#sigh i don’t even know what to name her

[yueebby]

steal my girl — gojo satoru

synopsis. the time gojo and megumi decided to crash your date.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo roping megumi into his loser activities, timeskips, tw sappy

notes. this drabble has been rotting in my brain for over a year. finally wrote it!

“I’m going on a date.”

It only took five simple words from you to make the world’s strongest jujutsu sorcerer drop to his knees. For the first time in his life, Gojo could swear he was experiencing shortness of breath. And was it just him, or were the walls closing in?

“What?” The word leaves his mouth like a demand rather than a question. He’s trying so hard not to overreact, but your overjoyed face makes it nearly impossible not to succumb to the ugly green monster clawing at his insides.

“Well,” you push his shoulder playfully. “Don’t act so surprised. You’re not the only one that pulls.”

“Don’t I know it,” Gojo mutters under his breath, eye twitching. Don’t you know how hard he works to deter any suitors vying for your attention when the two of you are out? He’s practically a rabid dog growling at anyone who so much as breathes in your direction.

Hell, even Shoko once mentioned to him something about being a “registered pervert” at most establishments you frequent together.

 Not his finest moments.

You eye Satoru suspiciously before continuing. That was your first mistake.

“Yeah, he’s taking me to that new Michelin Star restaurant downtown,” you sigh dreamily. “I mean, seriously. Isn’t that so cool?”

Gojo scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “If that’s what you wanted, you could’ve just said so. I know a place that has three Michelin Stars.”

You pout. “Well, it’s different with you.”

Gojo’s eyebrow quirks up. “How so?”

“You’re a friend. And with him…” You trail off, suddenly feeling shy under Gojo’s piercing gaze. Heat creeps up your neck, blooming across your cheeks as you toy with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s a lot more romantic.”

Gojo thinks he could just die.

The word romantic rings in his ears, and it was deafening. It digs into his ribs and squeezes at something raw inside him. He’s the strongest sorcerer alive, yet right now, he feels utterly powerless against the way your voice softens when you talk about someone else. Against the way your lips curve at the thought of another man.

He scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Romantic, huh?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge to it.

You nod, eyes glimmering with something dreamy, something distant, and Gojo wants to reach out and wipe it away. He wants that look—wants to be the reason for it.

If you wanted romance, he could give you romance.

Better romance.

A grand plan manifests in his head, spinning to life at full speed. 

Oh, this poor guy doesn’t stand a chance.

The moment Megumi sees Gojo enter his and Tsumiki’s shared apartment, he knows something is wrong. There’s a certain energy in the air, a distinct lack of peace that Gojo drags with him that makes the eight year old’s stomach churn.

“Fushiguro!” Gojo’s voice rings out, far too enthusiastic for Megumi’s liking. “We have a problem.”

Megumi barely glances up from his book. “We?”

Gojo makes himself at home and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, we. Our dear [Name] here has a date.”

Megumi's grip on his book tightens, his interest sparking at the mention of you. Where Gojo lacked maturity, you balanced it effortlessly. He liked that about you. He liked you.

Megumi blinks once. “And?”

Gojo sighs dramatically. “And we can’t just let her go unprotected, can we?”

“Unprotected?” Megumi repeats, deadpan. “From what? Bad table manners?”

“From heartbreak, Megumi!” Gojo places a hand over his chest, looking scandalized. “What if this guy is a total loser? What if he chews with his mouth open? What if he’s a handsy creep?”

Megumi’s expression darkens. He had been indifferent before, but now there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He doesn’t like the idea of you being stuck with some no-good scrub who isn’t worthy. In a series of twisted events, you and that white haired idiot had managed to become the only constants in his life. The last thing he wanted was for some random guy to come along and take you away.

“We need to intervene,” Gojo presses, watching the flicker of hesitation in Megumi’s expression. His usual deadpan exterior is cracking, just a little. Gojo knows he has him.

Megumi exhales sharply, gripping his book a little too tightly. “I am not going to ruin their date.” His voice is firm, but there’s a sliver of doubt wedged between the words. Gojo seizes it like a cat pouncing on its prey.

“Ruin?” Gojo gasps, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Megumi, this is purely a background check.” His grin stretches.

Megumi glares at him. “It could be considered stalking.”

Gojo waves him off. “Pfft. Such an ugly word. I prefer ‘protective oversight’.”

“You don’t even know if he’s a bad person.”

Gojo tilts his head, feigning deep thought. “Oh, you’re right. Maybe he’s perfect. Maybe he’ll take such good care of her that we won’t be needed anymore.”

Megumi stiffens, and Gojo bites back a smirk.

“That’s not—” Megumi starts, but Gojo steamrolls over him.

“I mean, think about it. If this date goes well, they might actually start dating. And then what? She’ll start spending more time with him.” Gojo nudges him. “She’ll run off and start a new family.”

Megumi’s jaw tightens. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously right,” Gojo corrects cheerfully. 

Megumi runs a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. He already knows Gojo won’t drop this, and, annoyingly, he’s already planted the seed of doubt in his mind.

Gojo leans in, voice lower, almost serious. “You care about her, don’t you?”

Megumi exhales sharply. “...Yeah.”

“And you’d rather make sure she’s safe than sit around wondering?”

Megumi stares at him for a long moment, then groans. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

Gojo grins, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s go before you start growing a conscience.”

The night was supposed to be perfect. A well earned break. It your first real date in a while. Probably your first since meeting Gojo. Though, strangely, you’d never stopped to question why that was.

The guy sitting across from you was a non-sorcerer, and while his looks had been enough to catch your attention when he first asked you out, the novelty was wearing off fast. His personality was as flat and each word he spoke draining more of your enthusiasm. You found yourself nodding along absently, barely listening, already regretting your decision.

Still, you just had to stick it out until the food arrived. Then you could eat, make an excuse, and be done with this painfully dull evening.

Though, just when you thought the night was starting to get interesting, a familiar voice cuts through the elegant ambiance of the restaurant.

“Mom, who is this strange man?”

Your choke on your wine at the familiar voice while your date stiffens.

You turn slowly, dread pooling in your stomach as you come face-to-face with Megumi, standing at your table with his arms crossed. His expression is perfectly deadpan, but you see the flicker of mischief in his eyes, a familiar gleam of mischief that could only be the work of a certain white-haired man lurking nearby.

“E-eh?!” You sputter, glancing between Megumi and your date.

Your date looks thoroughly confused. “Do you… know this child?”

“N-no—I mean, yes, but—”

Megumi doesn’t give you a chance to explain. Instead, he sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “And what will Gojo—Dad—say about this?”

The words slam into you like a truck.

Your date’s jaw drops. “You’re married?”

“N-no!”

“Then why is he calling you Mom?”

You glare at Megumi, but he just shrugs, completely unbothered.

“Come home,” Megumi continues with a sigh. “Tsumiki misses you too.”

“You have multiple children?!”

Your date looks absolutely horrified, like he’s just found himself in the middle of a scandalous affair. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Listen, if you’re going through a divorce or something, we don’t have to do this—”

Before you can defend yourself, another, far-too-cheerful voice joins in.

“There you are, sweetheart!”

Gojo waltzes up to the table, dressed in his finest suit and those damn glasses he only wore on special occasions. He places a hand on your shoulder and turns to your date with an exaggeratedly apologetic expression. “Sorry, buddy, but this one’s a real work. You know it took me two kids to finally tie her down?”

Your date glances between you, Megumi, and Gojo, his eyes wide with pure panic, as if he’s just stumbled into something far beyond his comprehension. His grip tightens around his napkin, knuckles white. “I—I think I should go.”

You lurch forward, reaching out as if that might stop him. “No, wait—!”

But it’s already too late. He’s scrambling for his coat, chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes back from the table, nearly knocking over his drink in his rush. Without sparing you another glance, he spins on his heel and all but bolts toward the exit, shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.

You sit frozen for a second, blinking at the now-empty seat across from you. Then, slowly, you turn toward the culprits, fists clenched at your sides.

“You two,” you hiss, voice low and simmering with fury, “are in serious trouble.”

Megumi has the decency to look guilty, staring down at his lap, shifting awkwardly in his seat as if he’s just now realizing the full extent of what they’ve done.

Gojo, on the other hand, is utterly shameless. He stands there in all his smug glory, adjusting his sunglasses with a satisfied smirk. 

You grab your purse and storm out of the restaurant, with the two trailing behind you like two guilty kids.

“You know,” Gojo muses, “I think that went pretty well.”

You round on him so fast that even he takes a step back. “Pretty well?! You humiliated me! That poor guy thinks I have an entire secret family!”

Gojo snickers. “Well, technically, you do.”

You jab a finger into his chest. “You are not my husband.”

“But wouldn’t it be great if I was?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Megumi lets out a long sigh. “Please don’t entertain him. I’m sorry, [Name].” His blue eyes are trained onto the floor, “I just didn’t think he was good enough for you.”

You exhale sharply, some of your anger ebbing as you glance between the two of them.

“It’s okay, Megumi,” you sigh, your frustration softening at the sight of his guilty expression. You could never stay mad at him, not with that face.

Gojo, however, was a different story.

Slowly, you turn to him, eyes narrowing. “You—”

He grins, entirely unrepentant. “Me?”

Oh, he was so in for it.

Although he had been shamelessly unapologetic at the time, Gojo still found ways to complain about that night, even years later, after you were finally married.

“It was an unusually cruel punishment,” your husband whines dramatically, draping his entire body weight onto you as if his sheer presence could sway your sympathy.

