

He didn’t even look at you. Not at first.

He passed your desk with that same practiced indifference, talking to a sidekick about an upcoming mission, barely blinking. You exhaled. Maybe it was just another night. Maybe he really didn’t care.

Then, without warning, he stopped mid-step. Turned his head just slightly. Your blood ran cold. But he kept walking. That was it. That tiny little jab, buried so deep it wouldn’t make sense to anyone else—but you knew.

He knew. And now he was watching to see what you’d do with it.

⸻

You didn’t do anything. What could you do?

You buried yourself in your work. Avoided his gaze when he passed your desk. Ignored the little smirk that tugged at his mouth every time your fingers trembled while handing him a report. You told yourself it would fade—that he’d get bored and move on.

But he didn’t. He kept finding reasons to come by. Most times it was work-related. sometimes it wasn’t.

“Where’s the file from yesterday? The one you highlighted.”

“There’s a typo on this one. Wanna tell me where your brain was?”

“You always jump when someone groans, or is that just me?”

“do you always wear skirts that short?”

And the worst part? He never looked guilty. Never embarrassed. Just amused. Like he’d found a new game to play—and you were the only one who didn’t know the rules.

⸻

The next night came.

You were once again the last one in the office, filing mission reports. This time, you double-checked the elevator schedule before staying late. Dynamight had a press conference that evening. He wouldn’t be back until hours later—if at all.

You let your guard down.

Big mistake.

Because when the elevator dinged around 10:43 p.m., and you turned expecting to see a janitor or a delivery guy—

It was him. Alone.

No model this time. Just Dynamight. Loose black tee, sweats slung low, dog tags catching the hall light. He didn’t say a word. Just walked down the hall, slow and deliberate, until he was standing at your desk.

You blinked up at him. “…Can I help you, sir?”

He stared for a moment—eyes hooded, lazy. Then leaned a forearm on your desk. “You’re always here late.” Your throat tightened. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, gaze dipping briefly to your lips. “That why you stayed last night too?”

“I—I didn’t realize anyone else was—”

“Oh, you realized.” That smug look returned. “You saw everything, didn’t you?” Heat crawled down your spine. He tilted his head slightly. “And what’d you think, secretary? Get a good show?” You stood up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m—going home. I’m done for the night.”

But as you tried to slip past him, he didn’t move.

Just let his fingers graze the edge of your desk—then yours. Soft. Barely there. Enough to make you stop.

And his voice? Lower this time. Quieter. Laced with something darker. “I fucked her thinking about you all alone out here” he said under his breath, not loud enough for you to hear.

As you took the bus home after work, his words lingered in your mind. he made you feel like some dirty pervert.

⸻

The following day came, you were a nervous wreck coming to work and praying to whoever was up there to not see him again. But for some reason lady luck was on your side because word got around that Dynamight wouldn’t be in office due for a little to an over ran mission a couple of cities over. You felt the weight of what was like an elephant lift from your shoulders hearing it. The next couple of days you could breathe and get your work done, until the night he came back. You weren’t planning to stay late again but the mission reports were a mess, your inbox was full, and your brain was too fried to say no when your team lead asked for help. Plus you wanted to get it all done so you could go home early for the weekend tomorrow.

Everyone else had left. The sun was long gone, the sky a navy blur behind the tall glass windows. You figured he was still out. Same patrol mission or high-level meeting.

You were so fucking wrong.

The elevator dinged at 11:36pm. You didn’t even look up because you just KNEW. you heard the heavy bootsteps crossing the hall, slow and measured—each one landing like they meant something.

You slowly looked up. There he was.

Hair messy from the wind, shirt clinging to his frame, jaw sharp with tension like he’d been gritting it for hours. He didn’t say anything—just stood there, watching you behind that massive front desk like you were the one interrupting him.

You swallowed. HARD. “…e-evening.”

A low hum left his throat, his gaze staying on you like you were the only thing in the room.

He didn’t walk away. Just shifted his weight slightly, his eyes scanning your desk. You could feel the pressure of his stare, like he was seeing right through you.

You followed his line of sight—realizing too late that your files were fanned out everywhere. Messy. Color-coded. Your pink highlighter cap left open next to your now cold coffee.

Shit.

You scrambled to get up and gather everything, heart thudding harder than you’d like to admit. “I—I’ll get these off before I leave. I just wanted to finish highlighting—”

He didn’t let you finish.

One step closer, without warning.

His body moved with purpose, no hesitation. He didn’t lean in, didn’t raise his voice, but somehow his presence swallowed you whole.

He just tapped twice—once, twice—on the corner of a sticky note beside your hand.

Then, his voice came, low, clipped, a little too calm for your liking.

“Next time you highlight mission details…”

“…don’t use pink.”

he paused for a moment looking at you while his finger was still resting on the sticky note.

“I fucking hate pink.”

You stiffened, trying to shake off the irritation that bubbled up in your chest.

“Well, maybe I’m not here to impress you,” you muttered under your breath, your annoyance pushing you further than you meant to go.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even react at first.

You tried to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck. It was just a comment—nothing more.

But then you saw it.

His lips curled into a faint smirk, that signature cocky grin of his. He leaned in just a little more, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he was too relaxed, too calm for the situation.

“Not here to impress me?” His voice was smooth, almost condescending. “Then why the hell are you even still here, huh?”

Your jaw tightened. You were about to fire back, but he wasn’t done.

He took another step forward. This time, there was no space left between you.

His eyes narrowed, gaze dropping from your face to the pink highlighter in your hand. He reached out, slowly, deliberately, taking the cap from the table and flicking it absentmindedly.

His eyes met yours, cold but sharp. He didn’t blink.

“You wanna talk back to me, huh? You wanna act like you don’t care what I think?” He leaned in closer, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. “You’ll get real fucking tired of that attitude real fast.”

You tried to hold your ground, but something in the air was shifting. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating in a way that made you feel small. Vulnerable. He was in your space now—too close. But you couldn’t bring yourself to back away.

“What, you think I’m scared of you?” Your voice was steady, though your heart was pounding in your chest.

His lips curled into a knowing grin, his fingers brushing the back of your hand like it was nothing. But the touch was deliberate. “No, but I think you like it.”

You inhaled sharply, your pulse quickening.

“Like what?” you breathed, not sure if you wanted to hear the answer.

“Like it when I call you out,” he replied, his voice dripping with something dangerously close to amusement. “Like it when I make you feel something you don’t know how to handle.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he stepped back.

His eyes locked onto yours one last time, with a smooth, and mocking tone. “Not here to impress me, huh? Guess what? You’re not fooling anyone.”

You bristled at the implication, trying to pull away from the tension that was building in the space between you two. But he didn’t let up. Instead, he moved even closer, stepping into your personal space until there was barely an inch of air between you.

“Keep playing it cool,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “But I know exactly what you want.“

His lips were only inches from yours now, and you could feel his breath warm against your skin.

Your heart pounded, and the words escaped you before you could stop them.

“And what exactly do you think I want?” you breathed.

His grin widened, a wicked, confident curl of his lips, and then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, he answered, “You want me to prove it.”

“fuck you” that’s all it took.

And before you could even process what he meant, he was on you.

His hands found your waist, lifting you onto the desk, making sure there was no space between you. The way he kissed you, with so much force and urgency, made it clear he wasn’t about to stop.

You gasped as he trailed his lips down to your collarbone, his hands already pulling at your shirt, lifting it over your head. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but in the best way. The heat in your body was building rapidly, your skin tingling where his hands brushed.

“I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before,” he growled, his lips back on yours with a hunger you couldn’t resist.

You pulled him closer, urging him to take what he wanted, because deep down, you knew you were past the point of no return.

And when his hands moved to the waistband of your pants, you didn’t hesitate, lifting your hips to let him undress you completely.

He didn’t waste any time, his mouth back on your neck, his hands working to free himself from his pants, all while he never broke eye contact with you.

“Say my name,” he demanded, his voice thick with lust, the words slipping from him in a low growl.

You could hardly breathe, let alone think. But somehow, you managed to whisper, “Dynamight.”

He smirked against your neck, his hand coming down on your ass with a harsh smack, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You jolted, a breathless gasp escaping your lips, and he leaned back, his eyes narrowing.

“I said, say MY fucking name,” he repeated, his voice a little sharper this time.

You moaned, your body aching for more as you looked up at him with a pleading expression. “Katsuki,” you whined, your voice higher, desperate. The sound of his name on your lips, the way it twisted in the air between you two, sent him into a frenzy.

He didn’t give you a moment to recover—he grabbed your thighs and dragged you to the edge of the desk, his mouth crashing into yours again, hungry and unrelenting. You felt the hard press of his cock against your bare core, still hidden behind the fabric of his boxers, and you instinctively rolled your hips, chasing the friction you so desperately needed.

“You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ insane,” he hissed against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, panting, pupils blown wide. “Actin’ like you didn’t want this. Walkin’ around the office in those tight little skirts… lookin’ at me like that… like you wanted to be fucked.”

You whimpered, and he chuckled darkly, pulling his boxers down and letting his cock spring free. The sight alone had your breath hitching, and he noticed.

“Yeah?” he muttered, stroking himself slowly as he watched your reaction. “This what you’ve been needin’? Bet your fingers couldn’t even come close to makin’ you feel this full.”

And then he pushed in—slowly, almost teasing, stretching you inch by inch until your back arched and a breathless moan spilled from your lips, your eyes rolling in the back of your skull.

“Fuck—you feel better than I ever imagined,” he gritted, gripping your hips so tight you knew he’d leave marks. “Tight little pussy takin’ me so well.”

He set a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours, the desk creaking beneath you both his as your body rocked with each thrust. You could barely form words—just whimpers and his name on loop like a prayer.

And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get filthier, he leaned in, his voice rasping directly into your ear.

“You know how many girls I’ve fucked the last two weeks?”

Each word was punctuated by a hard, punishing thrust.

“Every. Single. ONE of them—I thought about you.”

You gasped, your nails clawing at his back as your orgasm built dangerously fast.“Thought bout how beautiful you’d look bent over my fuckin’ desk takin’ my cock.”

Your eyes rolled back, the filthy words and his relentless rhythm dragging you closer to the edge. Your whole body trembled under him, your mind trying to deny it, trying to keep up, but your body had already surrendered. It needed him. All of him.

“And how amazing your tits would look bouncin’ in my face as you ride me.” he leaned down to your chest and sucked on your tit as he fondled the other with his free hand.

You gasped as his words hit you like a wave, the sharpness of his growl sending a tremor through your body. Every word he spoke, every thrust, made it harder to remember what it was you were supposed to resist.

His pace quickened, and you were helpless under him. Each snap of his hips felt like a jolt of electricity, shooting through your veins, making you gasp and moan for him. The desk beneath you scraped against the floor as he pushed you closer to the edge, and all you could do was hold on, your fingers digging into the wood as you clung to whatever semblance of control you had left.

“Say my name again,” he commanded, his voice thick with need. “Say it and mean it this time.”

“Kats-sukiiiiiaaa,” you breathed, your head thrown back, the sensation of him inside you almost too much to handle. You could feel your walls tightening around him, your body already on the brink of breaking. You were so close—so close you could taste it.

His lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the desperation in your eyes, his pace never slowing. “That’s it, princess,” he growled, his hand snaking down to rub your clit, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “You’re mine now. All mine and not any of these shitty extras around this place”.

You could barely respond, your mind clouded with the pleasure he was giving you. Every inch of your body felt like it was on fire, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core until you were trembling with the effort of holding back.

And then, with one last, forceful thrust, he drove you over the edge. Your body arched against him, your moans a desperate mixture of his name and incoherent sounds. His name tumbled from your lips again, this time louder, as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and weak.

But Bakugou didn’t stop. He wasn’t done with you yet.

He kept going, pushing you through your orgasm with a brutal determination that had you gasping for air. His thrusts grew erratic, faster, harder, as his own release approached. His breath was ragged in your ear, and the sound of his skin slapping against yours filled the room.

With one final growl, he pulled you closer, his hand gripping your hips as he buried himself deep inside you, his release spilling over as he held you against him, each shuddering breath making it clear just how much he needed you—how much he’d been holding back.

For a long moment, you both stayed like that, tangled in each other’s arms, breathless and spent. He kissed your forehead softly, a rare moment of tenderness after the storm, but the fire in his eyes never fully faded.

“Next time,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, “I’ll be fuckin’ you in my bed not some flimsy office desk.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the muscles in his back as you both tried to catch your breath. This… this was just the beginning.

[kingkaisen]

“You Want to Adopt Me?”

♡ — SUMMARY: You & GOJO decide to adopt Yuji & Megumi.

♡ — A/N: This is a continuation of my dad!gojo au, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary.

♡ — WC: 2k

Four hours had passed since the glorious moment in which Yuji discovered that his beloved teacher had a wife and daughter.

And, after having dinner with all of you that evening, he never wanted to leave.

Walking home that night — all alone, with no family around who would care whether or not he was safe — was one of the most difficult things he had to do. It made curse fighting seem like child’s play.

It was so utterly painful; he fought to hold back a tear as he walked down the sidewalk, staring at his shoes, which he could only see thanks to the dim streetlights.

Truth be told, he hated himself for getting so emotional over this.

Most, if not all of his friends were just as lonely as he was. Most of them didn’t sit at a dinner table and gobble down a nice warm meal with a loving family.

Most of them didn’t have a mother to hug them, or a father to cheer them up. And, if their parents were still around, they were probably distant and unloving.

Even so, it didn’t change the fact that having a family was, perhaps, the one thing Yuji truly wanted.

He just wanted to be loved.

The ache in his heart was so incredibly strong. The pain shot throughout his chest, through his veins, and down to his fingertips.

“Why am I so emotional? I can’t cry over this,” Yuji thought. “This isn’t something worth crying over.”

An unwavering lump in his throat formed from his attempts at holding back a cry.

That was when his footsteps came to a halt.

What was the point in rushing back to his lonely, isolating room at the school?

No one was waiting for him. He could go anywhere he wanted, and no one would truly miss him.

People would look for him, but mainly because of their obligation as sorcerers to track down Sukuna’s vessel. Nothing more.

Some people would actually prefer it if Yuji did disappear. And a few people were honest enough to tell him that to his face.

As he stood there, in the dark, alone on the sidewalk on such a cold night, he couldn’t help but wonder if his friends would secretly be happy if he did somehow vanish into thin air.

Maybe loneliness was destined for him. Maybe everyone would feel safer if he didn’t return to the school. Maybe-

“Hey, Yuji!”

Gojo’s voice startled the young boy, who instantly turned around to see his teacher approaching him, his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t make it too far — good.”

“Is everything okay?” Yuji asked.

Gojo could hear the sadness in his voice, but he decided not to comment on it. After all, he knew exactly why his student was upset. He didn’t have to be a genius to figure it out.

“Yeah, listen,” Gojo paused, “it’s pretty cold and dark out here. Why don’t you come back to my house and stay the night? We can both head back to the school in the morning.”

For a moment, Yuji felt a spark of happiness, but that spark quickly fizzled out.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Yuji frowned. “I’m a vessel. I’m dangerous. Having me sleep in the same house as your wife and kid would be-”

“Would be fine,” Gojo interrupted. “Nothing bad is going to happen, Yuji. Me and Y/N both know that you’re a vessel, and we want you to come anyway.”

Yuji didn’t respond. Nor did he move an inch. Gojo spoke once again.

“She wants to make you pancakes in the morning,” he said in a tempting tone. “Homemade too. The kind that has the crispy edges, but are very soft and fluffy at the same time? We have syrup and butter — orange juice as well. Or do you prefer apple juice? We have both, either way. Not to mention, the bed in our guest bedroom is bigger and way more comfortable than the one at the school-“

“Okay!” Yuji suddenly smiled happily, and it was a real, genuine grin.

He quickly rushed past Gojo, making his way back to your warm, cozy home eagerly.

—

Seven months later, Yuji visited your home as often as he could. Sometimes, Megumi would tag along with him, as the dark-haired boy secretly craved a connection with a loving family too, even if he’d never admit it.

On this particular day, Megumi was lying on the couch, covered in blankets as he watched a movie about two princesses going on some sort of adventure.

Megumi was injured during his last mission, and thanks to the chilly weather, he was also catching a bit of a cold as well. You insisted upon taking care of him, but your daughter insisted that making him watch Barbie movies all afternoon would make him feel better.

As the two of them watched the movie together, you were in the kitchen, standing over your wooden cutting board as you chopped up carrots, onions, and celery.

Yuji hovered over the sink, washing the dishes.

“I want you to have some soup as well, Yuji. You could catch a cold any day now.”

“Yes ma’am,” Yuji said, scrubbing a plate as he smiled softly. “I really appreciate it.”

Suddenly, the front door opened, and Gojo walked in, shouting casually, “I’m home, everyone!”

Quick, soft footsteps could be heard pattering against the floor as your daughter ran up to Gojo, holding her arms out.

“Daddy! You’re home!” She giggled as he lifted her.

“I’ve missed my little muffin so much,” tickling her, he said, “did you have a good day? I think my little girl has grown a couple of inches since I last saw her this morning! Did she grow? Hm?”

The sound of your daughter’s laughter made Gojo smile brightly.

As he held her, he walked into the living room and ruffled Megumi’s hair.

“Cut it out,” the teenager frowned.

“Good to see you too,” Gojo paused, pressing the back of his hand against Megumi’s forehead. “You’ve cooled down a little since this morning, that’s good. I’ll give you some more medicine later on, okay?”

“Okay,” Megumi mumbled.

Gojo slowly put his daughter down. “I’m gonna go say hi to Mom, okay? Keep an eye on Megumi for me.”

“Okay!” Your daughter happily replied. “I can keep an eye on Meg-mi!”

When Gojo made his way into the kitchen, ruffling Yuji’s hair as the boy walked passed him on his way to join Megumi and your daughter in the living room, you instantly stopped chopping your vegetables.

You wrapped your arms around your husband’s neck.

“Hi baby,” he greeted, kissing your lips softly. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” with a smile, you looked into his eyes. “Did you have a good day? Kill any curses?”

“I had a great day. Didn’t kill any curses, though. I was just stuck in a bunch of meetings with the higher-ups,” Gojo said softly, his face only inches from yours, his hands on your hips. “What’s on your mind? You have that look in your eyes.”

“Well,” you paused. “I know they’re teenagers, and they’re very strong and independent, but . . . I can’t help but feel protective over those boys. I love them both like they’re my own. Last week, Yuji accidentally called me mom. He was just so excited when he saw the new clothes I got him for winter, and it slipped out. And it just made me think that, well . . . Maybe he should be able to call me mom. Both he and Megumi. I wanna adopt them.”

Gojo was silent for a moment, which made you frown a bit in worry. Suddenly, he kissed your pouty lips. It was a soft, passionate kiss — one that told you just how much he loved you.

“I think that’s a great idea,” he mumbled against your lips once he pulled away.

“I just think that those boys deserve a place to call home, and that school certainly isn’t it, especially when the people who run it don’t care about their lives at all. It’s just horrible.” Your frown deepened. “And we have more than enough room here, too. We can keep them safe and happy.”

“Let’s go tell them.”

—

Yuji, Megumi, and your daughter were all sitting in the living room, enjoying each other’s company.

The sight of it only confirmed that you and Gojo were making the right decision.

“Hey, we need to talk to you three,” Gojo said.

Megumi grabbed the remote, switching off the television as he struggled to sit upright.

“What’s going on?” Yuji asked, sitting on the floor as your daughter sat down beside him.

“Well, we noticed that you and Megumi have been spending a lot of time here recently.”

Gojo’s words sent an all too familiar heartache through Yuji’s chest. He frowned sadly.

“They’re about to tell me to go away,” Yuji thought. “I knew this wouldn’t last.”

“Me and Gojo decided that it would be best for-”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I get it. I can leave.” Yuji suddenly cut you off, trying his best to hide his pain behind a smile. Slowly, he started to get up, and your daughter grabbed ahold of his pants leg, looking up at him sadly. “I’m sorry if I was a bother. Thanks for everything.”

“Woah, Yuji, where are you going?” You called out, watching the teenager head for the front door.

“Yuji, stop,” Gojo stood up from his seat.

Yuji, who was almost out of the living room, instantly stopped walking. But he didn’t turn back around.

Quiet sniffles could be heard. No matter how hard he fought, or how much he had been through, he wasn’t strong enough to hold back his tears.

The pain of feeling unwanted was simply too great.

He tried to wipe his tears away quickly and silence his little sobs, as he didn’t want to make you and Gojo feel guilty for not wanting a dangerous vessel like him around.