“You mean the silent treatment?” you deadpan, eyes still trained on Megumi practicing his cursed technique across the yard. “It was only a week. Could’ve been longer if you hadn’t harassed everyone around me until they practically begged me to forgive you.”

Gojo lifts his head just enough to shoot you an exaggerated pout. “I don’t harass people. I simply exist, and they just happen to find me irresistible.”

“You tend to have the exact opposite effect, actually.”

“Ten years later, and you’re still so cruel to me.” He sighs heavily, as if burdened by the weight of your terrible treatment, before shoving his face into the crook of your neck. “You wound me, wife.”

You laugh, warmth bubbling in your chest as his breath tickles your skin. “You’re impossible.”

A loud thud interrupts the moment, and you both glance over just in time to see Megumi scowling, his stance off from a misstep in his training.

“You are still disgusting after all of these years,” he grumbles, adjusting his form before going at it again.

Gojo beams. “Aww, he likes us.”

You shake your head, smiling. “He tolerates us.”

“Eh, same thing.” Gojo squeezes you tighter, pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to your cheek just to be insufferable.

Megumi groans. “Seriously, get a room.”

Gojo smirks, wiggling his brows. “Don’t tempt me, kid.”

[strang3lov3]

Better or Worse

“So,” Joel says, wrapping his arm around your side and pulling you against his bare torso, “Daddy’s gonna stuff ya full and slow the bleed. That way you’re not soakin’ through the mattress all night. S’that make sense, Pumpkin?”

Tags - dark daddy!joel, one shot, dubcon, smut, unprotected piv, daddy kink/ddlg dynamics, kinda icky/invasive at times, girthy legal age gap, diminutive nicknames, period sex, liiitle bit of blood kink, cockwarming, big dick joelie makes it fit, blood as lube, the cramps that hurt you feel good for joel lmao, fingering, somno, dark fluff, implied captivity, pms symptoms - reader is described as feeling/looking bloated and having some acne, was previously malnourished and missing her period. Joel's not so scarydaddy here, guys. Pretty gentle and sweet in this one if I do say so myself. 5k words A/N - hey gamers :) told yall I didn’t forget about dark daddy!! Thank you for your patience, and I hope it hits the spot. Love y'all.

You’ve been reading the same sentence over and over in your book for what feels like hours, maybe. Can’t remember the last time you turned a page and at this point, and you can’t remember what’s going on in the story. All you feel is an awful, nagging throb in your skull, pulsing in your fucking ear. It’s like TV fuzz in your brain. 

You get up with a stretch, pausing to sit back down because you stood up too fast, and all that blood rushing back to your brain makes your head pound even worse. At least it’s overcast out, right? God, the thought of sunlight makes you want to puke. You have no clue why you feel so bad right now. You’re not sick. 

When you’re ready, you head to the kitchen and open the cabinet where Joel keeps some odds and ends. A basket full of old, loose bandaids that have long since turned yellow. Petroleum jelly. Allen wrenches and Flintstone vitamins that are all melted together and stuck at the bottom of the bottle. Just shit that should’ve been thrown away long ago, or made its way down from the medicine cabinet upstairs and never returned home. 

Tylenol. It’s right on the top shelf, just out of reach. You stand on your toes to reach it, using your fingertips to nudge it closer to the edge. You try to catch it before it falls, but a larger hand beats you to it. “Nuh-uh,” Joel says, snatching the bottle right up. “You save that for your old man, hm? My back’s thirty goddamn years older’n yours, kid.” 

“So?” 

“So,” Joel drawls, “You leave ‘em be. Them pills are in short supply, too.” And old, and losing potency. Joel idly wonders if they even do anything anymore, if they’re just placebos at this point. Placebo or not, they’re his. “Whatcha even need Tylenol for, honey?” 

“I have a headache,” you answer, mentally cursing yourself as soon as the words slip from your lips. “Fuck.” 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up at the swear; a simple, wordless warning is all the acknowledgment he gives it. “I know you didn’t just say a headache. What am I gonna tell ya?” 

“I don’t knowwww,” you murmur, avoiding Joel’s gaze. 

“Yes, y’do. What’m I gonna say?”

That you’re probably dehydrated. But you don’t answer Joel. You just slide past him and reach for the knob of a different cabinet door, picking out your favorite glass - it’s decorated in images of a little black cat, the paint faded and scratched and gray. Joel says the cat’s name is Felix. Was a cartoon he used to watch as a kid.

You fill your glass with water and drink it, eyeing Joel the whole time. He stands with his arms crossed, biceps bulging in his t-shirt as he wears his stupid, knowing grin, a grin that you can’t help but smile back at. Joel chuckles fondly at you smiling into the glass. 

You sigh as you set your glass down, refreshed by the cool water. “Attagirl,” Joel praises, then takes a couple of strides across the kitchen and meets you at the sink and fills your glass right back up. “Again.” 

“Again?”

“Mhm.”

You drink the second glass, glaring at him the whole time. Making a little show of it, just to rub his nose in your irritation a little. “Oh, I know. It’s so terrible, havin’ clean water to drink. I torture ya, don’t I?”

“You do, though.”

You take your place back on the couch, opening up your book again. Joel follows you, then gently removes the book from your hands. “Hey–” He finds your bookmark and places it between the pages, remembering when you told him, “I don’t like when you do that.”

“Do what?” he’d asked.

“Fold the pages.”

He hasn’t dog-eared a page of yours since. Joel places the book on the end table, then takes your head between both of his large palms, and tilts it back, back, resting you against the plush upholstery of the couch. And then, oh. Joel’s rubbing your temples with his calloused thumbs, watching as those favorite eyes of his slide shut. “Mmm…” you sigh, melting under his warm hands. 

“That helpin’ a little?”

A lazy nod of your head has Joel chuckling. You’re just like a kitten, happily purring like he’s scratching your fuzzy little chin with those big fingers of his, all curled up and blissed out. 

“What’s got your head achin’, Pumpkin?”

You shrug. Joel looks out the window at the blooming flowers you’ve been watering on his porch, taking very special care of. God, you. Your innocence. Joel’s sweet, tender-hearted girl. It really does drive him fucking nuts that you leave food on the porch, attracting raccoons all sorts of other critters late at night. Chipmunks in the morning, chipmunks you’ve named and fattened up and giggle at. Joel sighs, “Maybe it’s the weather changin’. Or allergies, or somethin’ like that.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Maybe.”

Hours later, Joel finds you in the hallway, standing just inches away from the big, dusty mirror. You’re pulling the fabric of your shirt taught over your stomach, frowning at the reflected image before lifting the shirt’s hem and poking at yourself experimentally. 

He stands behind you, putting his two, large palms on your shoulders. “Whatcha poutin’ about now, sweetheart?” he asks, rubbing you with his thumbs. He kisses the top of your head to see if you’ll smile, but you don’t. “Thought we fixed that achy head’a yours.” 

“I’m like…bloated or something,” you mumble, pinching and prodding at your soft stomach. You turn to the side and then suck in your gut, and frown harder. 

Joel hates the look on your face. Your brows pinched together, eyes narrowed at your reflection as you visually pick yourself apart, scrutinizing every little detail of yourself that Joel loves. Trying to fix a problem that’s not there. “Hey, knock it off, kiddo. S’enough.” Joel pushes your hand away. “A lil’ tummy never hurt no one. S’okay,” he urges softly, rubbing your arm. What’s going on with you?

“No, Joel. Lookl–” 

“Listen, Pumpkin,” Joel jokes, patting his own stomach, “Your old man ain’t exactly model-thin, either. See?” hoping it’ll make you laugh, but it doesn’t. Instead, you’re ignoring him and onto the next thing, focusing on a tiny little blemish on your chin. He exhales through his nose, “I said, enough, sweetheart. Quit pickin’ at yourself.” 

“But I have a zit.” 

Joel spins you around, looking at the little mark himself. He frowns and furrows his brows, chewing on his lip as he examines your face. “Daddy, please,” you whine, pulling away from him. “Don’t look at me. I look horrible.” 

Joel wonders where a comment like that came from. He’s saddened by it, honestly, and confused. You don’t look horrible. Just the opposite, in fact. 

“M’your daddy, an’ I’ll look at that beautiful face if I wanna.” He holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he turns your face slowly to the left and then to the right, admiring every detail on your skin - including that little zit. 

After pausing, Joel clicks his tongue. “Ah, shit. Y’know what, I think you’re right,” he mutters solemnly. “God. This is just terrible, honey.” 

Your face drops, and your eyes go wide at his words. “What?”

“Mhm. Reckon we’re gonna have to amputate.” Joel tsks then, a smile playing at the corner of his lip. “Damn, what a shame. I kinda liked ya, kid. Ooohhhhh welllll…” 

Now that earns him a smile. And an eye roll, of course, and you gently shoving him away. But Joel catches your arm and pulls you in for a hug, kissing the top of your head again. 

“You’re not funny, Daddy.” 

“Eh. Maybe so. Think I’ll live,” Joel shoots back. 

“You don’t get it. I look…I don’t know. It’s like - like–” you stutter, trying to find the words. Everything is wrong. Your face, your body, your hair. Your mood. You. You almost feel claustrophobic, surrounded by your own upset. There’s this constant, nagging storm cloud that follows you around, and it’s raging inside you too. Inescapable.

“Daddy sure as hell ain’t ever won a beauty pageant in his whole life, darlin’. See all these wrinkles? Y’got my ugly mug beat by a landslide, honey.”

“But those are wrinkles,” you argue. “Not a fat fu…” you stop yourself before you swear again, “Zit,” you say.

“What if I told you I had a face full’a zits when I was your age?”

“It wouldn’t matter. That was forever ago.” 

Joel scoffs. Always have an answer for everything, don’t you? “Watch it. Wasn’t forever ago.” Joel’s brows briefly pinch together as he quickly does the mental math - it kind of was forever ago, actually. “‘Sides. There’s always gonna be somethin’ on ya that you don’t like. Gotta learn to live with it, right?”

“I guess,” you mumble.

“Sweetheart, y’look fine,” Joel whispers, holding your cheeks in his palms. “You’re beautiful. Ain’t no two ways about it.” He rubs your soft skin with his thumbs, so profoundly tender and gentle. “What’s gotten ya feelin’ so blue today?” 

“I don’t know,” you tell Joel, initiating a hug on your own. You don’t always do that, and it catches Joel off guard a little. He just hugs you back, watching the two of you in the mirror. Your face buried in his chest, looking so…down. Joel cups the bottom of your skull in his large hand, kisses the top of your head, and then trails his fingers down your spine. 

You’re squirmy on the couch. Constantly shifting as you shove handful after handful of popcorn into your mouth. Joel hasn’t seen you eat so voraciously since he found you all those months ago, and returned to you the second day with a warm thermos of chicken and noodles. Not like he minds, though. Eat him out of house and home, that’s what he’s there for. Joel makes no comment on your appetite. 

“My stomach hurts,” you mumble through a mouthful of popcorn. 

But he does have an inkling of what may be going on. 

“Maybe y’need to go potty,” Joel offers. 

“No,” you shake your head. “Not like that. It’s like…I don’t know.”

It’d make sense, right? You’ve been in his care for months now, healthy again. No longer malnourished, eating proteins and fats and vegetables on the regular. And if he is right, it’d explain the bloating, and the acne - again, not that he gives a shit. And it’d explain your mood, too. Or not. You’ve always been a little testy with him, a little bratty. To be expected. Joel’s given you boundaries, and it’s natural for you to want to push on them. Find out how serious he is. You’ve learned many times, though it never seems to stick. Persistent, persistent girl...

Joel guesses that he’ll see. 

You sit up and peel off your blanket, dropping it on Joel’s lap. “Where are you off to?” Joel asks. 

“I think I’m ready for bed,” you yawn, holding a hand on your lower stomach. 

“Yeah?” Joel stands up, the blanket falls to the floor. “Okay. Well, lemme tuck ya in and kiss ya goodnight, honey.”

You take his hand as you lead Joel up the stairs, dragging him by two of his fingers. His knees pop with every step he takes, god. He’s getting so old. Joel follows you into your bedroom, watches as you lie on the bed, then turn onto your side and clutch your tummy. You’re all curled up, like you’re attempting to hide from the pain. Poor thing. 

The dresser groans as Joel opens the drawer second from the top. He’ll have to grease those wheels inside soon. He picks out a nice pajama set - flowy white shorts and a shirt with little ducks on them. Joel turns around, then hovers over you on your bed. He pulls off your pants and panties with ease, then tosses the garments into your laundry basket and wriggles the pajama shorts up your legs. “Lift up for me,” he says, and you moan as you lift your hips. He takes you by the hand and lifts your torso up next, shushing your cries of discomfort. “Arms up, baby girl. Real quick.”

Joel takes your shirt off and dresses you in the pajama top next, and smoothes out the fabric over your curves with his wide hands. “I always liked these on ya,” Joel murmurs. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. They’re my favorite, I think. I like those ducks.” 

Joel smiles warmly. You smile back. You’re not feeling so good, but it’s been a good day with Joel. Tender, easy. You don’t always get to have good days with him. So often, it’s the push and pull; the tide meeting the shore, crashing together and pulling apart. You’re too similar for your own good, and sometimes, too different. But the good days are good. 

Joel kisses you on the forehead, then on the nose, and finally on your lips. Soft, gentle. “G’night, kiddo.” Joel gives your hand a comforting squeeze. “I love ya. M’always thinkin’ of ya,” he rhymes, tucking you in under your covers. With one last kiss, he bids you goodbye, and turns out the overhead light and takes care to turn on your nightlight. He shuts your door, hoping you’ll feel yourself in the morning.

When you wake up hours later, there’s still a dull, pulsing ache in your abdomen. Like a fist is groping at your insides, and then - a long, firm squeeze, or more of a pinch, rather. It’s so extremely painful that it has you squirming and twisting, crying out in agony. 

And there it is - the sticky feeling between your thighs. You’re utterly soaked, inner thighs slick and warm with, with…blood. You turn on your lamp and your eyes widen at the sight in front of you. 

It’s everywhere. Shades of crimson and brown soaking through your sheets, staining those patterned pretty stars all red. The fabric is shiny with your blood, as are your pajamas. It’s all between your thighs and running up your back. Fucking everywhere. 

You forgot all about your period, as it’s been so long since you’ve had one. You knew it’d come back when Joel brought you to his home, but it still takes you by surprise. The bleed is so fucking heavy you can feel it dripping from you, that slippery, awful, visceral feeling. Your face burns as you rip your sheets off of your bed in a panic, swallowing nervously when you see that your mattress is stained, too. 

You drag everything to the bathroom and toss it into the tub, frantically rubbing a bar of soap on the stains as water pours over it. You take off your pajamas too, crying at the image of those blood-stained ducks. Joel’s favorite set. Oh god, he’s gonna be so upset with you. He’ll, he’ll - fuck. You brace yourself for the inevitable, for the rage.

Joel wakes up to the noise of the tub, the loud stream of water drumming against the sheets. There’s rattling and commotion coming from the bathroom, quiet sniffling and crying. He’s all but completely sure he knows what’s wrong as he gets out of bed and takes heavy steps towards the hall and - his intuition was correct. Drops of blood on the floor, a large stain on your mattress. Joel sighs deeply and taps his knuckles against the door, its frame outlined in the warm, yellow light coming from inside. 

“Open up, Pumpkin.” 

“Fuck,” you curse, eyes blurry with tears. “Joel - I can’t, Daddy.” Your voice is thick with tears. Joel’s heart aches at the way you choke on your own sobs. 

“Yes, y’can. Open this door,” Joel repeats, and his voice is measured, patient. 

“I really - I can’t,” you tell him, hands on either side of your head as you panic. The blood isn’t washing out much, and you - fuck. You’re covered in it yourself. As is the bathroom. 

“M’not gonna be mad at ya, kiddo. Whatever it is.” 

Joel listens to you take a couple of deep, shuddering breaths. “P-promise?”

“On my life.”

There’s a couple of footsteps, and then the door opens about an inch. Joel’s brows furrow as he takes in what he can of you - eyes stained by tears, blood dripping between your thighs. You nudge the door open just a little more, then fit your hand through the crack and offer Joel your pinkie. Joel raises his own hand, loops his pinkie around yours, and kisses your knuckles. He raises his eyebrows, silently asking again that you let him in. Those dark eyes are soft and patient. Warm. 

You open the door the rest of the way, allowing Joel to take it all in. The mess in the bathtub and on the floor, and you standing before him, dripping a vermillion mess. “Oh, Pumpkin.” 

Joel pulls you into a tight hug, hushing your sobs as you tell him over and over, you’re so sorry. You’re so sorry, Daddy. 

“What the hell are you sorry for, sweet girl?”

“F-for the sheets, and for ruining the mattress. And m-my-m–”

“Deep breaths, hon.”

“--My pajamas,” you continue, without stopping to breathe. 

Joel nods, understanding. “Nothin’ t’be sorry about. It’s a natural part’a life, right?”

“Y-yeah, but–”

“But nothin’. It ain’t your fault, sweetheart.”

“Please don’t be angry,” you whimper. “I really tried.”

Joel feels a pressure building behind his own eyes. He’s getting so soft as he ages, and he knows what he’s done to you. The fear he’s instilled. The guilt eats him alive, sometimes. 

“Ohhh, I’m not mad at you a bit, sweet girl. Not a bit.” Joel gently pushes you an inch back, pinching at your hair that’s stuck to your sticky cheeks. He clicks his tongue as more tears fall, wiping them away with his rough fingertips. It hurts a little, the skin under your eyes so sensitive and raw and puffy right now. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up, huh?” You nod. “Go wash your face in the sink,” Joel tells you, crouching by the tub. 

He grabs the sheets and chuckles as he squeezes the water out of them. “Well, ya can’t use warm water, knucklehead. Stain ain’t gonna budge an inch f’ya do that.” 

Joel’s eyes widen as you let out a sob at the comment, crying hard once again. Jesus, your emotions are all over the place. Poor girl. “Heeey, enough. Enough with the waterworks, alright? I’m gonna take care of it.” 

“B-”

Joel bunches up the wet sheets and stands up, holding your chin between the fingers of his free hand. “I need you to calm down, kiddo. It’s okay. Y’understand me? It’s all gonna be okay.”

“Okay,” you sniffle. “Okay.” 

Joel leaves the water on. “Gonna clean this up and see if I can’t find ya somethin’ for your monthly,” he says. “You get in the tub and rinse yourself off a little, alright? An’ the water’ll feel good on your achin’ tummy, too,” he advises.

Joel’s right. You sit in the tub and put the rubber stopper in the drain, letting the water fill up and soothe your cramps as Joel takes care of everything else. He scrubs your mattress and the sheets with peroxide, watching the bloodstains bubble up in shades of red and orange. It’s not perfect, but nothing is. It’ll do.