Slowly, Gojo approached his crying student. “Yuji, you have it all wrong. We don’t want you to go anywhere.”

Yuji didn’t respond.

Gojo placed a comforting hand on the crying boy’s head.

“Me and Y/N are going to adopt you,” Gojo smiled. “Looks like you’re my son now.”

“We wanna adopt you too, Megumi,” you said, smiling at the stunned teenager. “We want you to be our son too.”

“I don’t get it — why?” Megumi asked rather sadly. The pain of being unwanted.

“Because we love and care about both of you, so why not?” You said.

“You guys . . . You want to adopt me?” Yuji turned around, his wide, glassy eyes shiny with utter shock. “This isn’t some sort of prank, is it?”

“Of course not,” Gojo grinned at Yuji, before turning his attention towards his daughter, who was starting to tear up when she saw that Yuji was about to leave. “You’re going to have two new brothers, muffin!”

Your daughter smiled brightly, standing up and she ran over to the couch, throwing her arms across Megumi to hug him. Then, she ran up to Yuji with open arms, and he bent down and hugged his future little sister.

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Yuji said, flickering his eyes between you and Gojo. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I promise that I’ll be the greatest son ever!”

Megumi, who stared at his lap as he tried to process everything, suddenly spoke up.

“Thank you for everything,” he mumbled. “I really . . . Thank you.”

“Let’s have a group hug!” Yuji happily suggested.

“Great idea,” Gojo added on just as excitedly. “Everyone pile on top of Megumi since he can’t come to us.”

“Wait, wait, wait-“

Megumi’s new family instantly rushed over to the couch, hugging him and giving him more love than he could handle.

Truthfully, he had no idea how to begin processing this level of happiness, but he looked forward to learning what joy was like.

When Yuji cried this time, he didn’t bother stopping the tears. The warm and silly embrace was healing his soul in ways he didn’t know were possible.

His dream had come true — everything he ever wanted.

Yuji sighed in contentment as the hugging continued, a tear rolling down his cheek.

“Finally,” he said with relief.

He finally had a family.

Next part.

[calypso-rt]

She fell first/He fell harder request (pretty please, you are my one and only writer I ride or die for) She’s your typical sweet shy kind reader kook, a jeans/t-shirt type, a friend of Sarah. He’s always ignored her though in favor of the extroverted sexy kook girls. She glows up a bit becoming more of a woman and dressing figure hugging (though not revealing. She’s still her and modest) and has decided to let go of Rafe, feeling stupid for just having a crush on someone who couldn’t care less about her. Though now she has his attention and he’s feeling some type of way being ignored/the bare minimum short polite conversation when she used to sneak glances at him at the house or find reasons to linger around him…..and he’s def not okay with guys talking to her…while he is glancing from afar with heartache…..and he’s def gonna follow when a guy leads her away from the party and make some heartfelt declaration. I WANT RAFE SIMPING AND BEING A MESS, CHASE HEEEER

-> A/N: i saw this and just HAD to start writing immediately. I love it so much thank you, anon! <3

worth the wait

-> Rafe x F!Reader

It started years ago, slow and quiet, like a secret you kept even from yourself.

You were there, always there, floating around the edges of his world like a soft breeze he never bothered to notice. A friend of Sarah’s, a Kook by default but never quite the type to demand attention.

You were the quiet one. The sweet one. The one who lingered in doorways when he was around, sneaking glances when you thought he wouldn’t see.

(He never did.)

Rafe Cameron had always been too busy looking at girls who weren’t you. The loud, sexy, confident ones who draped themselves over him like accessories, all sun-kissed skin and effortless flirtation.

They knew how to keep his attention. You? You were just the girl in plain clothing, flipping through paperbacks at parties and blending into the background.

You knew better than to hope. But that didn’t stop you from feeling.

Maybe that’s why leaving for the summer felt like such a relief.

A few months away, an out-of-state camp, something new. You didn’t have to be that girl anymore. The one waiting in the wings, the one hoping for a glance that would never come.

You threw yourself into everything: early morning hikes, late-night talks by the fire, pushing past the edges of your comfort zone until you weren’t just existing, but living.

And somewhere along the way, something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t come back with a whole new personality, didn’t suddenly turn into one of them...the girls Rafe actually looked at.

But you carried yourself differently now. Stood a little taller. Laughed a little louder. You still wore the same clothes, but they fit you better somehow, hugging the quiet confidence you hadn’t realized you’d built.

Most importantly?

You came back over it.

Over him. Over the way you used to linger, over the ache of wanting something that was never yours to begin with. It was stupid, really. A crush. That’s all it had ever been.

And if Rafe Cameron had never noticed you before?

Well. That was perfectly fine.

Except… now he did.

It happens at a party, because of course it does.

Figure Eight, same crowd, same overpriced liquor being poured into red cups. The air is thick with salt and smoke, music thrumming under your skin as you weave through the sea of familiar faces.

Nothing’s changed.

Except you.

You’re not lurking on the edges anymore, not pretending to be invisible. You’re here because you want to be, because, for once, you don’t feel like an afterthought in your own story.

And Rafe?

He’s exactly where you left him, stretched out in one of the patio chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, his attention flickering between his phone and the girl curled up next to him. Some blonde, barely dressed, draping herself over his arm like she’s claimed him.

It used to sting, seeing him like that.

Now, you don’t even spare him a second glance.

It’s almost funny, the way his head turns when you walk in: slow and deliberate, like he’s making sense of something his brain can’t quite process. You catch the moment it clicks. The flicker of recognition, the way his easy, lazy smirk falters for half a second before sliding back into place.

You’re laughing at something Sarah says, not even looking his way. Your shoulders back, your head held high, the warm glow of summer still clinging to your skin. And your eyes—God, your eyes—don’t even flicker in his direction.

Maybe it was the liquor running through his blood, but he gets up, the wasted blonde grumbling in frustration as she's pushed aside, and makes his way over to you, heart beating.

“Didn’t know you were back.”

His voice is low, smooth, the same drawl you’ve heard a million times.

You glance up at him, barely breaking stride as you move away from Sarah. “Got in a few days ago.”

His brows pull together. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Sarah knew.” You shrug, effortless, like you don’t notice the way his eyes drag over you, lingering at the way your clothes fit just right. Like you don't care.

(You do. A little. But you’d rather die than let him know that.)

Rafe scoffs, taking another step, cutting off your path like he expects you to stop for him. “Right. Sarah knew.” He tilts his head, watching you too closely. “Guess you’ve been busy.”

You smile, all polite disinterest. “Something like that.”

And then you walk away.

No nervous laugh, no lingering, no waiting to see if he watches you go.

(He does.)

And for the first time in his entire life, Rafe Cameron feels something sharp and unfamiliar twist in his gut.

It takes him a second to recognize it.

Regret.

...

Jealousy isn’t something Rafe Cameron feels.

At least, not like this.

You’re different now. And worse? You don’t seem to give a damn about him anymore.

And he feels it, really feels it, when he sees you laughing with some guy at the party.

Some Kook douchebag he barely remembers the name of, leaning way too close, making you smile in a way that burns in his chest.

His stomach twists. His jaw clenches. His grip tightens around his drink until the cheap plastic cracks in his hand.

“Dude.” Topper’s voice breaks through the red haze, amused and knowing. “You good?”

Rafe doesn’t answer. Just glares at the scene in front of him like he can will it to stop.

(You haven’t even looked at him once tonight.)

You used to... always used to. Sneaking glances, lingering, hoping he’d say something. And now? He could be furniture for all you care.

The guy leans in. Says something that makes you tilt your head back and laugh.

And Rafe sees red.

Before he can stop himself, he’s moving. Drink abandoned, footsteps quick and purposeful as he crosses the room.

By the time you realize he’s there, it’s too late.

“Didn’t think this was your type.”

His voice is smooth, dripping with something too sharp to be casual. You blink up at him, surprised, before your expression flattens.

“I didn’t know I had a type.”

Rafe snorts. “Yeah?” His gaze flicks to the guy beside you, unimpressed. “’Cause last time I checked, you weren’t into desperate losers.”

The guy bristles. “What’s your problem, Cameron?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Rafe—”

But he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking at him.

His jaw is tight. His fists curl at his sides. Everything about him screams territorial, and he hates that he feels like this, like he’s been replaced, like you were his to lose in the first place.

And then you do the worst thing imaginable.

You smile at the guy.

A small, amused, totally dismissive smile, like Rafe isn’t even here.

Like he doesn’t matter.

And that’s when it hits him like a truck, like a gut punch, like a sinking, spiraling, helpless feeling.

He’s screwed.

...

Rafe has never had to chase before.

But that’s exactly what he’s doing now.

It starts with little things. Small, almost unnoticeable gestures that shouldn’t mean anything but do.

One: The Jacket

It’s late. Too late to be sitting out by the beach in just a thin hoodie, but Sarah begged you to stay for one more drink, and you didn’t want to seem like the same girl who used to fade into the background.

You shiver once, just once, and suddenly, there’s a heavy weight settling over your shoulders.

“Rafe—”

“Don’t start,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets like he didn’t just drape his very expensive hoodie over you without a second thought. “It’s cold.”

You glance up at him, suspicious, but he just stares out at the water like this isn’t a thing. Like this isn’t the first time he’s ever done something for you without being asked.

(You don’t give it back.)

Two: The Coffee

It’s early, and you’re buried in a book at a café, sipping on some overpriced latte when a familiar voice breaks your focus.

“You drink that caramel crap?”

You blink up, startled to find Rafe leaning against the table, a fresh cup in his hand. Before you can answer, he sets it down in front of you.

Your usual order.

The one you’ve always gotten. The one you thought no one ever noticed.

Your lips part, but Rafe just shrugs, casual. “Figured you might want a refill.”

Then he walks away.

You stare after him, utterly baffled.

Three: The Save

You weren’t going to call it a date.

Just a study session at the country club with some random Kook guy, an easy way to brush up on Econ while sipping from the drink in your hand.

But Rafe doesn’t see it like that.

He sees some guy sitting way too close, leaning over you like he has any right to, and before you can react, there’s a firm hand curling around your wrist.

“Come on,” Rafe says, voice low and final.

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

His grip isn’t tight, but it’s there. Protective. “We’re leaving.”

You scoff. “Since when do you get to decide where I—”

“Since you clearly don’t know when someone’s wasting your time.” He glares at the guy, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. “Trust me. You can do better.”

And even though you should be annoyed, even though you should pull away, you don’t.

Because his fingers brush against your palm for half a second, just long enough for you to realize he’s trembling.

...

You’re not sure what you expected when Rafe finally snapped.

The party is long over. The music has faded, the bonfire burned down to glowing embers, and most of the guests have either gone home or passed out somewhere inside. But you stayed.

Not for him.

(Definitely not for him.)

You just like the quiet. The way the Outer Banks feels when it’s still. When the waves are the only sound, when the sky stretches wide and endless, littered with stars.

You tug your sleeves over your hands, exhaling softly as the wind rolls in off the water. You don’t expect to hear footsteps behind you.

But you do.

“We need to talk,” he says, voice low, words edged in something raw.

You sigh, shaking your head just enough to make a point. “We really don’t.”

His jaw clenches. “Yeah, we do.”

He sits down beside you on the sand, shoulders touching.

You cross your arms. “You can’t just—”

“Why won’t you look at me?” he blurts out.

You freeze.

He’s sitting too close, his expression a mess of frustration and something else. Something bordering on desperation.

You force out a scoff. “Rafe—”

“No, seriously.” His voice dips, softer now. “You used to. All the time.”

Your stomach flips. You hate that he remembers. You hate that he noticed now and not when it actually mattered.

“I grew up,” you say evenly. “I stopped wasting my time.”

Something flickers behind his eyes, and for the first time, he looks hurt.

“That what you think?” he murmurs. “That it was a waste?”

You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. “What else was it supposed to be?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he just stares at the ground, like he’s struggling to say whatever is clawing at his throat.

Then, finally

“I was an idiot.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Rafe lifts his head, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

Because he’s serious.

“I didn’t see it. See you.” He shakes his head, almost like he hates himself for it. “I don’t even know why. I think—I think I was too busy looking at the wrong things, and by the time I figured it out, you weren’t there anymore.”

Your chest tightens. “Rafe—”

“I notice you now,” he says, shifting closer. His voice is rough, uneven. “I notice everything. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you get nervous. How you always pick the raisins out of the trail mix after you play golf.”

Your breath catches.

His jaw clenches. “And I hate it.”

You rear back slightly. “What?”

“I hate that I had to lose you to see you.” He exhales, shaking his head. “I hate that some other guy gets to stand where I should have been this whole time.”

Silence.

Loud. Heavy.

You stare at him, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at you to run, because this is too much, too late, too Rafe.

So you shake your head. Swallow down the ache in your throat.

“I don’t...” You inhale sharply. “I don’t believe you.”

Rafe goes still.

You square your shoulders, trying to steady yourself. “You don’t get to do this, Rafe. You don’t get to ignore me for years and then suddenly—”

“I know.” His voice is hoarse. “I know. And I don’t expect you to believe me.”

You falter.

He shifts closer. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.

“I just…” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “I just need you to know that I’m trying. That I’m not going anywhere this time.”

You swallow hard, pulse hammering.

Because for the first time, he looks at you: not like a challenge, not like something to win, but like something he’s afraid to lose.

And that scares you more than anything.

...

Epilogue: The Payoff

Rafe dedicated any free time he has to you and only you.

It's not really a conscious decision, there's nowhere else he'd rather be. He's utterly determined to prove to you the depth of his feelings.

You’re browsing the tiny, tucked-away bookstore downtown, running your fingers along the spines, when a book suddenly appears in front of you.

"Thought you might like this one," Rafe says, leaning against the shelf like he belongs there. Like he planned this.

You eye the book, one of your favorites. The same one you used to read at parties when he wasn’t paying attention.

Your lips twitch. "You think you can bribe me with books now?"

"Not a bribe." He shrugs, but there's a telltale smirk on his lips. "Just proving I do pay attention."

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Another time, it's late. You’re shivering outside after a bonfire, rubbing your hands over your arms, when Rafe suddenly pulls his hoodie over his head, a sliver of his toned abs showing, and drapes it over you.

You blink up at him. "Aren't you cold?"

"I'm fine," he says, but his arms are already breaking out in goosebumps.

You roll your eyes but tug the hoodie tighter around yourself. It smells like him: clean, warm, safe.

He doesn’t ask for it back.

You don’t offer.

He's forever jealous although he's resisted making a scene, knowing how much you hate it.

You’re laughing with JJ at a party when you feel it. The heat of his stare.

You glance over, meeting Rafe’s narrowed eyes across the room, his jaw tight, fingers tapping against the glass in his hand.

You arch a brow. Oh?

"Relax," JJ murmurs, amused. "Pretty sure your boyfriend is about to combust."

You don’t correct him.

And when Rafe gets just frustrated enough to stalk over, hand resting at the small of your back, tugging you just a little closer...

You call that a win.

But he's a bit impatient in his love for you.

It happens in his car.

You're laughing—really laughing—at something dumb he said, and he’s just watching you, like he’s trying to commit the moment to memory.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing against your jaw.

You stop laughing.

The air shifts. Your heartbeat stutters. His eyes flick to your lips, then back up.

But you pull away, grinning as you grab the door handle. "Not yet, Cameron."

His groan is tortured. "You’re actually killing me."

You smirk. "Good."

It takes time.

Little moments. Soft gestures. Proof that this isn’t just some fleeting fascination. That he’s all in.

And when you finally kiss him—really kiss him...

He swears under his breath, pulling you in like he’s terrified you’ll change your mind. Like he’s spent years waiting for this and refuses to waste another second.

His hands frame your face, his lips desperate and sure all at once.

When you finally break apart, breathless, he presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot.

"You’re mine now," he murmurs, voice thick.

You smile.

"Yeah, Rafe." Your fingers curl into his hoodie. "I’m yours."

As if you weren't always.

[thinkinonsense]

Bewitched

˖⋆࿐໋ james logan howlett ✦ bridgerton au series

bewitched masterlist

cw: 1800s mentality on marriage and women, pinning, bickering, enemies to lovers

pairing: viscount!logan howlett x fem!reader

a/n: as of right now, i'm not sure how long this series will be but i'm so excited for it! i tried to make the reader as universal as possible but i did have to give her some sort of last name, so if that isn't your thing, you can always change it to fit. after the set up, i'll probably drop the last name.

bridgerton lore: ton (high society), debuting (when you begin dating/looking for a partner), spinster (an unmarried woman)

main masterlist

in early june, everyone returned back to england for this season and whispers of a french woman joining the ton spread around. one morning at breakfast, marie howlett was reading one of the gossip columns aloud to her family when her eldest brother, james walked into join them at the table.

"it says she's staying with her aunt, lady worthington. she is four and twenty and the only child. her passions are literature and painting. apparently, the queen has one of her paintings in her home..."

"she sounds lovely. doesn't she, james?" their mother said, hoping her boy was listening.

"she's a spinster." he says, eating some of the fruit on the table. "that's not viscountess material."

"the queen seems to find her to be diamond material." marie jabs.

james has never fallen for one of the diamonds. sure, their beauty is prominent and sometimes they can hold an intellectual conversation but for the most part they are simply shoved forward so the queen can take credit for their marriage.

"i have more important priorities this season."

"well, this season you should prioritize finding a viscountess." their mother bit at him.

during this time every year his mother gives james the same speech over and over again. the marriage speech. ever since his father died during battle, james has been plagued with not only his grief but also the weight of replacing his father and eventually having to find a replacement for his mother as well. instead of focusing on marriage, james kept himself busy either working or traveling and keeping his family afloat.

"mama, i promise i will find a wife at some point." james sighs. "i just haven't met anyone that can handle being my viscountess."

"what about the red headed girl from last season? you seemed to fancy her quite a bit."

"she married lord summers this past spring."

"and the munroe girl?"

"she's interested in mister brooks."

all his mother does is sigh in response to the news. he takes this as the perfect chance to escape the interrogation.

luckily for james, there was always an excuse to avoid marriage. in the past he's gotten close to making that walk down the aisle but something always held him back. he's never believed much in love or marriage past it's convenience. sure, he believed it was the blueprint of life, to take a wife and start a family but his marriage is seen as a much bigger deal.

all the mamas in the ton were practically throwing their daughters in his direction. at balls, he's always forcing marie to dance with him because if not, he will be forced to socialize with these young unintellectual girls who only value him for his money and title. james didn't want to have to nurture these girls. he would take care of his wife but he wanted someone who was independent from him.

ever since his father died in the war, james has always been guarded of his feelings. especially, when it came to love. when he went with his mother to identify his father's body, james swore on that day that he would never let love destroy him like it did his mother.

"remember, marie is debuting tonight at the first ball of the season." his mother called after him. "don't be late."

"i wouldn't miss it." he smiles at his little sister before dashing out the door and back to his study.

˖⋆࿐໋

a rainbow of silks are spread across your bed as you try to figure out what to wear tonight. if your mother was here, she would know exactly what would look best on you. it's only been three months since her passing yet the ache in your chest grows stronger day by day.

"what are you thinking of wearing tonight?" your aunt asks, lingering in the doorway.

"i'm not sure yet." you sigh, picking at the pretty gowns. "i like the light blue one."

arguably, it was the prettiest in the pile. so simple, you hoped to blend in among the wash of colors in the room tonight. the boning of the corset poked the left side of your ribs a little but beauty is pain.

as you got ready, the nerves started to kick in. by now you should be on your second or third child and pregnant with the next. why was love taking so long to find you?

ever since you were a little girl, you were a hopeless romantic. dreaming of your first kiss and getting married to your knight in shining armor. back home, there was a cruel joke that you were the girl before the wife. you get just close enough before they end it. afraid that the curse would travel with you.

"don't worry." you aunt hums, brushing your hair. "the queen picked you as her diamond for a reason."

"i know, i know." you nod, avoiding your reflection in the mirror. "i just wish mother was here with me."

"i do too, dear."

"she should've seen me married."

a small tear rolls down your pink painted cheeks. it feels like you let her down by not taking a husband before her illness got worse.

men have it so easy. there's no pressure from society put on them. you can marry at fifty to a nineteen year old if you so please because you know that they will marry you out of fear and desperation.

"who says she can't?" your aunts smile reflected in the mirror. "she's still looking down on you, probably working on sending you a lord or a duke for a husband as we speak."

"amusing." you giggle.