He tosses the sheets in a laundry bag, and will probably end up dropping it off at the laundromat tomorrow morning. He checks his supply closet for some old tampons or pads or something, but there’s nothing. Unless he wanted to get creative with some washrags, but…

…In truth, Joel’s been waiting for this. Maybe even planned it. He knew one day or another you’d get your period, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his cock twitch to think about it. Sinking inside that warm, wet, bleeding cunt…

Joel comes back into the bathroom, running a hand through his graying hair as he checks behind the mirror and under the sink. “Got bad news for ya, kiddo,” he sighs, shutting the cabinets. “I’m empty.”

“So I just have to sit here until it’s over?”

“Nah, ‘course not. Gimme a minute and I’ll show ya what’m gonna do with ya.” Joel bends over and touches your scalp, then presses a kiss against your forehead. “Empty the tub an’ dry off. Come to my room when you’re done.” 

Joel leaves you and leaves the bathroom door open. You listen to him grab a couple of things from the closet, and the sound of rustling fabric and blankets coming from his bedroom. The drain gurgles as you let the water out and dry yourself off, cringing at the blood staining the towel, too. You tiptoe to Joel’s room.

His bed is made neatly with layers of old blankets and towels, and he has you sit on them. You squirm, uncomfortable with the idea of bleeding freely. “But I’m gonna ruin these, too.”

“Nah, don’t fuss over it. They’ve all seen better days,” Joel laughs. “Get comfy. Lie down.” 

You lie on the bed, shivering as Joel joins you. He removes his clothes and his cock is standing at half attention already, bouncing between his thighs as he adjusts his pillows. “You’re bleedin’ too heavy to go bare,” Joel explains, pumping his cock with his fist. 

“Okay…”

“So,” Joel continues, wrapping his arm around your side and pulling you against his bare torso, “Daddy’s gonna stuff ya full and slow the bleed. That way you’re not soakin’ through the mattress all night. S’that make sense, Pumpkin?”

It does. You turn your head and nod, but Joel can see in your eyes how nervous you are with the idea. That, coupled with your bleed. Of course you’re anxious, insecure. 

“We’ll go slow,” he promises. “An’ in the morning I’ll fetch ya some supplies when I drop your sheets off. Sound good?”

“Okay, Daddy.” 

Joel kisses you on the lips, then adjusts the way you lay on his bed, pulling you onto your back. “M’gonna give ya my fingers first, alright? Get ya ready for it.” He parts your legs, smiling as you take your place. You bury your head into his neck, same as you always do. The eye contact is hard for you sometimes, not that Joel minds. He finds it endearing how bashful you get. 

He licks his fingers - force of habit - and drags them up and down the seam of your wet, bleeding center, smiling at your sigh of relief. Poor thing, you’re all pent up, too. And your cunt aches, and simply needs a loving touch. 

Joel circles your clit, waiting for your body to relax into him. It’ll take a minute, sure. He whispers to you how beautiful you are, how much he loves to make you feel like this. How special that is, sweetheart. It’s Daddy’s favorite thing. 

He’s quiet as he dips one thick finger inside you, then two. Slipping them slowly inside, palm pressed against your mound. Joel pumps them in and out of you, acclimating you to the intrusion. And then, he curls them. Curls them, pulses them rhythmically up towards that special, spongy spot deep inside you. Joel feels your body warm as he fucks you on his fingers, listens to the quiet, breathy whimpers of your pleasure. 

Joel pulls his fingers from you, and notices the frown on your face as you see your own mess on his hands. “Don’t look,” he tells you, and wipes them on a towel. Blood remains caked around his fingernails, though. “Eyes on me.” 

You nod, and Joel turns you so your back is faced to him. He pushes your legs apart, then poises his cock at your entrance. “I’m goin’ easy on ya,” he promises. “Nice an’ slow.” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, reaching for his forearm as he presses against you. 

“An’ I know it ain’t - fuck - ideal,” Joel grunts, notching his tip inside your aching, bleeding cunt, hushing your cries of pain as his length starts to fill you. “But we gotta make do. Just can’t have ya bleedin’ everywhere, honey.” 

“I - I know, but it hurts, Daddy,” you warn, squirming at the intrusion. “It’s - yeah. It’s hurting.” 

“Oh, I know it hurts, pumpkin.” Joel licks his fingers and reaches between your legs for your clit, rubbing the sensitive part of you as he eases his way inside. “You’re bein’ a real trooper. Deep breath,” he instructs, “Do it with me. In–” and sucks in a breath, motioning for you to follow. “And out.” 

On your exhale, Joel pushes all the way in, bottoming out with a grunt, and a whimper follows from your own lips. “There it is. Piece’a cake,” he pants through a grin, throbbing inside of you. 

You squeeze your eyes shut at the painful pinch, focusing instead on the way Joel rubs your sore, cramping abdomen with his warm palm. “M’so sorry you’re not feelin’ good. But you’re bein’ so good f’me,” he coos, his cock twitching. “My sweet fuckin’ girl.” 

Joel holds you against him as he reaches for his lamp, then pulls the chain and shuts the light off. He drops against you, sighing deeply as you squirm on his cock. 

The pain of the stretch dissipates as the minutes pass, and Joel’s breathing steadies. The ache is replaced by a different pain, a squeezing, aching cramp that overtakes your whole body. You groan in discomfort, clenching tightly around Joel, and it makes his breath catch in his throat. 

“It’s - it’s hurting, still,” you grimace. 

“What hurts, Pumpkin? Where?”

“It’s not you,” you answer. “My - fuck, I’m sorry. My cramps.” 

Joel rubs your belly harder, though it doesn’t do so much to soothe your pain. You whimper as another particularly bad cramp washes over you, balling your hands into fists around Joel’s fingers. “Oh, honey. M’so sorry,” he whispers. “Aint’ fair what you girls gotta go through.” 

Joel thinks for a minute, considering your pain and his own discomfort. Fuck, you are tight. And every horrible cramp that plagues your body only serves to pleasure him, what with the way you squeeze and pulse around him through the pain. “M’gonna try somethin’, sweetheart,” he whispers, shifting on the bed. 

Joel pulls out of you slowly, then thrusts back inside. Not hard, not fast. Gentle and steady, nice and slow. He does it again, conscious to rub that sweet place inside you, and not to bruise your cervix with his head. 

“S’that better or worse?” he asks softly. 

Joel does it again. A slow draw out, that gradual push back in. The cramping fades into the background as that special, satisfying feeling takes over instead. 

“Hurtin’ or helpin’?”

“Y– Oh, Daddy,” you coo, your grip softening around his fingers. 

Joel smiles, satisfied. “Ohh, s’helpin’, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s helping.” 

Joel keeps fucking you slowly, dropping your hand to reach for your clit. He noses your ear and presses kisses against your neck, feeling your heartbeat pulse under his lips. The way he rolls his hips against you has you biting your lip and moaning his name, though it all comes out in little half-syllables. “Daddy’s here,” Joel whispers. “I gotcha.” 

He builds the speed a little, focusing only on your pleasure at the moment. The head of his cock rubs exactly where you need it to as he massages your clit with practiced circles that have you sighing in pleasure, inching closer and closer to your release. “Go ‘head and cum for me,” Joel rasps, “Let go, Pumpkin.” 

It’s not immediate, but it’s close enough. Just one, two, three more strokes and you’re cumming hard on Joel’s length, pulsing and clenching around him in non-rhythm. Joel fucks you through your climax until your quiet moaning subsides, and all that’s left is heavy breathing. 

…But the groans of pain return. Such a sour ending to something so sweet. It’s how it always seems to go with you, though.

Joel winces, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “Goddamn, kid. Cramps still ain’t lettin’ up, are they?”

“Guess not,” you murmur. 

“Want me to whoop ‘em?”

You laugh, and the motion of your body on his cock has Joel humming. “M’serious. Let me give ya one more, baby. You need’a get your rest.” 

Joel fucks you again, just as he did before. He’s a patient, patient man. Achingly hard and focused on your pleasure, focused on easing your hurt. When you cum again, when Joel’s drawn out every bit of pleasure from you that he could, he waits with bated breath for your whine of pain to follow - and it never does. 

What he does hear, however, is your gentle snoring. Joel exhales in relief, and begins fucking you for the third time. This time, for himself. 

He does so slowly but still at his own pace, focusing on his pleasure. Just a steady rocking of his hips, a consistent drawing in and out of your wet, bleeding pussy. Joel holds you tightly against his chest, breathing in that comforting, familiar scent of the top of your head. He savors the specific heat coming off of your body - you’re a little warmer than usual - and the feeling of his bare skin against yours. 

Joel’s so hard and rigid, and there’s a pressure quickly building in his balls and deep in his gut. He pulls you flush against his chest as he cums with a deep, guttural groan that escapes through his teeth, moaning while he paints your insides, all those muscles tensing and relaxing. 

He relaxes against you, kissing your ear as he settles into the soft mattress, cock going soft inside your body, still pulsing with every beat of his heart. 

Joel loves you so much. He tells you this as he drifts off to sleep, as that pretty, pinkish mixture of his spend and your blood drips down, down your thighs, seeping into the old towel underneath you. 

-

More dark daddy!joel here

Aaaaand kitty pics, cuz it’s been a while. If you enjoyed, please reblog with something sweet and horny or hop in my inbox and dirty talk me there :) your kind words keep me so motivated to write.