"imagine a viscount or a prince!"

both of you laugh at the possibility. viscounts and princes were usually swept up quickly in high society. all of them probably have pregnant wives by now.

"don't get too ahead of yourself."

˖⋆࿐໋

the queens ball was unlike anything you had ever seen. beautiful gardens, bright lights, and people gathered everywhere. inside the ballroom, the chandelier lights almost blind you.

like a hawk, lady chamberlain spots you two. she is an older lady and a close family friend. you haven't seen her since you were a little girl, surprised that she was able to recognize you.

"lady worthington and miss bowery, lovely to see you here!" the woman smiled, wrapping her arms around both of you.

"hello, lady chamberlain." you smile, feeling slightly at ease seeing a familiar face here.

"you look marvelous, sweetie." she smiles, taking in your appearance. at least someone appreciated all the bells and whistles that went into your dress for this evening. "truly like a diamond."

"thank you." you curtsy. a warm rose color rises to the surface of your cheeks at her compliment.

"let's go find that viscount i've told your aunt about." she says.

suddenly, she's pulling you and your aunt over to meet everyone.

quite some time has passed and yet you've only met barton's and a few lords. from one eligible bachelor to the next, it was the same process. you introduce yourself, dance, ask a bit about each other, jump into talks of marriage and children. it was all a bit overwhelming to say the least.

there's no news on a prince yet but lady chamberlain was holding out for a viscount while your aunt held out for a duke. meanwhile, you just needed someone with charm and charisma to save you from these godawful men of the ton.

"i'm going to get a drink." you announce, one the music ends.

in one of the dim corners of the room there was a refreshment table where you poured a hefty amount of wine into your glass and down as much of it –in a very unlady like manner– as you could before another person could find you.

it wasn't long until someone behind you clears their voice loudly.

"i was unaware that they taught women to drink like soldiers in france..."

you spin around quickly to face the man in front of you. he is gorgeous and... huge. dawned in white puffy shirt and a tight black vest with detailed buttons. he towered over you intimidatingly with a small smirk creeping on his lips from shocked expression.

"i-i deeply apologize, my lord. it was just grape juice." you laugh nervously, avoiding his piercing stare.

"hm..." he hums, lifting his hand up and letting his thumb swiftly glide under your lip to catch the bit of liquid there. you watch in awe as he licks the bit of wine off his thumb with a soft groan. "they must make 'grape juice' different in france."

never in your whole life have you been left so speechless. a gentleman has never done more so than touch your hand, let alone act so scandalous. with a satisfied smirk, the man walks away to join a small group of young women. thank goodness that no one seemed to have noticed.

"miss bowery!" lady chamberlain called after you. "i want you to come meet the howletts."

swiftly, you get back to her as she approach a mother and daughter. both of them were stunningly and wore expensive looking gowns with luxurious jewels. lady chamberlains wide smile only made you grow more anxious.

"meet lady howlett and her daughter, the honorable, marie howlett." lady chamberlain introduced.

"lovely to meet you." you say, bowing gracefully before them.

"where is viscount james?" lady chamberlain asks.

"oh! he should be around here somewhere..." the woman looked behind the two of you until she flagged someone down. “there he is!”

the moment that you looked up at the viscount, you feared your heart might explode right then and there. silently pray to the gods above that he won't mention your previous encounter.

"miss bowery, this is my son, viscount james logan howlett." lady howlett announces proudly.

"what a pleasure to meet you, miss bowery." james smirked, trying to get a rise out of you.

"as is it for me, my lord." you curtsy politely, feeling hot under his gaze.

a cloud of lust fogs james mind at the words, my lord fell from your pretty, slightly berry colored lips. the lower his eyes drift from your face, the tighter his trousers get. every exquisite curve is highlighted by the way that the silk fell on your frame, reminding him of the goddesses he had only seen in the finest of paintings.

"might you wish to accompany me to a dance?" he asks, extending his hand to you.

you nod, offering him your gloved hand in return.

the two of you make your way to the dance floor with everyone else. the orchestra begins and you quickly fall in sync with each other.

"how are you enjoying england?" james asks.

"it's quite lovely." you lie.

"better than france?" he questioned with a small tilt of his head.

"no." you giggle softly. "nowhere on earth is better than home."

"i suppose i cannot argue with that."

"have you journed to france?"

"once. when i was younger, i went with my father. he loved france."

"that's why my mother left england. she fell in love with my father when she visited france."

"they must be true romantics."

"oh, most definitely." you smile.

carefully, logan spins you twice. never letting you stumble over your own two feet like most men would.

"i truly am sorry for earlier, my lord. that was completely unacceptable for a–"

"it's alright, sweetheart." the viscount cut you off with a chuckle. "your secret is safe with me."

james looks down to see your big round eyes sparkle up at him with great appreciation. there's a unique feeling blooming deep in his chest that he can't quite put his finger on.

"i heard from some mamas that you are seeking to wed this season." you say, looking elsewhere as the two of you pull apart.

"seeking is such a complex word." he sighs amusingly.

"i imagine it would be difficult to find a future viscountess."

"you have no idea."

all around you, you can see the women openly fawning over the viscount. some fan themselves while other clutch their jewels with either anger at you or lust for him. any of those women would duel to be in your shoes right now.

"do you have a desire to be viscountess?" his question made your heartbeat increase, pounding in your chest.

as a young girl, you watched your family struggle in order to survive so it would be a lie to say that you don't dream of having a title. you have a father back in france to take care of in his elderly age. but love was your main desire. you would marry a sweet common man as long as he loved you.

"i desire to be loved." you tell him.

the answer caught james off guard. the women of the ton had no issue telling him to his face that they want his tittle or money. none of those women actually cared about love.

"well, my darling, you are quite the fool to be seeking out something as pure as love in a place such as this." james says, pulling you so close that you can feel his heartbeat in his chest and his eyes darken.

"don't be so cock-sure, viscount howlett. i am no fool at all." you glare angrily up at him. "i wish you well on your journey to find such a bird-witted viscountess."

the song ends and you are quick to make an exit. hot on your heels, james follows you outside. perhaps you shouldn't have insulted the viscount to his face but you didn't quite care anymore. this night has been a bust and you aren't any closer to marriage then you were before walking in here.

"miss, bowery..." a man calls, capturing your attention. "would you accompany me to a dance?"

based on the man's appearance, he seems even more important that the viscount. he was definitely the opposite of james. this man wore light grey in places where james wore black. this man had a sweet smile where james had a scowl.

"her dance card is full." the voice behind you threatened.

the gentleman's face fell a little.

"actually, i have one last spot open on my dance card." you smile, showing him the tag tied to your right wrist which had exactly one spot open. "i would love to accompany you..."

"prince harrison." he grins.

you hum, offering your hand. the prince leans down and kissed your gloved fingers before sweeping you off to the dance floor again.

james fumed as he watched you walk away with the prince. lady howlett spots her son alone and walks over to him.

“please tell me that you did not scare off this seasons diamond, james.” lady howlett asked in a low whisper.

“i’m gonna call a carriage” he growls, annoyed.

“dear!”

his mother called after him but he couldn’t care to turn around and stay here any longer.

˖⋆࿐໋

on the carriage ride alone, james is stuck with the image of you. your beauty and the pain in your eyes when james called you a fool. oddly enough, james enjoyed the way you bit back at him. he just wishes that he hadn’t offended you.

apparently you must not be that hurt if you accepted a dance from harrison of all people. not because he wanted to court you but because harrison was barely considered a prince and was a poor excuse of a man. never having to lift a finger a day in his life. never knowing a single struggle. the prince was insufferable.

perhaps it was in james best interest to forget about the beautiful woman he met this evening. she is this seasons diamond after all, desired by too many. james wasn't known to chase the things he desired.

──★

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[deadsetobsessions]

Hera stood, waiting for her turn at last. The Queen of the Greek Pantheon traced the lines of neon green, its light reflecting against her true form in a soothing way. She’s no stranger to patience, to waiting. But there were little of those that had the gall to make her wait, and even smaller of that number that she would tolerate such behavior. Regardless, this was the one being she could not afford to offend and so, she waits. Her many forms, her divine self, perceived the room and compared it to her own halls of residence.

Olympus was much more intricate, carved of noble marble and inlaid with countless of priceless metals and gems and divinity. Twelve seats of power atop an engineering wonder, halls adorned with the brightest of the original flames, an hearth that was roaring at Hesta’s skillful hands.

In comparison, this throne room had been changed much since she was last here. Gone were the spikes of terror and screams of the damned. Now… it looked like the most bare throne room she’d ever bore witness to.

And yet, as she waited for the Boy King, Hera could feel the subtle thrum of impossible power. The new king did not flare his will and might like the previous tyrant, and for that, Hera approved. She has had quite enough of living with and under tyrants who cared only for themselves… and their bed achievements whilst failing spectacularly in their marital roles. Zeus was not a good life partner and Hera regretted ever saying yes to him many times in her immortal life. And yet… she loved him still.

The doors opened, and a small figure floated in, flanked by the previous King’s Knight. Perhaps that is what makes this Boy King so dangerous, Hera thought as she dipped into a bow, because he can turn the loyalest to his side.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, in ghost speak.

“Heya, Hera!” The Boy King greeted her back, before waving the Knight away. Hera marveled, a bit, at the sheer confidence he had to dismiss his knight in her presence. Even the last king kept the knights around to ensure his power was always in display, always unchallengeable. The Boy King could destroy her with a snap of a finger and he knows it. He knows that she knows it.

“What did you need?” The Boy King asked, grin still on place as he floated to her instead of seating himself on his throne. Hera masked the bit of confusion she felt in pursuit of her goal.

“I have come here to ask of you a favor,” she began. “I am aware that… you are fond of this, the earth in which I reside in?”

Hera carefully picked her word. Everybody knows that the new King Phantom had laid claim to not only the Infinite Realms as is normal of his station, but an entire Earth as his haunt. He had the power to do so, she could finally see, now that she was standing before him. It would not do for Hera to get her strings cut because she claimed what is his.

“Sure. Why?” The Boy King tilted his head, narrowing that predator green upon her true form.

“Do you know of the Justice League, my lord?”

“Phantom’s fine,” he waved a hand. “And yeah, sure do! Why?”

Hera tilted her many forms in acknowledgement of the command. She bowed.

“My daughter, of a sort, is Diana Prince. Wonder Woman. She is… in grave danger. We can not exert our influence over a land that does not have our history. I can not interfere and aid her.”

“Oh, you want me to help her?” His tone was exasperated, and Hera spoke even more carefully in fear of offending him.

“Yes, if it pleases you. And it would be most gracious of you should Your Majesty have time to watch over her. I fear the danger will not leave her so quickly.”

There was a brief period of silence before King Phantom sighed. “And if it does not please me to do so?”

Hera looked up and locked gazes with evaluating green. “Then I am afraid I will be breaking a fair bit of cosmic law, King Phantom.”

He laughed. “Okay, yeah, I’ll check up on Wonder Woman.”

Hera blinked her many eyes, peacock feathers spreading in shock at how easily he allowed her favors. She did not even have to beg.

King Phantom turned to leave before pausing. “Hera, if you need help, just ask. Preferably without beating around the bushes next time. Also, Pandora misses you. You might want to hang around for tea later.”

Hera regarded him with the might of her divinity, which was but hardly a spec of his own kindness. The last one had not had her respect. Fear, yes. But never respect But this one…

“Yes, my King.”

“It’s just Phantom.” He shot back as he left, the Knight returning to his side once more.

Hera transformed into a more mortal form. She had not seen Pandora in a long time, the young woman had made quite an impression on her. Perhaps her old friend could be convinced in helping her punch Zeus and ruin her beloved husband’s day. Hera hummed, the green that used to flicker acidly against her divine form now only soothed. A reflection of its owner.

King Phantom is worthy of her regard.

——

Holy shit, a goddess asked him to check on the Justice League! She was super weird about it and talked in a really old way of speaking, but Danny hadn’t had anything to do for the past few days while entering the zone for his annual check up.

Danny waved away Fright Knight and dived into the portal that would take him directly to the Justice League and Diana!

He floated down from the portal, blinking at group of disheveled and injured superheroes surrounded by a group of demons. Belial?

“King Phantom.” Belial rumbled. Danny waved, not noticing the standstill his presence forced.

“Shite.” The British man cursed, drawing on his magic once more.

“King Phantom?” Diana Prince, Wonder Woman, said quizzically.

“Who?” Batman, Batman! That’s actually Batman, rumbled.

“High King of the Infinite Realms. We’re buggered if he decides to help Belial.”

“Wait, like the god of gods, that King Phantom?” Captain Marvel asked. Ancients, why are all of them electrical based? Danny hates electricity.

Danny floated closer to them, grinning in a friendly way before frowning as they tensed up.

“King Phantom. May I ask why you have graced us with your presence, my King?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman! Your mom asked me to babysit you!” He grinned, sharp and mischievous.

“What…?” The Flash asked, zipping to their side. “Her mom? Queen Hippolyta?”

“No, Hera,” Danny said, and watched Wonder Woman straighten at his words.

“The Goddess Hera.”

“Yep!” Danny rocked back on his suddenly formed legs instead of the whisp of a tail he usually kept in the Zone. He was also still floating. Danny sent a wave of ice and froze the rest of the demons in one fell swoop.

“The rest of you can take care of clean up, yes? Diana has to get some snacks, dinner, and then go to bed.” He pushed gently at Diana’s shoulders, nudging her towards the plane. She went willingly, respectful but amused.

——

Bruce, intellectually knowing that’s a king but only seeing a superhero teenager: *fills out mental adoption paperwork*

——

Hera, a goddess, terrified of misspeaking and dying as a result: he’s so strong even though he’s young omg powerful and could end my immortal existence

Danny, an unserious king: golly gee why is she speaking like a Shakespeare novel

——

Hera, thinking Danny’s gonna be dignified: pls watch over my daughter

Danny, who has a clone he sees as a daughter and therefore has no issues babysitting a grown woman: lol snacks, dinner, bedtime

Diana:… usually I’m on the other spectrum of this but it’s from a higher up so… okay?

——

Danny, terrifying gods and ancients: they’re my friends! The power of friendship!

[shaiyasstuff]

fate | rafayel | sequel

synopsis : Who are we to stand in the line of fate? That was what you used to think. content : fluff, rafayel x non-mc!reader, a happy ending since there were so many requests for part two

One bullet.

Clean. Fatal. Head.

Another bullet.

Missed—close, but enough to remind you you were still breathing.

You were back at the range. Again.

It had become your sanctuary. Or maybe your penance.

Five days.

That’s how long it’s been since Shaiya and Rafayel found you curled up on the beach, lost somewhere between sleep and surrender.

Five days since you’d let go of that last fragile thread of hope.

Because whatever you were waiting for—whatever foolish, aching part of you still believed—wasn’t coming.

It never was.

Because who were you to stand in the line of fate?

The echo of gunfire fades, swallowed by the cavernous stillness of the room. You lower the weapon slowly, slipping it back into its holster with practiced ease.

Footsteps behind you.

You don’t need to turn. You already know.

“I’m fine,” you say before she can open her mouth, forcing a smile as you dust off your hands. “You don’t have to check on me like I’m a child.”

Shaiya chuckles, light, warm. “I know. I just…”

She hesitates. “I was worried. You scared me.”

There it is again—that soft pang in your chest. The one that always came when she looked at you like you mattered. Like you were worth something.

Standing in front of you was the girl who unknowingly stood between you and the one thing you couldn’t stop wanting.

And still—you couldn’t hate her. Not when she was like this. Not when her kindness reached you in places nothing else could.

“Rafayel’s been asking about you,” she says casually, and your jaw clenches, just for a second.

You look away.

Of course he has.

But not to you.

He hadn’t shown up since that day—when he left without a word and slammed the door so hard it echoed for hours.

“Did he now,” you murmur, fiddling with your holster again like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Shaiya nods, watching you carefully. “Did something… happen between you two?” she asks gently.

You look at her. She’s calm. Thoughtful.

So perfect it almost hurts.

Would telling her change anything?

Would she understand?

Would it make you feel better, saying it out loud?

Probably not.

So you give her a shrug instead.

“No,” you lie, soft and bitter. “Nothing happened.”

The words burn on your tongue, but you swallow them down with the rest of the things you’ll never say.

She holds your gaze for a moment longer, like she knows there’s more but won’t press.

“I told him he should call you,” she says finally. “He kept brushing it off. Said something about how clueless you can be.”

You freeze.

The world stills for half a second.

That stupid flicker again—hope. Always rising from the ashes, uninvited. You hate it. You need it.

You offer a small smile. “Maybe I’ll talk to him.”

Shaiya grins. “Good. Because he’s driving me crazy. Get him off my back, will you?”

She waves and heads out, leaving you alone in the empty range.

Alone with the echo of her words.

Clueless.

You repeat it under your breath like a riddle.

“What did he mean?”

You don’t notice the shadow behind the wall. The quiet figure watching from just out of sight.

Rafayel.

—•

The moonlight spills like silver ink across your apartment floor as you sink into the couch, muscles heavy with exhaustion. You groan softly, letting your head fall back.

Your hand fishes your phone from your pocket.

11:48 p.m.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over nothing.

And then, quietly, you wonder—

What is he doing right now?

Was he annoying Shaiya again, hovering too close in that boyish, oblivious way of his? Was he in his studio, fingers stained with paint, lost in a world he never let you see?

Or was he standing on the other side of your door?

You stand slowly, unsure what draws you forward, only that your feet are already moving. Already at the threshold.

“If he’s there, he’s there,” you mumble, hand on the doorknob. “That’s it.”

But then—

“What if he isn’t?”

And just like that, you pause.

What would you even say if he was?

You’ve never said anything before. Never dared to touch the truth of what you feel.

What makes tonight any different?

You shake your head, scoffing under your breath.

“You dumbass,” you whisper to yourself.

And still, you open the door.

Because even if fate had chosen someone else, even if you were never meant to be written into his story—

Some small, stubborn, reckless part of you wanted to defy it.

Just once.

You squint, eyes adjusting slowly to the pale light pooling in the hallway.

At first, it’s just a silhouette. Then—A familiar mop of tousled lilac hair.

And those eyes—those ridiculous, impossible eyes—somewhere between the ocean before a storm and the sky just before sunrise.

Rafayel.

A boyish grin tugs at his lips when your gaze locks with his.

And you freeze.

He’s here.

He’s really here.

Your heart stutters in your chest, wild and disoriented, as your body stays rooted in place, too overwhelmed to decide what to feel.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, his voice rushed, anxious, as if afraid you’ll shut the door before he can say more.

You blink at him, stunned. Words scatter like leaves in the wind. What is he doing here? After everything, after five days of silence and slammed doors and missed meaning—why now?

He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “I didn’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work through his own confusion.

“How you felt. I mean, I always brushed it off because I thought…”

He trails off, the pause longer than it needs to be, and then—

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

A breath.

“…That way.”

And finally, finally, his eyes meet yours.

The world tilts.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

“Huh?”

That’s all your mouth manages.

Not “what are you saying,” or “why now,” or “you idiot, I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Just that soft, bewildered sound. Like the universe just broke its rules in front of you, and you’re still waiting for the punchline.

He shifts on his feet, lips twitching nervously. “I’m not good at this,” he mutters, half to himself. “But I had to come. Because you opened the door. And I hoped—I really hoped you would.”

And suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re breathing at all.

He grabs your shoulders—not roughly, but with a kind of urgency that makes the world sharpen around the edges. His touch grounds you, and suddenly, you’re sure—

The universe is finally, impossibly, on your side.

“I like you, Y/N. No—wait, I love you,” he says, voice cracking with emotion. “Loved you. All this time.”

His eyes are wide, vulnerable, brimming with something wild and scared. And real.

“I’m sorry I confused you. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize. I’m sorry I hurt you,” he keeps going, the words tumbling out in a rush, like he’s afraid if he stops, this moment might vanish, or worse—you might walk away.

You’re still frozen, heart thundering in your ears, head spinning. But then something snaps inside you—not painfully, just enough to pull you back to the now.

You reach up and place your hands gently on his arms, still gripping your shoulders.

His head jerks up at the touch, eyes locking onto yours—still afraid. Still unsure.

And you smile.

That’s when his worry deepens into panic. Because now there are tears spilling down your cheeks—silent, steady, unstoppable.

“W-Woah, hey—!” he stammers, hands flying up to your face in alarm, wiping at the wetness with shaking fingers. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry—what did I do—?”

You blink, dazed, lifting your own hands to your cheeks. The tears keep falling, and you don’t even remember when they started. You hadn’t planned to cry. You hadn’t planned for any of this.

And then your knees give out beneath you. Not from sorrow this time, but from the sheer weight of relief.

You sink to the floor, breath shuddering as Rafayel catches you, arms instantly wrapping around you like a net made of everything you’ve ever wanted but never dared to ask for.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your forehead presses to his chest.

“Is this real?” you choke, voice raw and trembling.

He holds you tighter, as if to prove it, his voice a whisper against your hair.

“It is. I promise you—it is.”

“I thought—”

The sob ripped out of you before you could stop it, raw and trembling, every word soaked in the ache you’d buried for so long.

“I thought you would never see me that way. That it was always going to be Shaiya.”

Your voice cracked at her name, your whole chest twisting with the confession. You looked up at him, face streaked with tears, the question you’d never dared ask burning in your throat.

“You told me that story… the one about your scales—” you choked, the memory of it splintering inside you. “That your heart was bound to hers…”

Rafayel’s eyes widened, devastated.

He shook his head, urgently, as if trying to erase every word you’d just said, every hurt it carried.

“No,” he whispered, hands flying to your cheeks, cradling your face like it was the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

His thumbs brushed your tears away, and this time he leaned closer, eyes burning into yours with something fierce and unwavering.

“None of that mattered the moment I met you.”

The words landed like lightning in your chest.

“I didn’t know what it was at first,” he went on, voice thick with emotion, “But you—you made me feel like I’d been sleepwalking through every lifetime until this one.”

You stared at him, breath caught, and for the first time in forever, you felt it.

Not just hope.

Certainty.

“Screw fate,” he breathes, voice rough with conviction. “Screw all that.”

His arms tighten around you as he pulls you flush against his chest, like he’s trying to shield you from everything—even the stars.

“You’re the most important to me,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face into your hair, breath warm against your scalp. “Not some fate-written bullshit. You.”

You tremble in his hold, sobs quieting just enough to feel the way his heart is racing beneath your cheek—fast and real, like it’s beating just for you.

“Stop crying,” he whispers, softer now, voice breaking around the edges. “Shh… I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay.”

And this time, when you close your eyes against his shoulder, it’s not in grief.

It’s in the slow, overwhelming realization that maybe—just maybe—this time, love chose you back.

Your head shot up again, breath catching, panic flaring in your chest as your fingers clutched his arm—tight, desperate, enough to make him flinch.

“Shai—”

“She knows,” Rafayel cuts in gently, before you can say another word. “She knew. The whole time.”

You go still. The wind outside could’ve stopped and you wouldn’t have noticed.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Just stunned silence.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, eyes searching yours, full of guilt and something deeper. “I know how it must’ve looked. How I was always with her. But—” he swallows, his voice catching, “it wasn’t because I loved her.”

He licks his lips, and his hands cradle your face again, his thumbs resting beneath your eyes as if he’s afraid you’ll start crying all over again.

“She was the only one I could go to,” he confesses, voice just above a whisper. “The only one I trusted… to tell how I felt about you.”

It hits you like a wave—sharp, cold, and then warm, like everything you’d been aching for was finally surfacing.

Every moment you thought he was choosing her—

He was only ever trying to understand what you meant to him.

And somehow, she knew before even you did.

“I’m stupid,” he mutters, a sheepish look flickering across his face. “I say things without thinking. I know.”

There’s an apology in his voice, unpolished and honest, as if he’s laying himself bare for the first time.

And despite everything—despite the ache, the confusion, the tears—

a soft, breathy laugh escapes your lips.

It catches you off guard.

Because all at once, the memories rush in—

the way he hovered when you were quiet for too long,

how he always brought your favorite snacks back from missions without asking,

how he’d search the crowd until his eyes found yours, even when Shaiya was right beside him.

The way he always noticed when something was off, even when you said you were fine.

He’d been showing you his heart, clumsily, messily, loudly, and yet—

You convinced yourself it wasn’t real.

You convinced yourself that fate had no room for a love like this.

And maybe… maybe you were wrong.

Rafayel blinked at you, startled by your sudden laughter.

“Did I say something funny?” he asks cautiously, lips curving just slightly, hopeful.

You shake your head, smile trembling through your tears. “No. Just… me. I was so sure none of it meant anything.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“It meant everything,” he whispers.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, breathless, hopeful, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

You smile—soft, radiant, a little shaky—and nod.

A wave of relief washes over his face so quickly it nearly makes you laugh again. He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for years.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent, “how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

And then—he moves.

No hesitation.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, hands cupping your face as his lips find yours.

The kiss isn’t tentative. It isn’t shy or delicate or fleeting.

It’s real.

All the longing you buried in silence, all the moments he loved you without saying a word, all the ache and confusion and heartbreak—

It all crashes together in that single, breath-stealing moment.

It’s not rough, but it’s not gentle either.

It’s everything you both couldn’t say, finally spoken in the language of skin and breath and trembling mouths.

And when he pulls back, just barely, just enough to rest his forehead against yours again, you’re both breathless and smiling and finally, finally seen.

“Still think fate’s unbeatable?” he whispers.

You hit his chest as he chuckles, but you don’t retort.

Because for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t.

masterlist

[cillians-sweetheart]

Secret Boyfriend - Thomas Shelby

Thomas Shelby(39) x Fem!Reader(18)

Plot: Y/N has a new, secret boyfriend who she meets up with late in the night to avoid judgement from her parents as he is not quite what they would want, but perfect for Y/N in pleasing all her needs.

Content: Smut, age-gap, pet names, secrecy, oral (m), rubbing (m & f), car sex, riding, dirty talk (m & f), huge daddy kink, no protection, Tommy sounds kinda pervy but romantic too

(Modern day Thomas Shelby in this story)

Laying in my little white bed, I kick my feet and grin at my screen while I text my new boyfriend, Thomas. I’ve met him through the internet and have met with a few times late at night when my parents were asleep. 

I couldn’t have them find out I had been seeing a man almost 3 times my age. I was freshly 18, and still a child to them. They’d never understand what Tommy and I have. He was tall, and fit. And each time I’d see him he’d wear the type of suits he wore to work. Perfectly tailored to his figure, and always smelling rich and manly. There was no way I could keep my hands to myself when I was with him.

Most nights I’d run out to his car in the dark and we’d drive around the city to an empty road where he'd kiss, and caress me until the sun rose. His lips were always so gentle. And during the day I’d sneak away from everyone to text him. 

{“I miss you”}, I texted while smiling and giggling like a high school girl. I mean technically I was, so it made sense.

Just seconds after a new message pops up on my screen. {“I miss you too my girl ;)”}

{“how was work?”}

{“Ah, it was fine, just boring office stuff. Nothing interesting.”} Thomas sent while sitting alone in his house, still in his work clothes and also grinning to himself.

{“Can I see you tonight?”}

{“Won’t your parents be home, baby?”}

{“Please daddy… I need you”}

Thomas chuckled to himself, {“Haha baby, don’t do this to me. I really want to come and touch you but I don’t want you getting caught”}

{“When my parents go to sleep I can sneak out and come meet you. No one will see me”}

{“Oh baby, you’re just tempting me. You know I can’t resist feeling you… I’ll be there tonight.”}

{“Ok thank you daddy, I’ll see you soon”} 

I sent the message with my cheeks a flustered shade of pink. I quickly jumped up from my bed and changed into nicer clothing and quickly applied makeup on my smooth face. It was getting late anyway so I’d get ready now. 

Thomas too got up and grabbed his car keys. He loved how I begged for him, and how I’d do anything just to see him. And soon enough he arrived outside my house. He was nervous for me, but couldn’t wait another second longer to touch me. 

{“I’m here love. Whenever you’re ready”}

{“Coming daddy”} I quickly replied and quickly ran down the stairs to the front door. 

When I came outside, Thomas was leaning against his expensive car with that handsome smirk he always got when he saw me. I quickly ran to him with my short dress flowing in the wind and brushing against my thighs. I wrapped my body around him in a tight hug, and inhaled deeply his rich scent and felt his toned chest through his shirt.

“Oh my princess…” He smiled and kissed the top of my head. “Come on baby.” He led me to the passenger seat and opened the door for me. 

We drove around through the dark empty roads. His big hand lightly rubbed my bare thigh with intimate caresses. Slowly I began to slide down in the seat making his hand go higher and higher between my legs. He got the hint and trailed his hand up my dress to gently tickle me through my thin, lacy pantries. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off him from beside me as he rubbed me with his finger. I bit my lip and whimpered at his touch. He looked over to me, his eyes scanning from my shivering legs up to my baby doll face. 

“You’re such a cute girl… couldn’t wait to see daddy, couldn’t you?” He asked with his voice so smooth, and silky on my ears. 

“Mhm,” I nodded, looking down between my legs at my growing wetness for him. 

Eventually after several minutes driving through the quiet streets, Thomas parked at the end of a dead road. There was nothing but trees and darkness all around us. Thomas turned off the car and turned to me. 

“Give daddy a kiss.” He leaned in closer to me, moving his hands up to hold my face. I instantly fell into him and my lips latched onto his hungrily. Sweet little moans escaped my lips each time they’d separate even the slightest. 

Thomas pulled back to look closely at my face. With his thumb he traced my bottom lip, and in return I kissed his skin lovingly like a little puppy. “Such a good girl… you know exactly how to please your daddy, hm?” 

I nodded, continuing to kiss his thumb and over his whole hand. My submission was more than obvious for him. There’s nothing I’d not do for him. 

I pulled my lips away from his hand and Thomas leaned back to get out of the car. I watched him outside just briefly before he got back into the car in the backseat. He sat right in the middle with his legs spread and his bulge showing through his dress pants. 

“Come here.” He sat back, watching me with amusement as I crawled to him. “Good girl… Crawl to daddy.” His voice was low and sensual, making my legs shiver. 

In the backseat I straddled Thomas’s lap and looked into his blue eyes that I could barely see in the dark, but I could feel the lust in them. 

My hands felt around on his muscular chest and unbuttoned his shirt as my hands travelled lower and lower down his torso. His skin beneath was hot, and smooth and the hair on his chest, and below his belly button made my panties wet as I touched it. His legs spread wider, and his pants grew tighter. I felt as his hardening cock poked and rubbed me through my pantries. It made my mouth water.

I moved to the side on the leather seat next to him and looked up into his eyes while I eagerly undid his pants. His hips moved lower into the seat and his head laid back against the leather. He felt his cock just aching to be touched, and sucked. 

“That’s good baby, keep going.” He groaned under his breath while I pulled his big, needy cock from his pants. My eyes glared up into his while my face and lips slowly lowered to his hot, wet skin. I kissed and licked at his pink tip like a little kitten while making eye contact the whole time.

Thomas petted my silky hair while looking down at me with admiration, “My good baby… pleasing your daddy so well,” He groaned to the feeling of my lips hungrily sucking and kissing on his tip. His hand gripped in my hair and he tilted my face up to look at him while he pushed my mouth down the length of his thick cock. He groaned and cursed while I loved on his sweet, sensitive skin. I needed to give daddy more and slowly bobbed my head and sucked in my cheeks around him. “Hmh… god… just like that baby, just like that.” 

I sucked and swallowed him like it was the last thing I’d ever do. I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to. He tasted so good, and making my daddy feel good was all that I lived for. 

I pulled my mouth up from his dripping cock with a pop when he tugged on my hair. “Come.” He patted his thigh and I obediently sat up and straddled his lap. “Let daddy see that little pussy…” He was voice rough and hot in my neck and he lifted the straps of my pantries off and down my hips. I leaned back and let him strip me until I was completely naked on his lap, sitting and waiting for the attention I craved. 

“So cute,” He whispered glaring down my body and between my legs. His fingers slipped between my legs and slowly he rubbed my wet clit in gentle circles.

I was so sensitive from my growing arousal, and my sweet sounds and whimpering just encouraged him more. 

His fingers felt so perfect, rubbing faster and harder. I grind against his fingers eagerly spreading my wetness all over his hand. “You wanna cum?” He asked with his breath hot in my neck. 

“Mhm… Mhm daddy, please” 

“Cum on my cock… rub it.” He turned to lay back onto the seats and I sat on his cock against his lower stomach. My wet lips stroked his length, and my clit rubbed against his smooth veiny skin. I moaned and whimpered all sweet and desperate while I rubbed my pussy on him. 

Tommy gripped my hips, “fuck…,” he groaned with his head falling back. My soft lips were practically milking him and filling his stomach with precum. And eventually, I came with loud needy moans, and my fingers digging into his chest. His cock was absolutely throbbing by now and was bigger than it's ever been. 

“Oh, that’s such a good girl…” he praised sitting back up on the seat, me still on his lap. Tommy’s hands reached up into my hair holding my face close to his. We kissed sloppily while I sat and lowered myself down onto his aching cock. It filled my little hole so perfectly. Made purely just for him, as he’s the only one who’s ever used it. 

My hands held onto Tommy’s bulky shoulders, and he lifted his hips to forcefully thrust. My high pitched moans were in sync with his quick movements, and echoed throughout the car. The windows fogged and the air around us got hot and humid. 

Tommy’s lips sucked and kissed at my neck leaving his mark of property. My fingernails dug into his back and shoulders while trying to muffle my pleasurable whines in his hot neck. 

“Yes… Yes!” I yelled pounding my hips down onto him. “Daddy!” My body trembled and grew weak. Thomas took control using all his strength to buck his hips up against mine, his cock reaching deep inside. 

Thomas’s hand held tightly onto my plump butt, moving me up and down. Both of our skin grew damp with sweat and arousal. The movement between us got sloppy the closer we got. Neither of us had a proper thought but the feelings in our bodies. Everything between us with our bodies and lips, it went so fast like time hadn’t existed. Nothing existed when he and I were together, nothing but each other. 

And eventually over those last few, sloppy thrusts, Thomas’s cock shot his hot cum deeply into my cervix. His hips bucked up into mine forcefully which broke me into spilling my fluids onto his lap. I held onto him tightly as the sensitivity grew and faded and as our bodies began to slow down to a stop. 

I breathed heavily with little whimpers escaping with my exhale. I could feel Tommy relax and soften while still inside me. And before we moved we took the time just holding each other and gently kissing with the little energy we had left. 

I could feel the love Thomas had for me from the way he’d caress my bare hip and kiss me ever so gently. There was always a difference between him -in the way he acted-  before and after sex, but I loved both sides equally. He was rough and dominant but also gentle and romantic. And in the end he’d drive me home and kiss every inch of my face before I’d go back inside to sleep peacefully. 

“I love you my sweet girl,” He’d say each time. 

And from me, “I love you too, daddy.” With a kiss on his cheek. 

[strawberrymatchawhore]

away

toxic bf! rafe cameron x reader

"running away is easy, its the leaving thats hard."

summary- the camerons are in charge of the annual new years party this year, you along other kooks as well as the camerons distant family are invited to the estate to celebrate. you unknowingly strike up a conversation with one of rafes cousins whom he has always been in competition with since childhood, eventually having to deal with the consequences of your jealous boyfriend

warning/s- abusive relationship, slapping, degrading, choking, toxic ass relationship, mean rafe, reader is a crybaby, nutting inside as punishment, barely any aftercare, NON/DUBCON (reader lets him fuck to make him less pissed off) IF ANY OF THIS MAKES U UNCOMFY PLS DONT READ <3, etc.. im backkk pls enjoy and comment as well as repost apologies for being gone for so long lolsies 🙁

3 years ago you never would have pictured yourself where you are today, living in one of the finest estates of the island and dating one of the most popular and sought after members of this community. nor have you ever pictured yourself being in a a relationship where everyday was like stepping on eggshells and yet you never felt the urge to leave. you loved him too much to do so.

putting on silver dangly earrings as the final touch to your new years look, you turn to your boyfriend for approval. only to be met with a disgusted look on his face.

"why are you dressed like that"

"i thought you liked it? you bought it for me last week." you argued, folding your arms.

"yeah but i didn't think you'd wear it to a family event, i mean come on baby you look like a hooker." he pointed at the figure forming dress, your eyebrows furrowed. the dress was a maxi dress and the only thing revealing was the slight cleavage.

"never mind i'll just change" you exhale and quickly turn away to avoid starting an argument, but he grabs your arm and ushers for you to stay.

"you know what, lets go. we're already late." he leaves the room and you silently follow behind him.

.....

you and rafe walk through the door with your arm around his bicep, immediately you felt out of place. no one you knew were here and it was just random rich people. you felt your breathing begin to hitch and it continues to grow as you continue your walk into the kitchen to get drinks.

"i'll be back, stay right here." rafe orders and grabs a beer, leaving you to your thoughts.

"hey" a voice interrupted. you look up and see a tall brunette, someone you've never seen in this small island.

"uhm.. hi" you awkwardly respond back, giving a small smile which he returns.

"sorry did i interrupt? i saw you were by yourself so i thought maybe i should come and chat with you for a bit.. not that im calling you lonely. i mea- shit. im adrian by the way." he rambles and you cant help but laugh and slyly look around for your boyfriend. you know know how he gets when you talk to guys, and this guy seemed awfully familiar.

"no no, youre good. please. i was hoping someone would talk to me, everyones so intimidating here." you took another sip of your drink and lean against the marbled counter. who was this guy?

"i know right?! i thought my cousin was going to show up and greet me to everybody but i guess he's too good for that." he joked

"wow he seems like a handfu-" barely getting the response out, you instantly feel someone luring over you and harshly put their hand on your shoulder.

"what are you doing" you hear your boyfriends harsh voice whisper in your ear.

"oh hey man whats up" adrian says, they dap each other up but you could feel the tention behind it.

"i see youve met my girlfriend." rafes hand grabs your waist, massaging it. his fingers dig into your waist.

"i did, shes been a great chat." adrian responded, your jaw clenches and you bite your tongue. you feel your anxiety come back as you know youre about to dig your own grave.

"yeah she is huh. its getting kinda late though. i think we're gonna head out." before even hearing what adrian was going to say, rafe grabs your hand and starts to drag you outside.

"rafe what are you doing??? we just got here." you struggle to catch up with his long angry strides.

"do you think i give a fuck." you release yourself from his grip but he ends up pushing you up against his truck.

"i don-" his hand squeezes your throat, blocking your airways. it was 11 pm and everybody was inside, no one was seeing this.

"tell me. does it look like it?" he seethes, pushing you harder into the truck. you felt your tears start to form when his yelling is followed by his intense eye contact with you.

"no right? so get the fuck in the car." he opens the passenger seat and shoved you inside, slamming the door. rafe then gets into his seat and speeds off. you could tell by the silence and the way he was gripping the steering wheel that you were fucked.

......

rafe pulls up to the driveway and practically drags you inside, you were too scared to speak up. frightened at how much worst that would make his next moves be. pushing you into the guest bedroom he starts to speak up.

"why are you such a slut, i cant even leave you alone for 5 minutes without you trying to hop on my cousins dick." he scolds you, your body sits at the end of the bed in shame. hunching to make yourself smaller, mentally preparing yourself when you see him taking off his clothes.

"take this shit off." he grabs you and tugs on your dress. but you didnt hear him, you were too busy disassociating yourself away from him and this suffocating ass room.

"what'd i fucking say?" rafe slaps you and instead of giving you the time to take off the dress, he rips it and pins you by the wrists to the bed. he glares down at you before leaning down your neck and inhaling your scent and leaving dark bruises behind.

"i was thinking about fucking you real nice and slow tonight. but after you decided to act like a whore, i'm gonna treat you like one. how's that sound baby." he mocks you and caresses you clothed pussy before pulling them off your legs.

"rafe.." you whine when he uses his buff arms to spread your legs as much as they could go. you start to hyperventilate from his threat, and cover your face so you don't have to watch him violate you. his thumb rubs at your clit, and the other hand starts to stroke his cock. the tip showing how angry he truly was.

without a warning your boyfriend slams into your pussy, barley wet and prepped. you weren't adjusted to the size of him.

"ow fuck!" you squealed and immediately tried to seek comfort by grabbing onto rafe's bicep, this only seemed to piss him off more and he pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach.

"you're not allowed to touch me. just lay there and be a good fuck toy for me to use." he gives your ass a hard before forcing his way back into you, the burn and lack of proper lubrication makes you shoot up again but he didn't let you move an inch. this sort of roughness was familiar, yet every time it never fails to terrify you.

"stay the fuck down." his large hand pushes down on the middle of your back, naturally putting you into a face down ass up position. just the way he liked it. your body shakes and trembles in fear when your boyfriends thrusts get harder.

"rafe please it hurts so bad i cant take it" you sobs getting louder, rafe lowers himself closer to you and grabs your throat cutting off your breathing.