[ariichive]

POPULAR

he didn’t realize how many people yearned for you as much as he did. and now that he had, the thought sat heavy in his chest, unsettling in a way he didn’t quite know how to handle.

cw: gender neutral, fluff, lighthearted, jealousy, slight stalking, reader has a lot of fans, secret admirers, established relationships, creepy letter in phainon's part

in okhema, there’s an npc named myrion who has a bunch of admirers lined up for her, so this inspired me lmaoo! once again, mydei's is my favorite... love writing for him

mydei₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

when you and mydei had gone on a casual stroll through okhema, he wasn't expecting to discover how well-known you were around the city.

verax leo was a mouthy lion, one that overheard many conversations in its time in the holy city.

you, wanting to stop by and see if the lion had any new riddles, were not expecting for the verax to use this as an opportunity to tease the prince of kremnos.

"the beautiful muse of the mighty prince, [name]! an honor to see you! here for another riddle?"

mydei’s brow arched ever so slightly at the greeting, golden eyes flickering between you and verax leo with a quiet intensity.

“beautiful?” he echoed, tilting his head in that slow, calculating way of his.

you sighed, already sensing where this was going. “don’t start.”

verax leo let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. “oh? have i struck a nerve, mighty prince? or perhaps… have i simply voiced what many already whisper?”

mydei's perfect brow furrowed even deeper, "explain, annoying lion, what you mean by that."

verax leo, suddenly sensing the thick tension, voice wavered as he responded. "w-well, i would not live up to my name if i didn't put this in the form of a riddle!"

mydei didn't answer, only narrowing his eyes at the golden mount. "in the city of okhema, there are many beautiful antiques and valuables. often sought after. but, there's one that's unattainable, and can only be spoken of in whispers my lion ears can hear."

you blinked, glancing between mydei and verax leo, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

mydei’s expression remained unreadable, his golden eyes sharp as they bore into the lion. “go on.”

verax leo let out a nervous chuckle, but continued nonetheless. “this treasure is admired by all, longed for by many, yet it rests in the hands of one who walks among us.” the lion paused before continuing. “and oh, how the city wonders… will the one who holds it keep their grasp, or will another dare to reach?”

mydei let the silence stretch between them, his expression unreadable. then, with slow precision, he turned to you.

“is that true?” his voice was softer now, but laced with something deeper—something possessive.

you rolled your eyes, a hint of amusement in your voice. “it’s just a riddle, mydei. you don’t actually think—”

“but it is true,” he interrupted smoothly, gaze never leaving yours. “you are sought after. spoken of in whispers. desired. it would be foolish if people didn't see your beauty.”

you swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of his attention. “mydei—”

he exhaled, then, a slow, quiet breath, before looking back at verax leo. “and tell me, lion, what happens to those who reach for the unattainable?”

verax leo hesitated before answering, voice lower this time. “they risk being burned.”

a small smirk ghosted across mydei’s lips, though there was no humor in it—only certainty. “then let them whisper.”

and with that, he took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before leading you away from the lion’s watchful gaze, leaving nothing else to be said.

as you walked through the streets of okhema, the whispers verax spoke of suddenly felt louder—eyes flickering toward you, smiles offered, murmurs shared between passersby. you had never thought much of it before, but now, with mydei at your side, his grip firm around your hand, it was impossible to ignore.

“you’re really letting that riddle get to you, huh?” you finally said, glancing at him.

mydei didn’t answer immediately. instead, his golden eyes stayed forward, scanning the streets, his expression unreadable. when he finally spoke.

“it isn’t the riddle that bothers me,” he said. “it’s the fact that it isn’t just a riddle.”

you sighed for the hundredth time. “it's—”

“how many?” he asked suddenly.

you blinked. “...how many what?”

his gaze flickered to yours, sharp and calculating. “how many people have whispered about you? how many have longed for something they will never have?”

heat crept up your neck, but you scoffed, shaking your head. “do you hear yourself right now?”

“i hear the city.” his thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. “and i hear verax leo. neither of them are wrong.”

you stopped walking, tugging his hand to make him face you fully. “and? does it matter?”

his jaw tightened for the briefest moment before he exhaled, as if weighing his words. “no,” he said. then, softer, more certain: “not when the whispers mean nothing to you.”

your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he lifted your joined hands, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your fingers.

“let them whisper,” he repeated, gaze locked onto yours. “as long as they know who you belong to.”

you gave his hand a small squeeze before pulling him forward. “come on, prince of kremnos. we’ve wasted enough time indulging a silly lion.”

he let you pull him along, but his grip remained firm, unwavering. “hm. i suppose. though, next time, i may indulge verax leo myself.”

you raised a brow. “oh?”

his golden eyes glimmered. “yes. i’d like to hear what else the city whispers—so i know exactly what to silence.”

you snorted, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

but as the two of you walked away, hand in hand, the city’s whispers no longer mattered. after all, there was no need for speculation when the truth was already clear—mydei had already won the prize they all longed for. and he had no intention of ever letting go.

phainon₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

phainon was a man that took pride in his relationship with you, always taking the initiative to show you off. he knew you were gorgeous, and was extremely lucky to have you before anyone else.

he'd often hear praise of your name throughout okhema, be it the older lady that worked the market or a young kid.

but there was an extent to how much he could take, especially when it became borderline crazy.

phainon, call him petty, often discarded the various love letters that were made for you. he would read through them and laugh at their contents. these men knew nothing about you, and it almost made him feel bad.

almost.

there was no room in his heart for men that overstepped many boundaries; and the letter in his hand was a prime example of this.

'Dear [Name],

you have caught my attention, which is an honor not many can achieve. I see the way you interact with the people of the Holy City, but I cannot help but be curious; when will it be my turn? To see your beautiful eyes gaze at me? Must I do something extravagant? I watch you, the way your eyes light up when the infamous Chrysos Heir greets you. Tell me, is it that simple? There's no way you're impressed by his-'

phainon stopped reading the letter there, irritation already seeping deep into his veins. not only was the letter addressed to his quarters, but now he had the nerve to diss him?

phainon was so lost in thought, he didn't notice you enter the bedroom.

you tilted your head, watching him with mild curiosity. it wasn’t often that he was this distracted, his fingers curled tightly around a piece of parchment, blue eyes narrowed in what could only be irritation.

"what's wrong?" you asked, stepping closer.

phainon blinked, finally registering your presence. his expression smoothed almost instantly, slipping into something more composed—too composed.

"nothing of importance," he said, rolling the letter between his fingers before tossing it onto the desk. "just another fool with more confidence than sense."

your gaze flickered to the discarded parchment. "another love letter?"

he exhaled, crossing his arms. "unfortunately."

curious, you reached for the letter. phainon's hand twitched as if debating whether to snatch it away, but he let you take it. as you scanned its contents, amusement tugged at your lips—until you got further down.

"just a creep," you muttered, throwing the letter somewhere of no importance.

"perhaps i should respond," he mused. "it would be a shame if our dear admirer thought their words went unread."

"phainon."

"oh, come now, you should know me well enough by now." his grin was all mischief and indulgence. "i wouldn't be cruel. i'd simply... clarify a few things."

"by 'clarify,' you mean gloat."

"semantics."

you sighed again, running a hand down your face. "you're crazy."

"and yet," he echoed, mirth dancing in his voice, "people still test me."

he leaned in then, voice a quiet hum against your ear. "but if you truly wish for me to ignore them, all you have to do is say so. you know i'm weak for your word."

"i'm well aware," you giggled softly which made his cheeks warm in delight.

"though i do wonder, would a ring around your finger put an end to this cruelty?" he put a hand over his heart in faux pain. though he was teasing, you couldn't help but notice the truth in his words.

"only one way to find out."

anaxa₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

you were perfect, it was a fact any being with senses knew. more importantly, you were his perfect assistant. always there to assist him when he was busy with a student or to find his favorite pen.

it was these little things that mattered most to him, and he made sure your help never went unrecognized.

you watched anaxa busy himself helping his students with their research, the stack of thesis' on his desk going unlooked at.

"anaxa," your voice sweetly cut through the academic chatter of the classroom.

“i assume you’re here to remind me of some terribly dull obligation? my neglected paperwork, perhaps?”

you crossed your arms, unimpressed. “i was going to suggest taking a break, but clearly, your self-awareness is intact.”

his smirk deepened as he placed his hands on his hips. “why, of course. i am nothing if not entirely conscious of my own habits—though I do wonder how I managed before you.”

“poorly,” you deadpanned. “misplaced notes, forgotten meals, and a truly tragic reliance on last-minute efforts.”

he hummed in response, glancing at his student who wouldn't stop looking at you.

"i can help your students, you should use this time to look at the tablets and papers on your desk."

anaxa tilted his head, regarding you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something more inscrutable. “how generous of you,” he murmured, fingers idly tapping against the untouched stack of work. “but tell me, dear, are you implying that my guidance is somehow… lacking?”

his tone was smooth, laced with that ever-present air of self-assuredness, but you knew him well enough to catch the teasing edge beneath it.

you merely raised a brow. “i’m implying that your penchant for procrastination is as legendary as your intellect. i don't wish to wake from slumber to you scribbling and muttering to yourself. ”

he exhaled a dramatic sigh, finally deigning to glance at the tablets and papers before him. “so cruel, yet so efficient,” he mused. “very well, if only to spare you the tragedy of watching me scramble at the last moment.”

anaxa retreated to his paperwork, leaving you with the student he was previously helping. you glanced down at his report, seeing unique sketches of chimeras.

"oh!" you exclaimed in excitement, leaning over the scholar's shoulder. "chimeras, i know a decent amount about them. i used to frequent the garden of life," before meeting anaxa, you wanted to add on, knowing he hated whenever you mentioned okhema.

the student perked up at your enthusiasm, eyes wide with curiosity. “you’ve been to the garden of life?” he asked, glancing between you and his sketches. “i’ve only read about it in records. is it true that some of the creatures there can work for hours?”

you nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “some can, yes. their adaptability is remarkable, and they are super friendly!”

watching the student scribble things down, you continued. "even though they have a small and cute appearance, chimeras are very intelligent, understanding human speech despite not speaking it themselves."

anaxa smiled gently as he overheard your conversation, finding comfort in your voice. until he overheard another, more annoying conversation.

"[name] really is smart, no wonder professor keeps her to himself."

"yeah, it's a shame, if i had someone like [name]-"

anaxa stood up abruptly from his desk, the chair making a loud screech against the floor.

the sudden noise startled both you and the student, cutting your conversation short. you turned to see anaxa standing with an air of composed irritation, his pretty eyes sharp as they swept over the room.

“fascinating,” he drawled, his voice carrying just enough bite to make the offending students stiffen. “i wasn’t aware my assistant’s intelligence was up for public discussion—nor that any of you had the credentials to make such evaluations.”

a tense silence fell over the room. the scholars in question looked away, suddenly engrossed in their own work.

anaxa hummed, satisfied, before adjusting his cuffs with deliberate elegance. “i’d suggest you redirect your academic curiosity to something more productive. unless, of course, you believe gossip will earn you a place in my lectures?”

you sighed, rubbing your temples. this wasn’t the first time anaxa had taken offense on your behalf, though his methods were as dramatic as ever.

“professor,” you said, voice edged with both exasperation and amusement, “i believe your paperwork still requires your attention."

he hummed, completely ignoring you.

as he returned to his desk, you exhaled, shaking your head before refocusing on the student’s report.

still, you could feel anaxa’s gaze lingering—not on his paperwork or the students, but on you.

“professor,” you murmured without looking up, “if you’re going to stare at me all afternoon, at least pretend to be grading.”

[grimmsbride]

touch …. ! ₊ཾִ ᖫྀ ⁣⁣.

mark grayson & rogue!reader ╲ mark grayson doesn’t give a damn what you can do, or how fear hurting him; he would touch you again and again no matter the consequences.

𖥔 ࣪˖ tags⠀⎯ pre-established relationship | angst (ish?) | reader is inspired by rogue from the xmen | given mark is half-viltrumite he doesn’t go into a coma he only passes out for a little | touch-starved reader | suggestive (?) but no smut | mark is cheesy | cute little blurb | fluff

𖥔 ࣪˖ author’s notes⠀⎯ i saw one of my favorite writers do a “starfire!reader” so i was inspired to do something similar with rogue from the xmen given i love her and gambit so much. if this fic is receipted well i may write actual smut about this couple. for now please enjoy and excuse any grammar mistakes <3

A favorite artist of yours murmurs melodies in the background of your bedroom, drown out by the sweet whispers passing between you and your beloved Mark Grayson.

You always enjoyed times like this, simply laying side by side, eyes focused on the other while speaking about anything and everything.

How tiring missions were.

How Mark worried about his mom.

How you worried about your powers.

Nothing was off the table, this little moment in time dedicated to simply catching up with each other.

Your lips curled slowly the moment you felt fingers squeeze around your own, Mark’s digits gliding across your gloved hand whilst your palms pressed against one another’s. You always loved that touch despite the barrier, craving it after a long day.

Since you gained them, you’ve felt like your powers were.. dirty. You didn’t enjoy the looks people gave you when using them, or how some fellow heroes would shy away from you even when wearing your gloves. The outside world didn’t need to remind you how cursed you were, you did so yourself everyday.

But being with Mark, he never saw you as your power, as some weapon used to suck the life out of others. He only ever saw you, his girlfriend that he would do anything for.

Even when that anything was just a little stupid.

You giggled softly at the joke that passed his lips, eyes pinched closed for a moment before popping open when you felt his hand move. The man attempted to be subtle, yet Mark never was; given you could feel his fingers find the sliver of skin between the long sleeve you wore and your glove, allowing the appendages to trace there gently.

Quickly, you slipped your hand from his grasp, eyebrows pushing close as you glared up at the man. ”Mark..” You attempted a stern tone, it faltering the moment you noticed that subtle pout capturing his features. You sighed softly, sinking into the pillow below you.

“You know we—“

“Can’t touch.” The man finished the sentence for you, sinking into his own pillow whilst blinking up at you so lovingly. His fingers clenched the blankets underneath the both of you, lips parting to speak;

“But, a little touch isn’t going to hurt me ya know.”

“Last time we held hands you passed out for five minutes.”

Mark groaned softly, “That was last time— I’ve gotten much stronger since then.” He wasn’t completely wrong. The two of you started dating around the same time he gained his Viltrumite powers. Of course he was rusty at first but he learned, something you would always admire.

You breathed softly as Mark moved closer, your hand reaching over to press against his clothed chest. You flinched the moment you felt his fingers lock around your covered arm, easily maneuvering your hand to press right up against his heartbeat. The gentle pounds of the organ caused you to warm, lips pursing as his name came out of you in a pretty whisper.

At the call Mark was inching even closer, now a breaths away, noses barely grazing each other.

“I don’t want to push you, but I don’t want you to hold back either.” He mused, eyes flicking from your own to drop to your lips. The man’s fingers traced your covered skin, speaking once again;

“I would pass out a million times just to feel you [Name]. Half-Viltrumite or not.”

You struggled to keep your little smile down, fingers crumpling the top he wore. You felt the way his heart raced, knowing your own was doing the exact same. A rhythm perfectly in sync, matched faultlessly.

“Mark..”

“And you have to remember; I’m Invincible.” The corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile, watching amusement take over your features— the prettiest laughter escaping your lips. Mark wasted no time in swallowing those giggles, fingers dragging from your arm to breach the glove you wore. Pushing the barrier up further, he could only sigh at the touch.

Slowly, hesitantly you kissed back, a shuddering breath flying through your nose. Whenever you touched someone, feeling their powers or memories enter your body— it felt unnatural. Like some type of intruder that had no place underneath your skin.

But feeling Mark, it was completely different. That usual pit of despair that would enter your stomach was replaced with nothing but warmth, warmth that you could only describe as pure love. Even as his powers circulated through your body, you could only focus on how sweetly he kissed you.

Tenderly and gentle, as if Mark had the power to drain you instead. Maybe he did, maybe he could devour you whole; mind and body— yet you wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t protest, wouldn’t whine..

Mark claimed he would pass out a million times just to feel you. And you would entertain each, no matter the day, no matter the time.

The love you held for him outweighed any curse you believed you had.

Your teeth gently dragged across his bottom lip, feeling Mark groan against you; clearly enjoying the attention. His hand squeezed yours just a little tighter, breathing you in, savoring the taste of your lips.

The sweet lip-locking continued for several moments longer before you felt Mark part from you, or rather his body slump as he slid off your lips.

His head landed on the pillow beneath you, eyes shut closed as soft breaths escaped him. Your eyelids lowered, releasing his hand and pulling your glove firmly onto your own. Reaching over, two fingers pressed against his slightly bruised lips, smearing the combined saliva the moment you swept them.

“Stupid boy..” You mummured softly, no longer able to fight back that smile. Your hand then moved to rest between the two of you, body shifting to find a comfortable position on the mattress.

You expected him to be out for a little, maybe even an hour. You didn’t care though, you would wait for him, every time.

[steveseddie]

winning shot

written for the @steddiebingo get lucky mini event | prompt: green | wc: 1,4k | rating: t | tags: basketball games, getting together, background lucas/max

read on ao3

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Eddie says, looking down at the jacket that Steve gave him when he showed up at the trailer.

“I’m not making you do anything,” Steve says with a snort. “You said you wanted to make up for how much of a dick you were to Sinclair before Spring Break.”

Eddie rolls his eyes even if he did say that. “Yeah, but I was thinking more like, letting him roll with advantage on our next campaign or something.”

“Supporting him during the first game of the season is better,” Steve says snobbishly.

And it might be. After all, the whole thing happened because of a basketball game.

But–

“Do I really have to wear this?” Eddie asks with a whiny tilt to his voice.

“Depends. Do you own anything green?” Steve throws back, his hands settling on his hips.

“No,” Eddie mumbles.

“Then yes.”

Throwing his head back, Eddie groans. “Steveeee, it’s your letterman jacket.”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. Doesn’t he get what Eddie is saying?

“It has your name on it.”

“I know.”

Eddie sighs, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. “Won’t it– it might make people think– you know–”

“What?”

“That you and I are– you know–” He sputters awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Steve says in a bitchy tone. “So?”

“So?” Eddie repeats, baffled. “Do I need to remind you that we live in a small town with small-minded people that already hate me?”

Steve’s face softens at that. “Nothing’s gonna happen, Eds. Jason Carver is gone and the charges have been dropped and everyone will be focused on the game anyway.”

“Fine, let’s say no one tries to burn me at the stake, they still might think we’re together.”

“I don’t care.”

Eddie shuts down the little flutter he feels in his chest. Just because Steve doesn’t mind, it doesn’t mean that it’s something he wants. “That won’t exactly help you score any dates, man.”

“So?” Steve repeats, making Eddie roll his eyes.

“You’re being impossible, Stevie.”