"your pussys sucking me right in angel, i think you can." he sneered, your crying and begging seemed to anticipate him even further as he loses all his restraint. you knew you couldn't stop him. its just the way your relationship worked.

he would get mad and then take his anger out on you, and youd let him. why? because you know what he's capable of, the holes displayed throughout your guys bedroom were everyday reminders to not push him too far. but in a way, it made you feel safe and wanted. rafe would do anything to protect you and keep you away from the dangers of the outside world.

"you're starting to get wet shitttt" rafe moaned and releases your throat, both his hands grab onto your hips for leverage as he speeds up his pace hitting the good spots deep inside you. not caring about how there was going to be fingermark bruises later. you hiccup as you try to control the sounds of your crying, using a pillow as comfort while he ruins you from behind.

inevitably your stomach starts to tighten and you feel yourself about to cum, your boyfriend moves one of his hands to your hair and tugs on it. resulting in a moan from you, the other hand moves down to your clit and rubs circles.

"you gonna cum baby? cum on my dick." he orders, he was fucking you so hard and greedily that the sounds of his thrusts and skin colliding were echoing in the room. your body caved into the sensations and you felt yourself fall apart on him.

"thats it squirt all over it, make a fucking mess for me. god you're such a little slut." he coos. the overstimulation of his cock hitting your cervix over and over again made you fucked out to the point of of passing out.

"so fucking tight" his vulgar words fill your ears, he gives your pussy rough slaps and you push against him. you yelped in surprise, eyes widening when you notice that rafes thrusts started to get sloppier.

"no.. no rafe! rafe you cant, we cant!" you protested in between moans, he only laughed in response. trying to push yourself away from him but he easily overpowered you. grabbing both of your arms and pinning them behind your back.

"dont tell me what to do, you did this to yourself." he breathes heavily as he filled you to the brim with him cum, he stayed there for a moment fucking it in as deep as he could before pulling out. enjoying the view of your pretty pussy sucking him right in. your eyes squinted in disgust when you felt his seed slide down your thighs.

rafe got up to clean himself but left you lying on the bed, you definitely werent walk right now and you were so overwhelmed with everything that happened. your conscious couldnt take anymore and your eyes starting tearing up.

"why are you crying." he sat on the edge of the bed and examined your state cluelessly. he scooted closer to you and opened the drawer next to the bed and grabbed a towel, cleaning you with it. you both sat in silence until rafe decided to pick you up and make his way to your actual bedroom.

"youre so mean to me.. you know that." you sniffle into his hard chest and draw circles on it with your finger. he doesn't respond but you know he heard it because he gave you a light squeeze before laying you down on the large bed. he takes his place next to you and turns away from you.

you sigh and turn to face his back, engulfing him in a hug. rafe initially tenses up but then relaxed in your arms. slowly you begin to knock out but before you do, you were sure you heard a brief

"im sorry" from rafe.

[cheralith]

— say all that you have to say.

oliver aiku — he says that the kiss that he gave you one evening "didn't mean anything", asking you to forget about it. but he has trouble believing his own words when you do act like it didn't happen, his heart heavy when you go back to treating him as just another friend. okay, so maybe it didn't mean anything to mean to him, but surely it had to mean something to you... right? (wc: 10.6k)

contains: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, jr manager!reader, misunderstandings, fluff, angst with comfort, aiku doesn't understand feelings, happy ending i prommy, not fully edited as of 03/23 a/n: trying out some new headers! are these ok? are the old ones better? lmk!!

“Coach is going to murder you.”

“I’ll let you give my eulogy then.”

Sendou snorts obnoxiously as Oliver buries his face in rough hands, groaning. The gigantic weight on his chest has yet to go away and unfortunately for U-20’s captain, he doubts it’s going to dissipate into thin air any time soon. Especially with how dense the tension in the room is now, everything in the world just seems to be against him right now.

His lips tingle a bit. Oliver puts a finger on the plushness of it, feeling another warmth rush to his cheeks when his mind flashes back to last night, the little incident involving their junior manager, who was also under the title of being their coach’s niece. If word got out about what happened between the two of you to him, Oliver was sure that he’ll lose his captain position that he’s worked towards in the blink of an eye…

… all because he couldn’t contain himself.

Alcohol is a funny thing. It’ll make you feel the high of a plethora of emotions in just a few hours the longer it stays in your system, restraints against the world’s expectations gradually disappearing and an arrogant confidence growing within oneself. Oliver likes to think of himself as a rather resilient person, one that knows his limits all too well, even when drunk. So what exactly took over him in that singular moment, he doesn’t know. 

All he knows is that he doesn’t want to believe that what he did was from his own accord. That his actions were based on something other than impulse.

And he wasn’t even that drunk! He would’ve totally passed a sobriety test at the time if it was handed to him. 

The more he tries to figure out a reason for his actions, the more Oliver comes to dead ends over and over again, and he thinks his headache is now caused by his overthinking rather than the remnants of his hangover.

Oliver leans back and throws an arm over his eyes, the bright lights making his eyes pulse. “Promise you won’t tell anyone else about this? I don’t want a shitstorm blowing up.”

Sendou slyly smiles, but hums regardless. “Yeah sure. Anything for my best bud.”

And in comes the rest of the U-20 team ready to change for practice, chattering about, seeping into the locker room one by one. Oliver hears them greeting their ace and captain, but he can’t be bothered to try and put in the effort to say a polite hello back given his current dilemma that he doesn’t know is going to get worse in a second,

Sendou, always having a slight knack for a kick of drama, juts his thumb at their disoriented captain. 

“Oliver kissed (Y/N) yesterday night after karaoke, by the way,” he says casually as he examines his fingernails. “When he was dropping her off.”

Oliver sits up and gawks at the striker, Sendou only throwing a casual smirk at him—consider this payback for when Oliver whipped his wet towel at his rear yesterday a little too harshly.

Chaos ensues, clearly. The atmosphere within the locker room levels up by threefold, with his teammates scattering around him, question after question being thrown his way faster than he can blink. Neru shakes him like a saltshaker, desperate to try and get an answer out of him. Kitzunezato scolds him heavily like a mother to a child, demanding what overtook him to do something so reckless. Darai, the most level-headed out of all of them, even goes to pinch his brow and ask why he’d do such a thing towards their junior manager.

And that’s the thing. Even if he wanted to answer, it’ll all just come out in jumbles and clusters that can’t fit properly together no matter how hard he’ll try to fit them together. He didn’t know yesterday, he didn’t know this morning, and he doesn’t know now. Frankly, Oliver thinks that he might not have an answer for a while and he’ll be leaving not only his team, but himself in the dark for sometime. Maybe he deserves it, to wallow in his own worries, especially after doing something like that. It might give him time to properly analyze a headspace he hasn’t visited in sometime.

He stands up abruptly, silencing them at last. Inhale, exhale… inhale exhale… just to properly gain his proper semblance back again. Oliver then says something that’ll help shut them up for good, at least for the time being. 

“I’ll say this once and I’ll say it once only,” he starts sternly as he looks at all of his teammates in the eyes to ensure his message gets across and to end the commotion. “Yes I kissed (Y/N), but we were drinking prior, neither of us were thinking properly. That’s what happens when you’re drunk—you get impulsive. Don’t think about it too hard. It didn’t mean anything. So let’s not dabble on this any longer and get to practice, yeah?”

He finishes his closing statement, shunning them and before they say anything, he claps his hands together to indicate everyone be quiet and prepare themselves for practice. Oliver’s austerity echoes through, seeing as how they all tighten their lips and start shuffling around the locker room. He sighs, shoulders dropping.

It didn’t mean anything…

The bitterness of the words sting his tongue, sourness spreading on his palette. When he swallows them, or at least attempts to, it almost… burns. Like the shots he consumed yesterday, they roughen his throat almost like a punishment, the words unwelcomed. An unease lingers about, clearly indicating that to him, something felt wrong about saying it. 

His head says he’s right—that it was just a casual kiss. He greeted a lot of people like that when he was leaving, a signature almost. So really, there shouldn’t be a difference when it comes to you. He was just simply saying goodbye in his own style.

His heart, however…

The elevator’s gateway to the hallway has a slight hitch to it, one that the tip of your shoe grazes against as you step, or at least attempt to, out of it. 

“Woah, watch your step,” Oliver warns when you yelp and begin falling forward, an arm catching your own to pull you back. “You’re only a couple feet away, don’t go dropping dead on me now.”

You laugh quietly, apologizing for your clumsiness. A warmth pulses through Oliver’s chest when he hears the whisper of a giggle, and it’s not because of all the booze he consumed earlier, either. “I’m sorry… I guess I’m just a little tired.”

Oliver quirks up a grin as he drags your arm over his shoulder to keep you steady. “Only a little? Says the one who kept yawning on the way here.”

“Not my fault,” you roll your eyes, a heavy fatigue in them that sags your eyelids slightly, “you guys were the ones that kept making a mess that I had to clean up constantly.”

“‘You guys’?” he feigns a hurt in his voice, a rawness starting to embed itself within it from the aftermaths of karaoke. “Don’t lump me in with those chumps. I at least helped you.”

You blow a stray piece of hair out of your face in annoyance, and when it does go out of the way like you desire, Oliver goes to tuck it behind your ear when you whine. “Whatever. You only did it ‘cause you’re the captain.”

He gives a boisterous laugh at that, one that may wake your neighbors up to your displeasure. 

“In what way does being captain have to do with me being a decent person?” he guffaws. “What if I just wanted to help you out?”

“If you’re trying to get something out of me by doing so, fat chance,” you huff, pout forming on your lips that glisten a little brightly at him. “I could’ve taken care of it myself.”

He sighs with a grin, understanding that there may not be a way out of this conversation that doesn’t gain a win in his favor. You were quite stubborn and adamant, after all, a trait that made you a rather good manager to a bunch of boys who were just starting to get their acts together, never swaying to their bribes or pleas. 

You start mumbling things to yourself suddenly, something about getting groceries and tomorrow’s breakfast plans, an incoherency running back and forth that Oliver listens somewhat intently to. He always liked it when you talked, since you often had to keep to yourself and just simply jot down notes in the shadow of your uncle—it gave him a sense of closeness to you to be able to have a conversation with you that didn’t involve the team. 

“We’re here,” he chimes, head fuzzing a little when he reads the letters of your apartment. He lets go of your arm, letting you balance yourself on the doorframe as you rummage about your bag and fetch your keys. He has to fight a chuckle when he sees your keychains—he’s never been too familiar with the specific names of Sanrio characters, but he can tell you’re quite the fan of this specific little one by the many decorations that hang from the chain. Cute, he thinks.

Oliver watches as you fumble around trying to fit the key into its designated hole, your drunkenness making you a little more prone to mismeasures. When you begin to grow frustrated, he gently cups your hand that clutches your key in his and slowly leads it into the keyhole in a steady motion. 

“There you go,” he murmurs, twisting your hand so the latch clicks as he notices how nicely your hand fits in his. A softness in his eyes seeps itself within when he stares at them connected. 

You thank him quietly, body moving forward to enter your apartment and away from the shelter that is Oliver Aiku. A chill runs through him when you move from him, your body warmth no longer radiating onto him.

“Well…” you clutch the side of your apartment door, staring up at him, eyes a little wondrous. “This is where I leave you.”

Oliver scratches the back of his neck, trying to ignore the heaviness in his feet that seem to want to stay where they are. “Yeah, haha. Should start heading back soon.”

Your gaze softens and Oliver can feel his breath hitching when he sees a fondness swimming in it. A fondness just for him.

“Thank you for making sure I got home safely. It means… a lot.”

He likes the way you fidget a little bit, shy and meaningful. A side of you revealed to him that he hopes you’ve never shown anyone else. 

“Of course, I’d hate for anything to happen to our precious manager.” he whispers, fingers twitching. “Also your uncle would have my head if something did, really.”

Shared laughter bounces between you both, a quiet understanding between you and him that your uncle was not a force to be reckoned with when it came to his niece.

You begin to close the door, indicating your leave was starting and that you wanted him to head home as soon as possible before the nightlife of the city really began to reach its heights. Oliver stills, something in his chest burning when he watches the door’s gap get smaller and smaller. 

All it takes is that doe-like gaze you give him for him to lose a sense of himself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow th—!”

And Oliver, for whatever reason, dips his head towards you and gives the softest kiss he’s ever given to anyone to you. 

A silk-like movement flows between your lips, synchronization naturally flowing. The warmth from earlier blooms in his chest, vining it through his body. Nothing but affection ebbs and flows within your lips and his, no other hidden intent behind his kiss other than the passion he’s harbored for you for the past few months you’ve been a part of his life. 

You and him break away. Funny how a kiss lasting five seconds or so feels like it’s lasted a lifetime, because the clock has barely ticked. Even the incredulous stare you give each other lasts longer than your kiss. 

You slice through the silence first. 

“I–”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Oliver chokes out abruptly and turns on his heel towards the elevator, praying you don’t see the flush of red that he can feel rising at the tip of his ears.

He swallows thickly once he’s inside it, feeling your burning stare on his back when you gaze at him from the hallway. He doesn’t want to turn around, scared for what expression you may behold. Without looking, he presses the lobby button on the button-pad and seals his fate as the doors close.

… clearly wants to scream at him, wants him to face the music and grasp the reality of the situation.

But he can’t. Not when he has so much at stake.

Oliver gives a sigh audible only to him as he begins to exit the locker room, letting his thoughts from the locker room be left in the locker room and his execution plans for this practice taking over. 

That is until he sees you standing outside, next to the door. 

He jumps slightly, eyes widening when he sees how close your presence was to it. You hold two rolls of athletic tape in one hand, scissors in another. Your face lifts from the ground, flat lips you transform it into a smile that almost looks screwed on to reflect at him.

There was no way you had heard him, right? Not with such a thick wall separating the two of you.

He stutters, but you beat him to his own words.

“(Y/N)–”

“Hey there,” you greet a little too sweetly, “can you give this to Hayate, please? It’s for his shoulder.”

Oliver pauses, looking at the two items you hold out in front of him in your hands. He stares and blinks slowly at them, your words clearly delayed in his ears. He suddenly blinks hard and gains back his consciousness, and his vision focuses on the beige tape and scissors before him.

“Sorry, yeah,” he mutters and takes them from you, trying not to graze your palms in fear of your warmth scorching him. “Um… did you happen to–”

“Coach says you guys need to hurry up, by the way,” you cut him off again, smile still on your lips that when Oliver sneaks a glance at, feels that fizzy feeling on his own again. “He wants everyone to be out on the field in five.”

You give him a nod of acknowledgement, turn on your heel, and stalk off, leaving him alone in the corridor. 

It was barely there… and if he were to blink, Oliver was sure that he would’ve missed it. 

But it was there, the dejection on your face revealing itself when you took your mask off once he wasn’t in view.

Your figure just barely appears in his vision just as he turns his head, a sweat misting on his skin.

Just before you’re able to round the corner, Oliver grabs your shoulder and forces you to look at him.

“Hey,” he breathes, “can we talk?”

You give him that artificial smile again. Your eyes don’t move when you lift your lips almost forcibly and the emptiness within them remains. “Sure,” you reply simply.

Oliver scans his surroundings first, making sure there are no additional ears to hear this conversation; he doesn't want another storm swirling. Scornfully, he takes you to a more secluded corner, one that shadows itself with darkness to fully ensure no attention would be brought to you and him.

He only has five minutes until their break is done, so he supposes that he should just rip the band-aid off and get it over with. For the greater good. 

“About yesterday,” he starts, scratching the back of his heating neck. “Listen, I’m sorry. What I did… it was just something I did accidentally ‘cause I was drunk. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable in any way.”

Oliver looks up and flinches at the blankness spread across your face. As though you’re unconvinced by his words. As though his words sound meaningless like the kiss he insists is.

You say nothing, just blinking honey-slow. Oliver takes the chance to try and say something, to take a jab.

“It’s just—I often say goodbye like that to people, y’know? Well, maybe less on the lips and more on the cheek and forehead,” he mutters, throat constraining a bit at the unnecessary add-ons. “You can ask any of the guys, I’m sure Sendou is sick of my shit, haha…” 

He manages to get a monotone hum from you, a paced nod indicating his words were somewhat getting through to you. 

Oliver purses his lips, trying to search for something in your empty stare. Anything will work, really, just something that he can grasp to get a feel of your emotions so he can plan how to go about this. 

“I think that—”

“Is it true?” you cut him off, capturing his attention. Oliver raises his eyebrows and lets out a confused sound. “What you said in the locker room.”

Guilt seeps into him. So you did hear him, even through the concrete walls and iron door. He supposes such weighty words are bound to break through the barrier to get to you in some aspect or another. 

“W-what did I say? What’d you hear?” he asks. 

You challenge his gaze, something forcing him to look at you pulls him into you. 

“That it didn’t matter,” you state simply. “That it didn’t mean anything.”

Oliver feels a heaviness on your shoulders when you echo his words through your own voice that he can’t detect the emotion of. He opens his mouth, trying to choose his words carefully, but it takes him a few seconds to gather his act.

“I—” he pauses, jaw gritting. Oliver fights the urge to hang his head in shame, forcing himself to look at you. Your gaze is testing; you really are their coach’s niece, given how there’s a similar pressure radiating off of you that mirrors your uncle. It’s waiting patiently, though with a certain standard in mind.

Oliver swallows thickly before spitting out a half-baked answer, one that adds another weight to his shoulders. Whether he believes it or not… that didn’t matter. Because he ultimately says something that will better the trajectories of tomorrow, not something that will entertain his own wants. He can’t afford to do that right now… not with you, at least.

“Yes,” he says, the familiar bitterness from before scattering on his tongue again. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean anything else by it other than goodbye. I hope that I didn’t give off a wrong impression of some kind.”

You go still again, motionless. 

And then your face cracks a smile, the same uncharacteristically wide one that doesn’t seem to fit your face quite right. 

“Okay,” you state simply with an assured nod, sighing in what seems to be relief. “Just wanted to make sure so we don’t run into misunderstandings. Thanks for clearing it up, Captain.”

Oliver thins his lips at your response. You don’t seem to be too phased at his words—unlike the other girls that came before you whose faces would contort into irritation, sadness, or confusion. He was ready to tackle all of those emotions he’s grown familiar with, but the content shown on your face is unlike anything he has ever seen.

And he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“So,” he starts slowly, “what should we do now? Or, what do you want to do?”

Your head lilts to the side. “Well, you said to forget about it… so, let’s do just that. If that’s what you think is best.”

Your words feel strange when they register in his mind, but Oliver gives a quick nod. 

“Yeah. Let’s just… forget about the entire thing. For the better of us and the team. And also so your uncle doesn’t kill me.” Oliver attempts to crack a joke to ease the tension in the air, but he doesn’t think this is the time. Not when you look like that. 

A familiar laughter is nowhere to be heard, and your smile feels unsettling the more he looks at it. It doesn’t feel like it’s yours, but rather a stranger’s. But you keep it on your lips regardless, showing amiability of some kind. 

“Alright,” you nod. “Then let’s agree to never talk about this again? Go back to our normal life?”

You put your hand out for him. Oliver takes it, your palm so oddly cold it makes him shiver a bit. You and him shake on the agreement, hand in hand, eye to eye. 

The deal is settled. History has been erased.

There was no kiss between you and him. Nothing has happened. 

All is well…

… he thinks.

A week passes by. 

You and Oliver have gone back to the way things were before instantly, talking and chatting just as friends like you always have been. He still receives the warning glares from your uncle to not get too close to you, but he’s able to bypass them just as he had been doing since you first got here on behalf of your university.

He reflects on that day fondly. How awkward and quiet you were when you first introduced yourself, stating that you would be interning as a junior manager on behalf of your major for their season. How Oliver was the first person to make you feel truly comfortable without having to worry about your uncle’s wrath, how conversations began to flow within you and him more easily rather than just the typical morning greetings and after-practice wrap-ups. 

When he looks at you now, you’re akin to a flower. One that has bloomed in the right environment as time passes comfortingly. You’ve grown to be friends with everyone on the team, his teammates holding you to a high regard that mirrors Oliver’s own status. It took awhile, like everything does, but you’ve blossomed. You show more of your true nature nowadays as a result.

He thinks that the new hairstyle that you adorn today is quite cute, fitting for your face. He especially likes the little clips of your favorite Sanrio character that he can’t ever seem to remember the name of that clip back your hair a bit to fight against the warming weather. 

“—ku.”