“No, you are,” he says, grabbing the jacket from Eddie’s hands and pressing it against his chest. “Put this on and stop whining.”

Eddie glares at him half-heartedly. “This is going to ruin my reputation worse than the murder charges,” he says but dutifully shrugs the jacket on, ignoring the way his heart skips a beat when he smells Steve’s laundry detergent.

When he looks up, Steve is watching him with a weird expression that makes Eddie fidget. “That bad?” He asks jokingly.

Steve shakes his head, swallows thickly and averts his eyes. And people call Eddie weird. “You’re so dramatic. Come on, we’ll be late.”

And with that, he starts walking to his car. Eddie sighs and follows him. Sinclair better fucking appreciate this.

**

They arrive just as the game is about to start. The bleachers are packed, but Steve makes a beeline for the two spots that Max saved for them.

Clearly she didn’t believe that Eddie would actually show up because her eyes widen a little when she spots them. Then they dart down and her lips tug up into a smirk.

“What are you wearing?” She asks when Eddie flops down next to her.

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

"Is that Steve’s letterman jacket?”

“No,” Eddie lies through gritted teeth.

She sniggers. “You’re so lame, man.”

Eddie splutters indignantly. “Shut up! You’re wearing Sinclair’s jacket!”

Her cheeks pink up a bit, but she still acts smug when she says, “Yeah, because he’s my boyfriend. What’s your excuse?”

Eddie growls, which only makes her smile turn even more smug.

The game starts shortly after. A few minutes in, Sinclair glances in their direction and Eddie sees him make a double take when he spots Eddie. He smiles and waves and Eddie begrudgingly waves back even if he can’t help but feel a surge of affection for the kid.

“Told you he’d be happy to see you,” Steve whispers to him.

Eddie knocks their shoulders together. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Are you gonna explain to me what’s happening, big boy? Or are you just gonna act smug?”

Steve’s eyes sparkle and then he’s explaining basketball to Eddie with the same patience and enthusiasm that he has explained his campaigns or his books or his music. Eddie is instantly endeared.

He catches Max’s eye while Steve is going on and on about something called a ‘shooting guard’.

“Lame,” she mouths, probably because of how whipped Eddie looks right now.

He manages to flip her off without Steve noticing.

**

Near the end of the game, the two teams are tied and it’s up to Sinclair to score the winning shot.

Or at least that’s what Eddie gets from Steve’s hurried explanation.

Everyone at the gym watches with baited breath as Lucas prepares to make the shot. Even Eddie. Though in his case it’s not because he’s invested in the game, but because Steve’s hand is currently wrapped around his wrist, his thumb absently rubbing circles over Eddie’s pulse. Holy shit.

A whistle blows and the shot is made, but Eddie keeps his eyes on their hands, tucked into the space between their legs. Lucas must score, winning the game, because suddenly everyone around them jumps up and starts cheering and clapping.

That includes Steve, who drags Eddie to his feet with the hand that’s still holding Eddie’s.

When Steve finally lets go so he can join the celebration, it takes a moment for Eddie to remember how to move and when he starts clapping too, he can still feel the phantom press of Steve’s thumb against his pulse.

**

They take Max and Lucas out for ice cream after the game.

The kid is on cloud nine, recounting the game as if they didn’t just see him play it. When they drop him off, Lucas thanks Steve for the ride and Eddie for showing up, even if he knows just how painful it must’ve been for him to step foot in the gym.

When it’s Max’s turn, she makes sure to call Eddie ‘lame’ one last time before heading inside.

There’s no need for Steve to move the car with how close Max’s house is to the Munson’s trailer, but he insists on backing up and parking on Eddie’s driveway anyway.

“So what did you think?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Eddie mumbles, and looks up to find Steve smirking. “Don’t expect me to go to every game now, I still think people throwing balls at laundry baskets is stupid.”

“But I could talk you into coming to a few games at least?”

Steve could probably talk him into attending church, Eddie thinks. “Maybe,” he says.

His smirk turns into a lopsided grin that makes Eddie feel a little hot under the collar.

The collar of the letterman jacket he’s still wearing. Right.

“Anyway thanks for the ride. And for letting me wear this,” he says as he starts to shrug it off, but Steve stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Keep it,” he says, biting his bottom lip. “For the next game.”

“You know,” Eddie says, cocking his head and giving Steve a calculating look. “I saw a lot of people not wearing green at the game. Thought that was like, mandatory or something.”

“Uh, no but if you really wanted to show your support to Lucas then–” He trails off with a shrug.

“Mhm, but you know what I did see?” Eddie says, slowly starting to lean over the console. “A lot of girls wearing their boyfriends’ letterman jackets.” He lets his lips stretch into a grin and watches as Steve’s eyes dart down to his mouth. “Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“Was that an excuse to get me to wear yours?”

Steve gulps guiltily. “Yeah. I don’t think I was ready for how it would make me feel, though.”

“How’s that?”

“Like this,” he says, grabbing the lapel of the jacket and pulling Eddie towards him, all but crashing their lips together.

Eddie makes a noise of surprise but wastes no time before cupping Steve’s cheek with his hand and kissing him back. He’s glad it’s late and the trailer park is quiet and empty so no one can see them making out.

They eventually pull away, both their lips red and slick with spit, and both stretched into a grin.

“I think I’m gonna have to wear this more often,” Eddie says, smoothing the jacket over his chest. “If that’s how it makes you feel.”

“I thought it was ruining your reputation,” Steve says with a snort.

Eddie laughs. “It is,” he says before fluttering his eyelashes at Steve. “But you’re worth it, sweetheart.”

[rowdydevs]

+18 -> smut | after throwing you under the bus with his coach, rafe has to make it right, and you're not going to make it easy.

*spoilers* c/w: mean rafe, sub!rafe, possessiveness, dom!reader, dark!reader, swearing, name-calling, pet names, gaslighting (by the reader), walking into his room uninvited, begging, degradation, teasing, rubbing him over his jeans at the library, cum tasting, slapping, unsolicited nudes, rafe is down bad *cross-posted on my nhl account

𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓰𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝔂 𝓢𝓾𝓫𝓑𝓾𝓵𝓵𝔂!𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓓𝓸𝓶𝓣𝓾𝓽𝓸𝓻!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

Rafe’s POV 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

I knew I was screwed the second I walked into Coach’s office. The way he was sitting—arms crossed, jaw tight—that look usually came before a sharp whistle and a no-pucks practice. But today wasn’t about my performance on the ice. No, this was about the damn accounting test I’d bombed. Again.

And sitting beside me, looking as composed as ever, was her. Your Name. My tutor. My painfully bright, always-on-time, way-too-fuckin’-hot-for-her-own-good tutor.

She was brilliant. And yeah, okay—maybe I had a massive, inconvenient, completely unrequited crush on her. But I was also failing, and now we were both in deep shit.

“Rafe.” Coach’s voice was low and controlled, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “This is your third failed test. And it’s not just embarrassing for you—it’s embarrassing for this program.”

“I know, Coach—”

“Then why the hell am I sittin’ here havin’ this conversation? You have a tutor. A good one. One who’s never had a student fail like this. So what’s the problem?”

I glanced at Your Name—her posture stiff, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked ready to fight, but she wouldn’t. She never lost her cool.

Coach sighed, turning to her. “I don’t get it, Your Name. You’ve got a perfect track record with these boys. My players always pass. But now, suddenly, Rafe’s grades are tanking. What changed?”

She cleared her throat, sitting straighter. “Nothing, sir. I’ve been doing my job. I promise—”

“Then why isn’t it working?”

There was a beat of silence. She shot me a side-eye. I knew she wanted me to take the hit.

“Maybe she’s just not into it anymore,” I said with a shrug. “Could be personal. Or maybe she’s not working as hard as she used to.” The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d fucked up. I felt the heat of her glare without even looking.

Coach exhaled sharply. “Well, Cameron, if she’s not into this, maybe we should find you a new tutor.”

My stomach dropped. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable—but I kept my face neutral. I didn’t want a new tutor. Not because I actually cared about passing accounting but because I liked sitting next to her during those torturous sessions. I liked the way she barely tolerated my jokes. I liked being around her. I wasn’t about to admit any of that, though.

So I just said, “I’m sure she’ll do better.”

The air in the room thickened. I didn’t dare look at her, but I could feel her anger radiating off her—controlled, contained, ready to boil over.

Coach sighed, rubbing his temple. “Fine. The accounting professor is letting you redo the test. Your Name, this is your last chance to prove yourself. If he fails again, you’re done.”

She nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. “Understood, sir.”

Coach dismissed us, and the second we stepped into the hallway and the door clicked shut behind us, she turned on me.

Whack.

My head snapped to the side as the sting seared across my cheek. I blinked, stunned.

She slapped me.

She smacked the hell out of me in the middle of the athletic department hallway… And God help me, I had never been more turned on in my life.

I stared at her—chest rising, cheek burning in the best way. She was fuming, her eyes ablaze, breath short and tight.

“Are you kidding me, Rafe?” she hissed. “You’re failing because of you. Because you don’t fucking care. And you sat there and threw me under the bus? In front of Coach? You’re a fuckin’ pussy.”

I licked my lips, heart hammering. “Yeah,” I murmured. “That was pretty messed up.”

Her eyes narrowed, clearly unamused. “Messed up? Rafe, I need this job. And if you fail that test again, I’m screwed.”

“Guess you’ll just have to make sure I pass, then.”

She let out a frustrated noise, fists clenched, and I couldn’t stop the smirk that tugged at my lips. God, she was hot when she was mad.