He likes that lip color on you that kind of matches with your outfit right now, a little detail he’s noticed you do sometimes.

“Aiku.”

Oh, that bracelet is new. Looks expensive, too. He likes all those charms that hang off it, the metal clinking harmoniously to him—

“Aiku!” 

The snap of your fingers and your voice finally breaks him out of his trance of admiration. He spurs, blinking rapidly. The giggles of his teammates float about from where you all are on the field. 

“You good, man?” you ask. 

“Huh?” he questions for a bit, trying to remember his current predicament. Oh yes, that’s right. The after-practice wrap-up where you summarize all their coach’s analysis to them and discuss plans moving forward. “Right, yeah. Uh huh.”

You roll your eyes, sighing and going back to your tablet. “As I was saying, Captain,” you throw a narrow-eyed glance at him, a doubt in his beholding of his title visible, one that makes him chuckle. “Try to sharpen up your skills as best as possible. I think it’s advised for you guys to showcase the best of your capabilities rather than dwell on your weak points— especially with how close the Blue Lock v. U-20 Match is.”

With that, you dismiss them, his teammates giving a loud thank you to you. Oliver is last to follow, with you tagging along behind him just before he enters the locker room.

“Hold on, Captain,” you call for him, tugging on his sleeve. “We’re still on for Shibuya later, right?”

Oliver nods affirmingly at you. “Yep. Need to get some new cleats before the game.”

“Oh okay,” you throw him a thumbs up, “but uh. Sendou won’t be able to make it. Says he’s got some sort of dinner with his brother. You okay with it just being us two?”

Oliver’s eyes widen, purple and green revealing themselves in full in a state of mild surprise. Originally, you guys were supposed to go as a trio, with Sendou wanting some new earrings for his piercing and you wanting to look at a new brand’s collection. But with the former out of the question… Oliver realizes it’d just be you and him.

Something in him stirs.

“Yeah,” he says a little too simply, trying to fight a grin rising on his lips. “That’s all good by me.”

You pat his arm affirmingly when you nod. “Alright then. I’ll meet you outside the facility’s entrance. Rest up while you still can.” 

With that, you take your leave and throw him a friendly wave over your shoulder. Oliver watches as you exit the field a little too intently, your perfume lingering in the air. 

He had been with you alone on some occasions, since he was the captain and it wasn’t uncommon for him to be called in privately, but it was almost always soccer-related. And the few times it wasn’t, it was often with the team like karaoke or a group dinner. So, he supposes that this would be the first time ever that you and him have actually hung out as… friends?

Friends.

Right. Yes, that’s what you were to him. Just friends. You’re a friend, and this is a friend-oriented shopping hangout. 

Oliver trails back into the locker room, ignoring the tingling on his lips.

“Those are nice,” he says when he peeks over your shoulder, watching as you examine a pair of earrings. “Pretty.”

You give him a glance from the mirror, sighing when you put them down and return them into their little slot. “Nah, I don’t really suit chunky earrings. Would like to, though.”

Strange how you say that, considering Oliver thought they looked quite nice on you—just like how every single clothing item you’ve been trying on has been. 

“I think they look alright,” he remarks, plucking them out of the display stand and holding them to your face again. “Yeah, they look fine to me?”

“You don’t get it ‘cause you’re a guy,” you give a light titter, shaking your head. “Plus they’re a little out of my budget.” 

Oliver goes to glance at the price and doesn’t really think much of it. Maybe his perspective is a little skewed, considering that your salaries as an intern versus a professional soccer player were quite spaced out. 

“Hm,” he mumbles, “want me to buy them for you, then?”

You gawk, a choked sound coming out of your throat. “What?! No. I-I wouldn’t wear them anyways, I don’t think they’d look good. You’d just be wasting your money.”

“Well I think they look good, so I’m sure everyone else thinks they’ll do,” Oliver playfully cajoles to your dismay. “Maybe just step out of your comfort zone.”

“I know when to step out of it,” you groan as you stalk over to another area of jewelry. “I just don’t think those specifically will do me justice.”

Oliver hums quietly, still examining the earrings from his distance. A store assistant suddenly appears from behind, a smile on her face when she shares Oliver’s view of you. 

He jumps a little when she makes her presence known. “I think your boyfriend is right, ma’am. I think those earrings will look lovely on you, really,” she chimes. 

You pivot your attention to her and chuckle mirthlessly, not really convinced by her words that you’re sure she’s adding sugar to help you buy it. “Haha, thank you, but I’m okay… also,” you gesture to you and Oliver. “We’re not dating. We’re just friends.”

Oliver winces at the word. It takes a small jab at his chest. 

“Oh! My apologies,” the assistant excuses. “Sorry, you two just looked so lovely together—my mind just automatically assumed!”

You reassure her that there were no worries with another fleeting laugh, one that’s a little too dismissive of her assumption. “No worries.”

You excuse yourself and stalk off to another branch, Oliver watching you from his peripheral vision as you examine the bracelet section of the department store. He supposes that looking into the mirror at oneself for too long can disfigure a person’s self image—since he doesn’t seem convinced that you think you look bad in the earrings. When he can detect you’re out of view, he murmurs the same assistant over.

“Would you mind wrapping this up for me?” he asks quietly, sliding over the pair of earrings to her. “Preferably somewhere out of her view.” He goes to jut his thumb over his shoulder, indicating your presence from behind him. “I’d just like to get them for her as a gift.”

The store assistant draws her gaze over to you, ignorant to their interaction when you admire the articulation of a specific necklace in the display case. She nods affirmingly, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You know, we have a special gift box for couples for jewelry, if you’re interested,” she inquires, making Oliver’s eyes widen. “It’s a white velvet box to help properly store the jewelry.”

“Oh, haha,” he laughs, attempting to remind her of your current status with each other. “We’re not—”

 “I know,” she affirms, winking at him, as if she knew something he didn’t. “I’m just saying.”

The assistant smiles ever so politely. Oliver pauses. He throws a look over his shoulder to see if you were still there, far enough away from him and sure enough, you’re bouncing about the display cases, admiring all the jewelry clearly out of your budget. 

He softens when he sees your eyes sparkle at a specific bracelet, wondrous and amazed. 

Oliver turns back to the assistant, who grins at him.

“Sure, why not?”

And just before he drops you off at your apartment when the day is done, he quietly slips the white velvet box into your bag without a word, hoping that you’ll take the chance and wear them on his behalf.

“Nice earrings, where’d you get them?” Oliver asks the following day when practice wraps up again. The same earrings he had seen yesterday were now adorned on your ears, glinting at him curiously when he pokes at them.

You turn away from him and focus on your tablet, a heat rising on your cheeks. “Found them in the garbage.”

He laughs aloud at your evident embarrassment of your acceptance of his gift. But that’s okay; he figures you’re still trying to get used to them, so he’ll let you take your time. Maybe you’ll eventually see what he sees.

“You still coming to karaoke?” he inquiries when he helps you clean up the team’s remnants of play on the field. He feels a little hesitant asking you such a thing, even though it was quite often the team went out for karaoke to ease up after practice. The lingering tension between you and him from the aftermath of last time has long dissipated, but there’s always that chance it may come back to haunt him. 

“Yeah but,” you groan when you throw some sweat-soaked towels in the bin, “I’m not staying long. I’ve got some homework to finish up on, so no drinking for me tonight.”

The words come faster out of his mouth before he can catch them—reflex taking over consciousness. 

“D’you want me to walk you home later then?”

Oliver flinches. You blink at him, eyes wide, like he has the audacity to say such a thing after the incident. 

But the way your eyes soften so gently at him makes him rethink his assumption and he feels a relief that flows in his chest when you give him a grateful smile. One that he’s quite accustomed to, one that you only give him.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Okay Sendou, your turn!” Neru exclaims and thrusts a microphone in the striker’s hands. 

The karaoke has long been forgotten, now replaced with just a casual truth or dare game since everyone’s voice has finally been roughened up a little too much after shouting and yelling during practice. Oliver has had to admit three truths and two dares so far, with his last dare being to prank call their coach from a payphone in a funny voice and ask him if his refrigerator was running and to go catch it. 

He’s sure that if their coach finds out it was him, he’ll get an ass-whooping later. But it’s okay. He got to see you laugh, so it was worth it.

“Alright, truth or dare, bud!” Neru announces from his own microphone, putting Sendou on the spot. 

“Uh,” he stammers, clearly aware of the heights he’ll have to go if he chooses either. “... dare.”

“Yikes! Wrong choice!” Neru chimes gleefully to Sendou’s horror. He attempts to take back and choose truth when he sees the wicked smile spreading across Neru’s face, but it’s too late. “For your dare, you must chew a piece of chewed-up gum stuck underneath the table!”

“That’s so fucking nasty, Neru?!” Sendou shrieks to everyone’s bemusement. “I might die from that!” 

“Ugh, you’re so boring, this is why no girls like you,” Neru retorts to Sendou’s displeasure. “Fine then, I’ll show mercy. Show us the last thing you saved to your phone from your camera roll.”

Sendou sighs in relief and pulls out his phone to his camera roll, only to gape in horror and flush with embarrassment. His reaction pulls excitement from everyone, Niou and Wakatsuki going to tackle him before he can hide it from view, Wakatsuki obtaining it and laughing hysterically as he shows off what’s on Sendou’s screen.

A rather raunchy picture of one of his favorite Hollywood actresses displayed on his phone, making some people whistle at Sendou’s pervertedness. You sigh upon seeing it, remembering that you were in a room filled with boys that were just crawling out of teenagerhood and that the female body to them was still just something taboo to them.

Sendou snatches his phone back, grumbling to himself. Neru then focuses his gaze onto you, eyes shining with anticipation to your apprehension. You squirm in your seat. 

“Manager,” Neru sings and motions to you. “Your turn! Truth or dare!”

All of the team focuses their attention to you, wondering if you’ll finally pick dare after so long of choosing truth, but as always, you go to choose the safety of truth.

“Boringgg,” Neru drags, but goes on to ask his question anyway. “Fine then. Who was your first kiss?”

Oliver can feel a few of his teammates sneak a glance at him, a clear elephant appearing in the room. But he fixes his stare into your figure, curious about your answer and not wanting to cause more drama. 

You laugh hastily, scratching your cheek. 

“Actually…” you begin shyly, “I haven’t actually had my first kiss yet. I haven’t gotten the chance yet.”

Silence fills the space. Most of your other truths have stirred reactions of all kinds so far, but everyone draws a blank at your answer. Neru flickers his gaze at Oliver and sees nothing but dread written across his captain's face.

Despite the fact that everyone knows it’s a lie, seeing as how Oliver had admitted to them a week prior that he did kiss you, everyone (but Oliver) nods and nervously tells you that you’ll have it one day, patting your back in reassurance. Maybe their captain was lying? Maybe he just simply kissed you on the forehead or on the cheek? Regardless of what they hypothesize, clearly it wasn’t any of their business to try and intrude on, and Neru moves onto his next victim.

Oliver, however, fixes where he is, too filled with trepidation to try and move. Yes, you and him agreed to talk about the matter ever again and to pretend it never happened, but Oliver didn’t think you would take it to such a height that you erased what was your first kiss from existence. Ultimately meaning… he gave you your first kiss, and he asked you directly to pretend like it never happened. He asked you to pretend your first kiss never happened, that it was an accident and that it didn’t matter. 

He’s been told that he’s an asshole from all the girls he’s collected over the years, but in the current heat of the moment, he truly feels like the title bestows him.

The clock moves fast in the moment he contemplates his thoughts, and he feels you tapping his shoulder suddenly. He looks up and sees the warmth of your gaze looking down at him, your coat all buttoned up and bag hooked on your arm.

“You ready to go? I gotta get home soon.”

“Oh,” Oliver steadies himself, not noticing the glances his teammates give him when he fixes himself up. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll be there in a second, you can wait by the lobby, if you’d like.”

With a nod of your head, you say goodbye to everyone and whisk yourself out. When they can’t hear your footsteps anymore, everyone scrambles toward their captain. 

“You said you kissed her!” Sendou accuses.

“What, did you just kiss her somewhere else other than her lips or something?” Kitzunezato inquiries with a furrowed brow. “C’mon man, you can’t insinuate something like that so casually.”

“I’ll talk about it later,” Oliver mumbles as he zips up his coat. “Continue without me. I’m gonna walk her home.”

The questions in the air still linger behind him when he exits the room to meet you at the lobby, a casual smile on your face as if nothing happened, as if you weren’t noticing the tension he’s feeling.

Oliver cracks a sheepish grin back. At least, what he can hope for is a grin.

The walk back is quiet. You walk a little bit in front of him while he trails behind. Oliver wants to say something, but he feels as though he shouldn’t. But… something gnaws at him. Something that yearns for an answer, even though he knows he’ll lose sleep over whatever you give him. 

So he asks you, right before you enter your apartment. A ghost of last week’s past in the air, haunting him. 

“(Y/N),” he starts slowly, his eyes filled with self-contempt. “I was your first kiss, wasn’t I?”

Your grip around the doorknob tightens. He can see a slight tick in your jaw when his question comes out. A bitten lip is hidden from view, but you’re quick to replace it with that same uncanny smile he’s not familiar with seeing. 

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet,” you say simply when you turn to him. 

Oliver pauses, confused. “But last week, we—”

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet,” you repeat again, a strength to your words that silences him.

Oh.

He takes a step back. He sees what you’re doing. You and him agreed to pretend like the kiss never happened, and clearly here you were, upholding your side of the agreement. Who was he to try and break the contract you and he made?

A silence draws on his tongue, something otherworldly telling him not to say anything more to not worsen the situation. You allow him a brief moment of quiet to say something, and when he doesn’t, when he’s faltered to nothing, you take advantage of the moment. 

“Thanks for walking me home. I’ll see you tomorrow, Aiku,” you mumble quietly, shutting your door and leaving him dumbly standing in front of your door. 

Oliver stays there for a bit, wanting to knock on your door and ask you to tell him without a filter if he was your first, if he stole your first kiss and shoved it right back into your face. But he knows better.

So he turns and walks away, letting it be if that’s what you wanted. 

Apparently, you have a date today.

You didn’t actually say anything, but the rumor floats about after Hayate overheard you discussing some plans with someone on the phone, a giddy smile on your face.

“She literally said ‘I can’t wait to see you’! That’s totally telling she has a date with some guy,” Hayate exclaims.

Darai is unconvinced. “Or she could just be talking to a friend or family member. Let’s be realistic, with how busy she is as a student and a junior manager, I highly doubt she has the time to go around and date.”

Oliver is quiet in his little corner of the locker room, his ears listening despite not facing his team. He doesn’t want them to see the heaviness in his eyes when Hayate first told them about it. He doesn’t want to hear more, but… he can’t help but indulge, irritably curious to see who this person was if he did exist at all.

Neru agrees with him, his eyes dancing over to Oliver’s figure. “Yeah. Let’s not assume anything. It’s her business anyways.”

“But what if this guy takes her away from us?!” Hayate babbles, worry evident on his face. “We’re gonna lose our precious manager! Oliver, surely you’ve got a say in this!” 

A vexation takes over Oliver when Hayate brings up the possibility of you removing yourself from the team. His normally-balanced emotions suddenly unstable for a fleeting moment, making him shut his locker door a little too harshly than normal, making everyone in the locker room flinch at how the room shakes a bit from his strength.

He draws a shaky breath, regaining his balance again before he turns and faces them with his normally calm demeanor slapped onto his face. Don’t mind the small vein on his neck. 

“Neru is right,” he says simply. “Let’s not meddle our heads into our manager’s outside business unless it revolves around soccer.”

With that, he leaves the locker room first, before they can stir up anything that may irritate him any further. 

You leave an hour earlier than normal, wishing your uncle goodbye during one of their matches. Oliver, from the middle of the field, can just barely see your uncle wagging a finger at you and the words “be safe” being read from his lips. He watches as you quietly exit the field, not noticing how Niou had passed the ball to him.

“Aiku!” he shouts harshly. “The ball!” 

“Oh shit,” Oliver hisses, taking notice of the black and white blur at his feet and how close Darai was to taking it. “Whoops. Sorry!”

Curiosity kills the cat, they say. Then collar up Oliver right there and then if he is one, since his curiosity takes over him when he asks out of impulse why did you leave early to his coach when they wrap up practice.

“She’s got a date with my coworker’s son,” Hoichi grunts, a clear disapproval of the date on his face. He supposes that’s what’s bound to come to him seeing as how Hoichi himself has daughters, and this may be a routine he’s grown used to. “My cute baby niece… she’s too grown up!”

Hoichi goes to sob into a handkerchief to Oliver’s contempt and he leaves his coach to wallow in his sadness… before he gets more second-hand embarrassment. 

Oliver drags a hand down his face at the confirmation of the rumor. He keeps it to himself, however, when he tidies himself up in the locker room as everyone stirs about, knowing that something like this would surely ensue chaos amongst the men. But it’s a secret he’s burdened with keeping all to himself, the blatant fact that you may belong to someone else soon if this date went well. 

He bids everyone goodbye, head hung low when he pictures you all pretty and dolled up for someone he thinks doesn’t deserve it. Maybe you’ll be flaunting one of your signature hair clips, or perhaps the earrings he bought for you. It’s been two weeks since he bought them and you’ve been wearing them more often, after all. 

The walk back to his house begins in a quiet restaurant district of the city. He’s used to the hustle and bustle of lines outside some well-known restaurants, everyone donned in semi-formal wear with friends or partners in line. It’s not a place where a singular guy like him seems to blend in with.

He nearly rounds the corner from one restaurant in particular, but stops himself in his tracks when he registers what he sees. 

You sit alone at the table nearest to the window, a poorly-disguised disappointment spread across your face when the waiter comes over and gestures to a couple that’s waiting for a table amidst all the filled ones in the restaurant. Oliver watches as you apologize to him and gather your stuff, exiting the restaurant shortly after the waiter gives his condolences. 

You carry yourself out of the restaurant and Oliver’s breath hitches when he sees how you’ve gathered yourself up for tonight in full. You wear only a blouse and a skirt to match, heels that make you seem a little taller, to seem more confident, though now it’s nowhere to be found given your solemn features. The wind bites almost harshly, making you shiver from the chilled air. 

Oliver is quick to unzip his jacket and his feet carry him to you before he can process where he’s going… what he’s doing. He drapes the thick fabric over your shoulders, the sudden warmth from seemingly nowhere making you look up.

He sees a framing of tears in your eyes that you’re trying not to let fall, and you manage to catch them just in time when you widen your eyes at his sudden appearance. 

“Captain,” you greet softly with a fake smile, clearly taken aback. 

Your voice cracks along the way when you say it. Oliver’s eyes soften when he registers the grasp of the current situation, understanding why you clutch your stomach and why you look dejectedly defeated. 

“I’ll take you home,” he murmurs tenderly, an arm around you to shield you from the cold. “We can get something for you to eat along the way.”

Oliver hopes the sandwiches and ramen he got at the nearby convenience store will ease your growling stomach. He would have treated you for a better meal, one that isn’t loaded with insane amounts of sodium and preservatives, but it was clear to him that you just wanted to go home after a failed date. 

He watches quietly when you insert your keys into the keyhole of your apartment door, but raises his brows when you refuse to twist it to unlock the latch, going to lay your forehead against the coolness of the door instead. A stillness overtakes your body, seemingly paralyzing you to the spot. 

Oliver stays quiet, not wanting to interfere with… whatever it is you’re doing. He just watches from his position near the wall, not wanting to leave until you enter inside the safety of your apartment.

You close your eyes, letting out a stuttering breath to try and compose yourself. Don’t fall apart now, you tell yourself in your head, you’ve been doing so well so far. Just wait until he’s out of view… then drown yourself in your tears. 

But your lips warble. Your chest hurts—you feel a pang every time you reflect back on your mountain of texts asking your date if he was still coming, the empty seat in front of you collecting dust for nearly an hour. You bite your lip harshly to try and distract yourself from the sadness that flows through your veins, but to no avail does it work, because you can just feel the river of quiet tears streaming down your cheeks. The plastic bag of food falls miserably on the floor.

Oliver lifts his head up when he hears a soft sniff. He thinks it’s just from the cold, but when he can see the glisten of tears from your closed eyes, he stiffens. 

“Hey,” he starts softly, a hand going to rub your back to attempt comfort. “You alr—”

“Three times…” you mumble. “Once is just by chance… the second time is maybe a coincidence… But three times? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s not sure if he should, really, considering he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, though context comes shortly after without him having to ask. 

“Being stood up three fucking times in a row… how embarrassing,” you lament, a few tears falling from your chin and onto the carpet. 

Oh. He sees the picture more clearly now. Oliver takes a step back to give you space. So this wasn’t your first date, but your third so far of the season. Or, at least an attempt at one. To be stood up and left in the dark three times is what no one wants, as he’s experienced it before and understands the looks of pity from strangers does no good in such a situation, like the one the waiter gave you before he asked you to leave. 

“Shit, is there something wrong with me that I don’t know about or—?!” you draw a breath, turning your somber visage to Oliver suddenly, as if he had the answer. 

He doesn’t. Or maybe he does; it’s just not the one you expect. Because although he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you specifically, he thinks there’s nothing wrong in general. Not with you. 

You’re nothing less of kind and understanding, always attentive to each of the players’ needs. Oliver thinks of you as headstrong, determined to always push people to the best of their capabilities without degrading their integrity. But at the same time, you’re easy to be with, for everyone could show their authentic self around you without much filter needed. 

He had always thought of you as beautiful as well, ever since the beginning from that day his coach introduced you. If anything, your beauty had bewitched him in the first place, and he’s sure it’s had the same effect on others—he even remembers Sendou’s cheeks being humiliatingly pink when you had talked to him for the first time. 

So he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with you. At least not from his angle.

“Not at all,” he whispers, trying to bring you a sense of peace. 

He expects your eyes to soften, your lips to curl—but they do neither. Instead, your gaze hardens at him unexpectedly, one that makes him swallow thickly. 

“Funny how the guy that told me to forget my first kiss is saying that,” you spit cruelly, reddened eyes boring into him. 

Oliver recoils and takes his hand away from you, giving you space. So he was a part of his too, huh? He supposes that he’s not one to try and say something as comforting as what he said when he was just like the others, if not… worse, considering he had kissed you in the flesh and abandoned you all in the same breath, leaving you in the dust. 

You lift your head off the door and face him, a tired look in your eyes.

“I know we said to never talk about it again,” you mutter, “but I think I deserve to know. Tell me, Aiku, was it something I did? Did I say something that made you kiss me? Did you want something? Shit, did my breath smell?”

The words he wants to say knot in his throat again. He opens his mouth, but closes it when he realizes he can’t conjure anything right now. So he just simply stares at you with a longing he hopes you can see.

Clearly not. You grow frustrated at his silence. “That’s not fair. I need an answer. I don’t care what it is, just tell me something at least,” you plead.

A silence whirs by. And again, Oliver cannot come up with a proper response that feels honest, that feels whole. You’d settle for a lie at best, but even that, he can’t come up with. 

Your eyes water when he just continues to stay quiet, lips sealed and locked from his opinion of you. His silence is more suffocating than whatever you want him to give, the worst of your thoughts embedding themselves even further in your mind. 

You give him your last breath. And if he doesn’t respond to this one, you’ll leave him be and enter into your apartment for the night. 

“Was it because it was me that you kissed?” you ask sternly, heart shattering by each second that goes by without another sound. “Did you regret kissing m—”

“No.”

Oliver says his first word to you, clear and true, finally finding something from the knot of words lumped from his throat. He lifts his shameful head up to look at you with an earnest he’s found in himself.

Regret isn’t what he felt in the aftermath… it was doubt. 

Doubt of his feelings for you. Doubt that he could live up to your standards. Doubt that he could treat you as well as you deserved. 

He told you to forget about the kiss because he doubted himself too heavily that he’d be able to be a person worth deserving of your time, because if he wasn’t, he didn’t want the remnants of his thoughts of a chance to exist in fear of looking like a fool. 

Oliver was doubtful of the meaning of the kiss between you and him, not finding a clear answer of why he did it and what it may have meant to you, so instead of trying to figure out a solution, he had chosen to ignore its existence for the better of himself, for his own protection, while completely ignoring your own thoughts in the process. A selfish act, he thinks bitterly.

You blink at him, confused as a few stray tears fall. 

“I don’t regret kissing you at all,” he mutters. “I just… I just wished it didn’t happen in the way that it did.”

You go still, trying to register the meaning of his words. Oliver’s melancholy is radiating all over him, something that is in similar style to yours.

“I wish I kissed you in a better setting. I wish I kissed somewhere more romantic, where I was sober,” Oliver states slowly, plucking out his feelings in a tender manner. “Where I could control myself. Where I could tell you my feelings straight up instead of throwing them in your face.”

When he looks back on the moment where he kissed you on impulse, his alcohol taking over his body and his restraint to fully show his honest feelings toward you, he may feel regretful that it wasn’t as grandeur as you deserved, but kissing you could never be regretted. Kissing you in the moment was a doubtful decision, sure, but Oliver doesn’t regret it for a bit. Not you. Never you.

Not when your lips felt so plush and so fit with his, not when you kissed him in equal fervor that mirrored his own feelings that he didn’t realize you did so until now, because no one would kiss him like that if they didn’t feel the same way.

“I didn’t hate the fact that it was you I kissed, but… more so I hated the way I kissed you during then,” his voice strains, the air in his lungs lessening. “And I wanted to forget about it because I was embarrassed that I did something so impulsive to you.” 

Him telling you to regret it was his version of drawing a blank slate. For him to rewrite something more meaningful with you, if you allowed it. If he knew earlier that it’d be your first kiss, he would’ve had the measures to at least stop himself and give you the experience of what would’ve been a much greater and beautiful moment. 

But no matter how much you and him try to bypass his kiss, try to say it was nothing, that it was meaningless—the more it becomes repressed, the more significance it picks up. And all Oliver can do now is just accept it and to simply go forward. 

So he takes a daring step forward, a distance closer to your radius. 

He steadies his breathing, fixating his vision on the fullness of your face. He wishes it was him that outfit was for, as he curses at the fact it was wasted on such a shitty day like today. He wishes that your face wasn’t stained with tears as it was right now, but instead, featuring a soft smile you’d often give him during fleeting moments between the two of you alone. 

But if you’ll allow him to, Oliver thinks he could still get that smile on your lips tonight. One that he’d be the sole cause of. 

His hands lift to rest on your cheeks, thumbs caressing over them to wipe some tears away. The soft lilt of your head lets him better see you from his angle above. 

He’s sober—you are too. There’s nothing but pure blood running through each of your veins, nothing to cause anything reckless other than his own self.

Oliver asks you quietly, devotedly, “Can I show you the way I’ve always wanted to kiss you?”

He stares into the glimmering pools of your eyes, searching for something to grasp and hold onto, to nurture and take care of. 

Another shuddered breath draws from your lips. You go still again for a moment… before you give him a nod and let him bring you to him.

He kisses you tenderly, his lips capturing your own in an essence he had been craving to emulate with you since the moment he laid eyes on you for the very first time. The warmth from then blooms itself within his chest, and he presses his lips more firmly against yours when you allow him to deepen the kiss after the first few soft, careful grazes.

The softness of your lips he had felt just a few weeks ago sends sparks on his, that familiar tingling feeling they had been yearning for finally feeling satisfaction. His arms go wrap around your waist and bring your bodies closer to each other as you steady your hands on his broad shoulders, distance unheard of between your heartbeats that mirror each other's rhythm. Your lips feel like cotton against his roughened ones, but you still invite him to savor you, to taste you in full awareness.

You’re first to break away to catch some air. Oliver allows you to, his forehead resting on yours as you try to compose yourself as he admires you from the closeness between you and him. You suddenly take the lead this time, hungry and craving for more from him, kissing him again in a manner so passionate, it lands you against the door. But you and him go unfazed from the impact, heads too filled with the yearning for each other to notice. 

Oliver separates slowly from you, lips swollen and wet from the fervor of the kiss. He breathes slowly, synchronizing with your own breaths as you gaze into each other fully. Your tears have stopped, he’s noticed, and on your lips is an ever-so-soft grin melded from the moment between you and him.

A hand goes to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, one that reveals one half of the pair of earrings he gifted you all those days ago, before it cradles your face again. 

“Something like that,” he whispers. “If that was okay.”

You give a soft sigh of contentment. “I think that was more than okay…”

He chuckles lowly, a weight being lifted from his shoulders. “Yeah?”

You lick your lips before you giggle soundly, nodding almost shyly as you feel the leftover sparks from the kiss on your lips.

“Yeah.”

Your hands intertwine with his, sharing a warmth between each other. Oliver brings one of your interconnected ones up and gently kisses your knuckles, a flutter in your chest arising when his eyes soften at you, full of love and devotion solely for you to consume. 

“Twelve more to go, Aiku!” Hoichi hollers. 

Guilt builds itself within you, especially as you trail Oliver’s lethargically-running figure from the stands as he continues running laps around the field. The rest of the team has been long gone, and it’s been two hours since practice has ended, but their captain remains on the field, his punishment for his earlier actions being to run fifty laps. 

What exactly did he do to deserve such a fate?

Ask your uncle permission to take you on a date.

You’ve never seen such a fire rage in your uncle’s eyes when Oliver had brought up the topic, one that even made you flinch at his fury. Men he barely knew were one thing… but Oliver? Someone he’s known for years and has brought up a reputation for being a playboy? Dating his precious niece? How dare he even bring up the topic! 

But you had explained to your uncle as best as possible that all you wanted to do was just go on a simple date with him, just to test out the waters. Nothing too crazy at first. He supposes that your reasoning made better sense, as it managed to relax some of his nerves, but the remnants of his wrath remained and your uncle will grant Oliver permission to do as he wishes under one condition. 

“You wanna earn my blessing?” your uncle had declared with folded arms. Oliver had nodded from his bowed position, only for him to freeze when he heard the singular condition that would grant him permission. “Run fifty laps around the field. Straight. No breaks.” 

“You don’t think you’re being too harsh…?” you question quietly to your uncle, whose hard stare remains on Oliver from above. “I think he’s done enough.”

“If he wants to show that he’s devoted to you like he said he did,” your uncle starts, “then let him work for you. Don’t let him or any man half-ass their way to you if they show they're not dedicated enough.”

You sigh miserably, supposing he’s right in some sense or another. But you just wish that his punishment was much less harsh than over-exhausting his captain.

But when you see Aiku throw a grin your way and a warbly thumbs up mid-run, making you laugh softly, you suppose that this is his way of showing he truly was ready for you, that he’ll earn his way towards you in every possible instance if it means he’ll get to have you as his.

a/n: so this was not supposed to actually be this long... i anticipated it to be somewhere along the lines of like... 4k at most? i apologize that this was extraordinarily lengthy 😭

i almost ended up cutting it into halves/thirds, but i figured i'd be too lazy to try and continue it so i just kept writing and writing. mind you i started this literally yesterday, adhd and hyperfocus is a funny thing. hopefully this turned some of u guys into aiku fans bc he got my ass unfortunately

but regardless, thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are the best way to support creators you enjoy, and leaving one will always be noticed and appreciated (´• ◡ •`) ♡ !!!!

[butyoudidthis4what]

Something Else (Perfumer Part 2)

Jack Abbot x Bratty f!Reader

6.8k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CWs: NSFW, MDNI 18+, established relationship, dom!jack vibes, oral f receiving, mention of alcohol, biting, hickeys, manhandling, edging, stubble burn reference, spanking, unprotected PIV sex (birth control not discussed, but implied with the established relationship), age gap (reader 30ish, Jack mid/late 40s) but not mentioned, teasing, reader is a brat, like a really really big brat, no use of y/n or related, zero proofreading of any kind.

Summary: Continuation of Perfumer. Jack finally gets off shift and home to you. Bratty reader gets tamed.

AN: This feels like such an abrupt change of pace from No Man's Land which is where I have been living. It was just in my head and I needed to get it out. It's pretty much straight PWP which has historically been rare for me. I am quite nervous about posting this one because my smut writing feels so so so rusty and potentially not very great. So, I hope it's okay!

This is the look I picture him giving reader at the beginning!

Jack hears the quiet and slightly shuddery breath you take in at his words and can’t help but smirk. 

He likes this little game you guys play, likes when you’re a brat and he has to tame you and earn your submission. Likes when you start it subtly out in public.

Collins walks up to the opposite side of the desk around the same time you and Jack arrive. You share a brief moment of eye contact and then you scratch at your ear. You stop with Jack at the desk and stand close to him, close enough for your sides to touch. 

“Hey,” Collins calls your name to get your attention. You’ve become very close friends very fast. “I’m working with your man tonight, but I’m off tomorrow with some of the other girls and we were thinking of trying that new brunch place two blocks up once I’m off.” Jack’s head pops up and looks between you and Collins before settling back on you. “We figure somewhere between nine and eleven a.m. But McKay said she was happy to provide pregame mimosas at her place while you wait for me. She said she was fine with seven, good to stay on schedule.” 

 “That sounds so fun!” You nod at her, start walking over towards her, acutely aware of the way Jack tracks you as you do. “I’ve really been wanting to try that place! Probably makes the most sense for me to go over to McKay’s at seven if she’s going to be awake, just in case you actually get off on time for once.” 

Collins goes to speak again but Jack speaks first. “Don’t you already have plans?” 

You look back over at him confused. “No? Not unless I’m forgetting something.”

Subconsciously Jack moves his head towards you. “I think you are,” he nods. “Remember, we made plans.”

“Did we? When?” You go to say more but you’re interrupted by Collins laughter. “Heather!”

“I’m so sorry, the look on his face, I couldn’t help it!” She keeps laughing and it makes you laugh. 

“What?” Jack asks, clearly unamused. 

“We’re just screwing with you Jackie!” You giggle as you walk over to him. “We had a prearranged plan and signal to do this when I finally felt the time was right.” 

Jack blinks at you. “Did you now?” 

“Don’t pout.” You stick your lip out dramatically. “I have not forgotten our plans,” you assure him. You drop your voice for only the two of you to hear and run your hands over his chest, smoothing out his scrub top. “And I can assure you that I would never forget the kind of plans we have, nor would I ever take a rain check on them for some other offer.” 

“You’re a brat,” he replies lowly, an edge to his voice that makes another chill run up your spine. 

“You like it,” you whisper back to him before leaning up on your toes to give him a quick kiss. “Thank you, Heather!” You call out to her as she walks away and she just waves, still laughing to herself. “Have a great shift Dr. Abbot. Try not to have too much fun without me. Love you.” 

“Yeah, I love you too.” His eyes still track you as you walk backwards a little and wave at him before turning to walk out. “Hey,” he calls to you. You look back with your eyebrows raised in expectation. “Promises.”

You bite your lip and nod before turning again to leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You let yourself get some sleep while Jack works but make sure to set an alarm for 6:45 a.m. so that you can be up when he’s off. Or at least when he’s supposed to be off. Unsurprisingly, there’s no text from him at 7:00, but at 7:05 you get one. 

J – Probably going to be a few hours late.

You – No worries, me and my ankles will be here waiting patiently for your arrival home.

The next text comes at 10:07 a.m.

J – You up?

You – Of course. Just freshened up the ankles for you, loverboy.

You can practically see his eyes rolling from here, but you know he likes it. 

J – You will not like what will happen if you are not on the bed naked and waiting when I get home. 

You – That another promise, Jackie?

At that one you can just picture the way he clenched his jaw as he got in his car. You’re not surprised when you don’t get an answer. 

You do as he asks though. Kind of. 

You shut the bedroom door and strip, and then you put on what you think are one of the sexiest pairs of panties you own. 

You walk over to your shared bed and lay down, propping yourself up with a pillow just enough that you can make eye contact with anyone who walks through the door. 

You let your hand drift lower and lower until your fingers brush over your clit on top of the fabric. He hadn’t given you permission, hadn’t told you to even start getting yourself ready for him. You keep touching yourself, let your fingers rub circles over your clit, use the fabric rubbing against you as a new sensation, all the while thinking of what he’s going to do to you when he gets home. 

Your panties are noticeably wet by the time you hear the front door open, fingers sticky with your arousal despite having stayed on top of the fabric the whole time. 

Jack can feel himself starting to fill out again as he reads how you freshened up your ankles for him. You’ve pushed him today. But he needs it. He thrives on it, almost always, on taming you. On pushing you to the edge of your limits. On earning your submission.  

The drive is mercifully traffic free. He steps into your place, locks the door behind him and just drops his backpack on the floor. Doesn’t put it aside in its usual spot. Doesn’t hang his coat up on one of the hooks. Doesn’t call out for you. 

His coat lands wherever it finally falls off him as he stalks through the house towards your room. His shirt meets the same fate, landing not far from the bedroom door. He’s already fully hard by the time his hand hits the doorknob and pushes open your bedroom door. 

In retrospect he’s not sure why it wasn’t, but the sight of you on the bed, looking right at him, almost totally naked and rubbing your clit over your panties was not what he expected to see when he opened the door. He didn’t expect to hear your soft panting and the softest and most breathy moan of his name. Jack. He tries not to let you see how it gets to him, how you get to him but he knows you’ll see the clench of his jaw and flare of his nostrils. You’re a sight. The most beautiful and erotic one he’s ever seen. 

You bite your lip at him, fight to keep the smirk off your face, but don’t stop. After locking eyes with him for a moment you let your eyes move from his and trail all over his chest and abdomen and arms. And the now very prominent bulge in his scrub pants. He’s too handsome. He burns you sometimes you swear, just by standing there shirtless and silent with that stoic face of his and that jaw and those eyes that ever so slightly tell you just how affected he is. 

Wordlessly Jack steps further into the room and shuts the door before looking back at you. Silence like this always means something with him. Means he’s sexually frustrated and annoyed with you. Means he’s ready to tame. The way he cocks his head just slightly, though, is a silent challenge.  

“It’s funny, sweetheart. I don’t remember my text saying anything about you being allowed to touch yourself and distinctly remember it telling you to be naked on the bed.” His voice is too calm, too composed. He has too much control over himself, it drives you insane sometimes.

“Well,” you sigh softly, roll your hips a bit as you keep circling your clit, “the text didn’t say not to touch myself.” You take a second to let out a few more moans, another of his name, lick your lips. “And technically I’m not really touching myself. The fabric is touching me, there’s been no skin on skin, Jackie,” you smirk at him. 

Jack clenches his jaw and lets out a short hummed laugh. He doesn’t say anything though. He just takes his scrub pants off, tosses them in the corner and looks back at you in just his boxer briefs.  

He stalks closer to the bed, closer to you. “You think you’re real fuckin’ cute, don’t you?”

“Are you saying I’m not?” You pout just a little too cloyingly and he knows you’re still trying to fuck with him. 

“That’s not an answer.” A little jaw clench there. 

“Hmmm,” you hum, finally take your fingers away from yourself and up to your mouth, sucking them clean before releasing them. “Well it’s the only one you’re going to get.” 

“That so?” 

He can be so quick when he wants to be and before his question has fully hit you and you can start thinking of some bratty reply he’s leant over the center of the foot of the bed enough to grab your ankles and pull you down the bed. It’s so unexpected you yelp, but not in pain. He’s a doctor, he knows just where to grab to not pull too much on your hip or ankle. “Well that wasn’t a very bratty noise now, was it sweetheart?”

He pulls you by the hips now so that your ass is at the edge of the bed, rips your panties down and off you. Before you can wrap your legs around his waist he catches them, holds them up parallel to his body in front of him, but spread just enough for him to stand in between them. It gives him the perfect view of your pussy, glistening and on display for him. You see his eyes slip down to take you in before he drags them back to yours. He holds your eye contact as he moves his face towards one of your ankles and breaks your gaze just as the side of his face starts to brush your inner calf. 

Jack turns his face completely and you can see him hold his breath while he gives you just a little check in, a quick kiss to the inside of your ankle. And then he takes a deep breath through his nose. 

His head snaps back to look at you, pupils blown as wide as they can be, jaw clenched and rolling with the subtlest twitch under his eye for a second that only you would notice. His hands grip your legs tighter, tight enough to hurt just a little. Anyone else might think he was looking at you with controlled but raging anger. 

But you know that it’s a look of primal, possessive need, that Jack’s on fire for you, all searing skin and simmering blood and deep panting breaths. You know that his cock hurts as it strains against the fabric of his boxer briefs because he needs you so viscerally.

There’s another glance down at your pussy again as you hum saccharinely. His eyes snap back to yours. The slowest smirk pulls across your face as you hold his gaze, your eyes smoldering at him. For him. 

“Just thought you might like a little reminder of what’s yours, that’s all.”

Jack’s chest heaves just a little harder at your words and his eyes narrow slightly before pulling from yours and traveling down your body to take in you, all on display for him as he decides just what it is he wants to do with you.  

His cologne. 

His cologne is what you sprayed on your ankles. His cologne with just enough of a hint of your perfume coming through behind it so that it smells like you do after sex when he’s owned you, touched you so much and held you so close and fucked you so hard and so deep that the dewy sweat of your skin has evaporated much but not quite all of your perfume away and his cologne has stuck to you, marking you as his.

He’s still silent. Not brooding like he does sometimes. He’s just thinking. Just using the silence to toy with you and make you wait. Something about that makes you shiver. 

And Jack thinks he has you at that shiver. Keeps silent. Keeps looking at your body, especially your cunt. Keeps waiting for you to be the one to break and speak first. And you will be. 

But Jack thinks he has you and you saw it in a quick sweep of his eyes over your face at your shiver and you simply can’t have that. Not yet. 

“What’s wrong, Jackie?” You break the silence and give the smallest pout before your smirk comes back. “Pussy got your tongue?”

He raises his eyebrows at you, a slow smirk matching your own pulling up. He laughs a little. It’s a little more dangerous than if he hadn’t reacted because of how controlled it is, how it shows how much control he still has left. “Cute,” he nods at you as he caresses your ankles, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re cute when you’re a brat.” 

“I try-” You’re cut off by him suddenly bending your legs at the knee and pushing them towards you as he moves closer to the bed, drops to his knees on the carpet. He rests your feet on his shoulder, leaving your ankles right there for the fragrance to perfume the air. 

He takes in another long breath through his nose and you swear you can hear him growl before soft kisses are being placed up your inner thigh. Instead of moving inward though Jack kisses outward, along the inner line where your hip and thigh meet. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t spray anything here for me to find,” he murmurs against your skin as he kisses back towards where you’re desperate for him. 

“I considered it.” The words come out a little breathless as he gets closer and closer to your center. “But decided against it because then I would’ve had to listen to you bitch about not being able to smell me.”

Jack bites your inner thigh only a few inches away from your cunt and sucks, hard. Hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth, to suck a developing bruise into your skin. As he does so his stubble rubs lightly across your lips, breath hitching and hips twitching as you fight yourself to keep them down and not give him the satisfaction. 

He releases your thigh. “I don’t bitch,” he says nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly. As though he hasn’t noticed his face is an inch and a half away from your pussy. 

“Yes you-” You’re cut off with a gasp as Jack’s tongue licks you cunt to clit. Your head falls back onto the pillow without a thought as the sensation of his tongue overwhelms you. 

“Sorry sweetheart,” he pulls away from you for just a second, “were you saying something?”

He renders you unable to answer by giving you another lick before using the tip of his tongue to trace lazy figure-eights around your clit. His tongue drops down again and he leans into you, sucks at as much of you as he can before going up to focus on your clit, taking it between his lips and sucking, but leaving just enough space to not get a complete seal so it doesn’t feel quite as good as it could. 

You whine softly about it because Jack’s eaten you out and sucked at your clit enough times for you to know how it normally feels, that he’s fucking insanely talented at it and that he never slips like this. So you know he’s doing it deliberately. 

He gives a little grunt against you to say fine, if you’re so unhappy with it he’ll go elsewhere, and the vibrations of it as he sucks and pulls away from your clit make your hips jolt. Jack’s hands immediately come up and hold your hips down, hands strong and warm and so big as he presses his fingertips down into your skin. 

Jack trails his tongue down, teasingly traces circles around your entrance as he basks in the little mewls you make for him. His cock throbs hard against the fabric of his boxer briefs and he gives the slightest groan about it. 

As quickly as his tongue dropped down to tease you it pushes inside of you and you moan, louder than you want to for him right now. Jack’s stubble rubs against your inner thighs as he tongue fucks you a few times and then pulls out, fingers squeezing your hips harder when you whine about it. 

His lips move back up to your clit and suck again, but this time the seal of them is tight around you, his tongue flicking little circles against you in his mouth. It steals your breath for a second as your back arches while your hips remain pinned to the bed by his hands. “Oh, Jack!” The moan is quiet, clearly slipping out of your lips unconsciously. Your hands fist the sheets hard before unclenching and starting to move down to his salt and pepper curls.

Jack isn’t looking at you, he has his eyes closed as he focuses on you and the little noises you’re making for him but that you’re trying to hide and how you taste and how you smell and how hot your pussy is on his skin, chin coated in you. But he doesn’t need to be looking to know your next move. 

He suddenly pulls his face from you. “Don’t even fucking try it or we’ll end this right here, right now and I’ll go fuck my fist in the shower.”

You freeze for a second and then pull your hands back up and twist at the sheets again, give him a huff. 

Jack takes the few seconds he’s pulled away from you to move his hands from your hips and push his boxer briefs down, freeing himself. He gives a little groan of relief when his hand wraps around him and tugs a few times. You’re already a little too fucked out to really notice.

He lets his hand stay there as he brings his face back to your cunt, starts licking and sucking again. He fucks his fist as he devours you whole, needs the relief even as a piece of him mourns the fact that it’s his hand and not your hand or your mouth or your cunt. 

Jack builds a pattern with his tongue, repeats it over and over as you writhe for him against the sheets, as you give him sweet little moan after moan until you’re finally moaning his name loudly. Pleasure courses through you and heat roils in your lower belly as your muscles contract tighter and tighter and Jack works you closer and closer. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you pant out “just like that Jack, just like that, fuck!”

And then he changes his pattern. You let out a vaguely frustrated sigh, but can’t stay true to it because the new pattern is just as good. You can feel him smirk against you at your sigh, move his face just a little so that his stubble scratches into you a little harder, starts to etch into your skin. 

Jack touches himself faster and faster as he licks and sucks at you, paying attention to how close he is and how close you are. The grunts and groans he pulls from himself send shivers through you and drive you that much closer to the edge. Your mind is so pleasure hazy you don’t even think to question why he’s making them. 

Once he gets himself right to the edge he slows down, is more absentminded with himself as he doubles down on you, pushes you right up to that same ledge with his tongue and mouth. He can feel your toes curl against him as you get a second away from the point of no return. 

You already know what’s going to happen but it doesn’t help, doesn’t make it easier to weather when he rips himself away from you. “No!” You cry it out for him despite yourself, despite wanting to appear unaffected. 

Jack laughs darkly. “You know only good girls get to cum, babygirl.”

You huff slightly, lay there panting with your eyes closed as you try and ride out your almost orgasm, hear Jack stand up. He lets one of your legs fall gently and holds the other up against his chest by your calf. So you wait for him. For whatever is next.  

You don’t expect the way he runs the palm of his hand through you though, the way he curls his fingers to drag up you in a way to collect as much of the arousal he’s pulled from you on his hand as possible. “Fuck, Jack!”

Your eyes fly open at you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him. The sight of him wrapping his slicked up palm and fingers around himself and starting to fuck his fist is unexpected but anything but unwelcome. 

“This could be you, you know.” His voice is low, followed by a few low pants as he touches himself. “This should be you.” He lets his hand that’s holding your calf adjust your leg so that he can turn his head and breathe in through his nose at your upper ankle, let the smell of him owning you course through him. His head turns back and his eyes find yours. He stares at you with that same intensity from earlier but this time it’s glazed with an even heavier lust. “I should be in your hand, or your mouth, or your cunt,” he growls at you. “But am I?”

Though an obvious answer, it’s not a rhetorical question. He expects an answer. Expects you to acknowledge and think about how he’s not in your hand or your mouth or your cunt. You stare at him, can hear your heart beating in your ears, pussy growing wetter and mouth salivating at the thought. You just can’t help yourself though. 

“Well if you have to ask Jackie…” You give him a little shrug. 

“God, fuck!” Jack groans, voice strained as he aims his cock at you and comes all over your pussy and lower abdomen. He works himself through it, chest heaving, glistening with sweat and flushed as he slows his hand and releases himself. “You’re fucking pushing it,” he almost laughs, but it’s more an observation he happens to find entertaining. 

He stares at his cum that sticks so prettily to your skin and pussy, claiming you just for him as he lets himself come down from his orgasm. “You look so beautiful like his,” he murmurs lowly, voice huskier than normal. “Covered in me.”

Before you can say anything he looks away from you and grabs the panties you were wearing, uses them to clean you off and sits you up. It surprises you a little, that he’s so eager to wipe it away. But then he’s sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. 

He shows you again just how quick he can be, and you’re yelping again at the suddenness of finding yourself bent over his knees with his palm caressing one of your ass cheeks. There’s no build up. There doesn’t need to be. You know why you’re in this position. 

“Count.” It’s an order.

“Or what? You’ll spank me?”

He does, obviously. It’s a little harder than he had been planning the first one to be just because of the extra attitude, the smacking sound a little sharper. Another one to the other cheek follows swiftly. He can feel you squirm on him and hear the softest moan that just makes it through your lips into the air despite your otherwise lack of reaction. 

There’s a pause as he waits. Waits for you to say one. Two. 

“I distinctly remember telling you to count.” His voice is still so composed even with as low in pitch as it drops.

“I am!” You huff at him. He squeezes at one of your cheeks where his hand just came down. “I am!” You repeat, doing your best to sound indignant which is difficult given the position you find yourself in. “In my head.” You feel his entire body tense. “What? You just said count. Not count out loud.”

Jack takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He’s quite certain he hears you giggle about it. There’s some part of him that’s a little proud of you for this little display. He shifts his legs a little, spreads them just a bit and runs his hand over your cheek and under you to pinch your clit. Not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make you jolt and let out another pretty little moan for him. You can feel him start to get hard again against your thigh. 

“Outloud.”

Another little giggle. 

“Sir, yes sir.” 

He’s good at spanking, you have to give him that. He gives you ten in total, five to each cheek. He doesn’t alternate every time, brings his hand down in quick succession sometimes and makes you wait torturously for it to come back down at others, varies the pressure and how hard he brings his hand down against you, where he brings it down. 

By the time he’s done tears sting at your eyes as your ass throbs, burning and sore and stinging in its own right. 

“Good girl.” It’s low, breathed out more than actually spoken as he leans you back up, but you’re still able to hear it. The part of your brain that wants to be a brat feels betrayed by the part that glows at his praise and approval and sends warm happiness flowing through you. 

“Center of the bed. On your stomach.” For once this morning you actually do as he asks, crawl your way to the center of the bed and lay on your stomach as he takes his prosthetic off and crawls up in between your legs. 

You rest your head on its side, look back at him as much as you can. His eyes run over your ass as his hands grab your hips and haul you up to your knees. You go to push yourself up on your hands or elbows but all too quickly his hand wraps around the back of your neck and pushes you back down wordlessly. 

With his other hand he gets himself lined up with you and pushes inside you slowly, cognizant that while he’s already edged you and gotten you nearly dripping for him, only his tongue has been inside you, no fingers to help prep you. You whimper but Jack knows you well enough to know that it’s not from physical pain but rather from how slowly he’s sliding into you. 

As he bottoms out Jack closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, a little shaky because fuck do you feel good and fuck has he been waiting to be buried inside you since you showed up at the Pitt. 

He pulls out of you slowly, lets you feel every ridge and vein of him before he snaps his hips hard to get himself back inside of you. 

“Ohh,” you moan out, “Jack, fuck.” He does it again, pulls out torturously slow and snaps back in. 

“You want more baby?” He says as saccharine and teasing as you’d spoken to him when he got home. He pulls out a little faster this time, moves his hand from your neck and uses both hands to help pull you back onto him so he can fuck you even harder. 

You immediately go to get up on your elbows again. “Stay down,” Jack warns, curling over you a little and using his hand to guide you back down. It changes the angle, makes him slide deeper inside of you which draws a moan from you and an erratic buck of his hips as he chases the feeling. 

“But I can’t see you like this,” you pout, breathing heavily. 

“Brats don’t get to see,” Jack grunts out, leans back up and returns both hands to your hips so that he can return to fucking you harder. 

You take in a couple of panted breaths, tilt your head at an awkward angle for a second to see a little more of him. You know he sees you do it. Somehow you manage to smile at him. 

“You’re cute when you’re all worked up.” You mirror his words from earlier back to him and manage the smallest smirk before turning your head back to a neutral position. 

Jack lets out a quick scoff. “You’re really fucking something else today.” Jack slides his hands up a little and pushes down, forcing your ass to come up higher for him, again letting him get deeper and hit harder with the added bonus of keeping your head on the mattress. He watches your hands curl in the sheets as he rails you.

“Touch yourself,” he orders. 

He snarks a laugh at how you don’t have to be given that instruction twice, hand sliding between your legs and rubbing erratically at your clit as your brain starts to get pleasure drunk off his cock.  

Neither of you speak for a bit, not real words. It’s just the sounds of your panting and the moans and groans you pull from each other and the slap of skin on skin. You’re the first to break.

“Oh god! Jack!” You mewl as the pleasure starts to overtake you. He can hear and feel how close you are.

“Stop touching yourself.” Another order. You falter on this one, like you knew he would. So he stops, removes your hand himself.

Another orgasm ebbs away from you. 

You whine but do your damndest to remain unaffected, to try not to show how desperate you’re getting. But your whine has just enough of a desperate edge to it to let Jack know he almost has you. 

“What was it you said again?” He starts rubbing your clit. “Oh yes, I remember. The anticipation and wait makes it better.” He gives another dark laugh as he starts fucking you again, just as hard and just as intense. 

“Oh fuck Jack!” You gasp out. He hadn’t given you much come down time and so you feel your orgasm cresting again quickly. 

“Close, baby?” He asks like he doesn’t already know by the feel of your cunt around him. 

You can only nod as the pleasure grows stronger and stronger, your breaths coming harder and harder as you moan nonsense to Jack. 

“Jack!” You draw his name out in a moaned whine. “Need to come. Need to.” Your speech is a little slurred now. 

“Brats don’t get to come.” It’s nearly mocking the way he says it. Cocky. Like he knows he has you now. Because he does. He knows how close you are. His pace doesn’t relent. He speaks through the panting breaths he takes. “And what are you sweetheart?” 

“A brat.” You look back up at him with watery eyes and a real pout this time, on the verge of tears of pleasure. “Please-

“You still think you’re real fuckin’ cute?” he pants, cutting you off. 

“No, I’m sorry, please Jack, Sir, I,” a few tears slide down your face. “I want to be good for you.” You’re so ready for it, so convinced he’s going to let you have it now. 

But Jack stops and pulls out of you and you let out a little sob as more tears fall.  

“Shh, shh, shh,” he shushes you softly as he flips you over so you’re on your back. “I’ve got you.”

He pushes back inside you, grabs your calves and throws one over his shoulder, takes his time with the other as he lets himself take in a deep breath through his nose at your inner ankle and lets out what sounds like a growl from the deep within his chest before settling it on him like the other. His fingers on one hand toy with your clit as he leans over you and grinds himself into you. With how worked up and sensitive you are and the sound he just made for you it’s all you need and he finally lets you have it. 

Your orgasm shatters you. You swear you lose hearing for a minute, lose the ability to breathe and that your vision goes white 

“There she is,” Jack drawls, “there’s my good girl.” He moves his hand and stills his hips, let his hands grope at your breasts, fingers gently teasing at your nipples. 

You pant hard as you try to reorient yourself, finally get your eyes back open and look up at Jack. 

“Jack,” your breathing starts to return to normal. “Please,” you breathe. 

He moves your legs off his shoulders and helps you wrap them around his waist, lowers himself down so that your chests touch. “Please gets you what you want, doesn’t it sweetheart?” He leans his head into your neck and starts kissing you there, soft teasing things. 

“Yes.” It’s just as breathless as your please and something about it drives Jack wild. You let one arm slip under his shoulder and bend up to cling to his back as much as you can, the other staying above his shoulder so that your hand can find his hair, let your fingers run through it.

Jack starts fucking you again, hard. He puts his whole body into it, arching his back and using his knees for leverage to help his thighs and hips drive into you over and over. He keeps kissing your neck, sucks at it, nibbles at the spots he knows are most sensitive. 

“Oh Jack!” You arch up into him. “Jack, Jack, Jack.” He feels too good, fucks you too good. It’s unreal. 

You hear him grunt low from deep in his chest and it makes you shiver, let out a whine. “I love the way you say my name when you’re like this. Fucked out and cock drunk.” 

Jack’s voice reveals he’s just as drunk on your pussy as you are his cock.

It rips through you out of seemingly nowhere at his words, your second orgasm, just as good as your first but deeper, more intense in the way it feels like your muscles contract so hard all your bones will snap before they release with a rush of pleasure that makes you arch into Jack again. 

His name slips off your tongue in a moaned prayer again. “Jack, Jack, Jack.”

“You sound so pretty when you come for me.” He kisses at your jaw, down your neck, sucks at your collarbone while he fucks you through it.

Jack moves his hand, slows his hips to give you a little bit of time to recover. You whimper through your tears of pleasure. He’s not chasing his own release. 

Because he’s not done with you yet.

He picks the pace of his hips back up and you moan for him, claw at his back and scalp. He knows it’s not going to take much to get you there a third time with how sensitive you are, right on the border of pleasurable and painful overstimulation.

“You’ve got one more in you for me, sweetheart, I know you do.”

You shake your head at him. “I can’t.” You sniffle and he leans in to kiss away your tears. You say that you can’t but you trust Jack to know your body more in this moment than you do, trust that he won’t push you too far, only right to your limit before bringing you back. “It’s too much Jack!” You keen as his fingers return to rub tight circles over your clit again.

“No babygirl,” Jack finally kisses you, licks into your mouth possessively and moans just as loud for you as you do for him, breaks the kiss but hovers his lips over yours so they brush against each other when he speaks, “it’s just enough.” 

Your orgasm crashes over you just as he finishes his sentence, white hot and searing. Your hands tug hard at his salt and pepper curls as you go soundless from how hard your coming, almost holding your breath as the pleasure completely takes over. Your ability to speak suddenly comes back and you let out the most erotic moan of Jack’s name that he’s ever heard.

Your cunt clenching around him, the sharp burst of pleasured pain from how hard you tug on his hair and that moan of his name are all Jack needs. He follows you, coming with a groan of your name that’s so choked and even more gravelly than his usual voice that you think for a second it might make you come again. He keeps moving his hips somehow, fucking himself through it to try and keep the feeling from ending.

“Fucking christ,” Jack groans as his hips still, propping himself up on his elbows and panting as he looks down at you. “You okay?” You’re smiling at him, eyes completely glazed over, but you nod. He knows that right now you are. It makes him smile back at you. He takes another couple of seconds to even his breathing out before kissing your cheeks and nose and forehead and chin and then your lips to bring you back down. “You. Are. So. Fucking. Perfect.” He punctuates each word with a kiss.  

You blink at him, eyes a bit clearer. So he asks again. “Hi beautiful,” he smiles down at you amusedly, “you okay?”

You come back to yourself a little more and that’s when the trembling starts as you reconnect your mind and body enough for the dump of hormones and adrenaline to hit you, your body struggling to figure out what to do with all the pleasure. “Ohhh,” you sigh out, voice a a bit shaky, “I am so much more than okay, Jack. I’m trying to figure out what layer of the fucking stratosphere you just sent me to and how I get back down,” you laugh softly. 

Jack returns the soft laugh. “Good. Water now?” You shake your head, not ready for it yet. He gives you another kiss that you return and then lowers himself on top of you. He knows his body weight and the skin on skin helps with the trembling and reorientation. You wrap your arms around him, let one hand play in his curls while the other rubs up and down his back absentmindedly. Jack feels when you stop trembling and relax.

“You did amazing sweetheart, I’m proud of you. That was a lot.” He leans back up for another kiss and you beam at him, glowing in the warmth of his body and praise. 

“Thank you,” you murmur against his lips. A beat passes. “I really got you twice there with the ankles, once at work and once with the cologne.” 

Jack snorts a laugh and buries his face in your chest. “You really are something else, you know that?” He peers up at you and the only thing you see is a man hopelessly in love with you and not afraid to show you. 

“I do.” You nod with a smirk, almost smug about it. “But I’m your something else.” You grin at him. 

Jack laughs. In a few moments he’ll ask you if you’re okay again, pull a pair of pajama pants on, put on his prosthetic and walk around shirtless to get you water without asking and probably a snack. He’ll ask if you want a bath or shower and when you say no this time he’ll rub some of the salve you have on your ass to help soothe where he spanked you. And then after his twelve plus a few hours shift followed by fucking you out of your mind he’ll ask if you’re okay if he grabs some sleep, as if you’d ever say no and won’t be half asleep yourself from the fucking he just gave you when he asks. But for now he just agrees with you. “You’re correct sweetheart,” he nods, “you’re my something else.”

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Hopefully it was okay?

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