“Fuck you,” she snapped. I lowered my bag, trying to hide the hard-on, tenting my sweats. “Library. One PM.”

I rolled my eyes and sucked my teeth before turning my attention back to her. “Yes, ma’am.”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆. Later that day…

Reader’s POV 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

Fuck…

I’d never hit anyone before. But the moment he threw me under the bus in Coach’s office—like I hadn’t been bending over backward trying to drag his sorry-ass GPA above a D—something in me snapped.

And now I was doing something just as impulsive: marching up to the damn hockey house at 1:30 because he stood me up.

After all that… Rafe Cameron dared to try me.

I climbed the stairs, the heavy scent of Dior Sauvage and sweaty hockey equipment already leaking from under the door. The second I knocked, JJ answered.

He leaned into the doorframe with a lazy, cocky grin, hair still damp from a shower, towel slung over his shoulders, wearing nothing but sweats and slides.

“Well, shit,” he drawled. “How are you, tutor girl?”

“Good,” I smiled, stepping inside, feeling his eyes rake over me.

“Rafe’s upstairs, sunshine. You better not slap him again,” he laughed, half-teasing, half-genuinely impressed. “You’re never gonna get rid of him.”

“—Hey, Your Name,” Kelce met me at the steps, before I could even process the embarrassment of Rafe telling JJ.

I sighed and smiled, stepping past him on my way up. “Rafe missed our session. Again.”

“Figures,” he said through a yawn. “Are we surprised?”

I rolled my eyes, chuckling tiredly. “Nothing surprises me with him.”

“You coming to our game tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said with a soft smile.

“Good,” he called after me. “We play better when you’re watchin’.” He flirted and winked, and I shook my head, trying to hide the dizzy grin tugging at my lips. But it was useless as Pope passed by and agreed with the captain.

I walked to the end of the hallway, my footsteps soft against the worn hardwood, my heart pounding harder with each step. I stopped before Rafe’s door—faint music leaked from the other side. I knocked twice. No answer. That anger from earlier started to swell again.

Creak.

The old floorboards shifted. He was definitely in there.

“Rafe,” I snapped. “I know you’re in there. You missed your session, and this is important. I’m coming in.”

I gave him one final second, then twisted the handle and opened the door. Nothing. Then I heard it. Soft and breathless. My name? Not just whispered—but whined.

The room was dim, the curtains mostly drawn. I stepped forward, slow, trying to process what I’d just heard. My name again. Quieter this time, but unmistakable. And just as unmistakable—his deep, fucked-out moans.

I froze, fingers grazing the edge of the half-open door. His voice was hoarse and low, spilling from his lips like he was talking to me. “Fuck, Your Name, always lookin’ at me like that… You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”

My lips parted as I listened to the sloppy, rhythmic sounds, making it painfully clear what he was doing. His voice was thick with need and desperation. “Gonna bend you over, pretty—this perfect fuckin’ ass. This fuckin’ pussy… All for me? Mmphh… I know it is. Atta baby…”

Knock.

I smacked the door, sharp and hard. The air in the room shifted. Rafe sucked in a breath so fast it sounded like it hurt, no doubt scrambling for clothes.

“What the hell, Your Name?” His voice was weak—defensive in a way I’d never heard before. And I couldn’t help it—I smiled. Because Rafe Cameron—cocky, insufferable, wildly infuriating Rafe Cameron—was just jerking off to me. Confirmed. No more guessing. No more wondering. And maybe, just maybe… I loved it.

Rafe’s POV 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

“Fuck…” I rolled out my neck and took a deep breath. She was so angry. So righteous. So fuckin’ sexy. And I was losing my mind over it.

Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead to the door that separated us. “Your Name…” I mumbled. “I deserved it, alright,” I muttered under my breath. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that why you’re barging into my room? That fuckin’ slap—I needed it, okay.”

“What were you doing?” Her voice was soft and innocent—almost sweet. A voice I’d rarely heard her use. But it hit like a gut punch. Because laced in that tonel was her way of saying: I heard everything. Blood drained from my face so fast I felt dizzy. There was no coming back from this. “May I?”

I didn’t even think—just mumbled, “Yeah,” under my breath. Weak and defensive. Like a guy who’d just been caught doin’ precisely what I was doin’.

The handle twisted. The door creaked open. Then—she stepped inside. She smiled at me like this wasn’t the most humiliating moment of my entire fuckin’ life.

But my eyes couldn’t help it. They dropped instantly—to her glossy lips, then lower, catching the way her shirt clung to her tits. The way her jeans sat just right on her hips. She was glowing, so soft and sexy. I licked my lips before I could stop myself, the fire under my skin reigniting like she’d flipped a damn switch. “What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped, voice sharper than I meant. “What—making house calls now? Gonna start poppin’ in every time one of your screw-up athletes misses a session?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She just smiled again and stepped closer, and the second she did, so did I, drawn to her like a goddamn magnet. My breath caught. She stayed quiet, and I couldn’t take the silence—the waiting. I felt like I was crawling out of my skin.

“Say somethin’,” I huffed, voice low and desperate. “Please.”

She tilted her head—all fake innocence and lethal calm. “So…” she said, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Do you wanna tell me what you were doin’ in here—” She took another step closer, eyes glinting. “Or do you want me to guess?”

My whole body was locked up. Cheeks burning. Skin on fire. Shame and heat colliding. I’d never blushed harder in my life. “Tell me,” I whispered. And I hated how needy it sounded. I didn’t even know what I was asking for. Maybe I did. I just wanted to hear her say it. I wanted the words from her mouth.

She looked up at me, that same maddening smile tugging at her lips—like she knew exactly what I needed. And she was going to make me suffer for it. “You want me to say it? Okay—” She leaned in slightly, chin tilted, voice just this side of mocking. “You were in here,” she said slowly, voice dripping with condescension, “moaning my name with your hand wrapped around your cock, thinking about how I slapped you. How I put you in your place.”

Every word hit like a blow: hot, sharp, and precise. I couldn’t even look at her. She tilted her head, eyes sweeping over me with slow, deliberate amusement. Then her lips curled, and she delivered another strike.

“You really couldn’t help yourself, huh?” she murmured. “All that discipline on the ice and none of it where it counts. You’re just a pathetic, horny mess in the bathroom over a girl who slapped the shit out of you.”

I moved before I could think. Surged forward. But she stepped back with a laugh—light, sharp—dodging me easily before she walked deeper into my room.

“What was that?” she asked, looking over her shoulder, brow arched in disgust—like the idea of me touching her was laughable. “Seriously, Rafe? After today? After that?”

It was cruel. It was perfect. She was baiting me—dangling herself just out of reach, pretending I was the one crossing a line when she was the one playing the game like a fuckin’ pro. It made me want her more. My voice cracked as I followed her. Heat crawling up my neck. “You want me to beg?” I asked, my voice stuttering in my throat.

She turned slowly, smiling like she’d already won. “Yeah,” she said sweetly. “I think that’s a good start.”

“Please…”

She laughed. Her arms folded as she looked me up and down as if I were a toy she was still deciding whether or not to play with. “Unless there’s a puck and a stick, you really don’t give a fuck, do you?” Her smile darkened. “I heard you in the bathroom, Rafe. I heard how desperate you can be.” She stepped closer, her voice turning to a blade. “Fucking beg.”

And as soon as those beautiful, brutal words left her lips—I sank. I dropped to my knees on the cold hardwood, my chest rising and falling rapidly. She looked down at me with a glint in her eyes—and I couldn’t tell if she wanted to ruin me or kiss me. I wanted both.

“Please, Your Name,” I whispered. The words barely hold together. “I’m sorry—about everything. I didn’t mean to be an asshole earlier, I just—God, I don’t even know. I can’t think straight around you. You’re so smart and pretty, and I’m such a fuckin’ mess, and I know I don’t deserve it, but I want you.” My hands rested on her thighs, my eyes locked on hers, desperate and pleading.

She was starting to melt—I saw it. In the flicker of her lips. In the shift of her stance. The way her breathing changed. I leaned in, crawling a little closer.

“Tell me what to do,” I begged again, softer now, hoarse. “Make me earn it. I’ll do a good job for you, I swear. I’ll tell Coach what’s goin’ on… I’ll take the hit I should’ve taken from the start. You can trust me. I just want to make you feel good. I want to apologize—”

“Meet me at the library at seven,” she cut me off, cool and final, brushing my hands off her thighs with a touch that shattered something inside me. “Don’t be late.”

“Your Name, wait—” I scrambled up, voice cracking, stumbling slightly as I reached out, catching her wrist before she could leave. “You’re—Shit. Uh… You’re leaving? Why? Don’t go. Please. Just—Just stay. You wanna stay, don’t you? C’mon…”

“Calm down, Rafe…” she purred. “If you’re that desperate, you can finish what you were doin’ in the bathroom… Like a good boy.”

Oh, shit.

And just like that, she walked out—leaving me hard, flushed, and aching.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆. Later that day…

I showed up at 6:30, Thirty minutes early—with flowers in hand. Not just any flowers, either. Romantic shit. Her favorite color in a desperate attempt to score a few points. The kind that said ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I want you’ all at once. Or at least that’s what JJ said. I don’t fuckin’ know. I was panicking.

I’d actually put on an outfit: a button-up that wasn’t wrinkled or my gameday attire. No sweats, no hoodie. She’d once complimented my clothes—some random day when I had a meeting and wore something halfway decent. But it had stuck with me for weeks.

Now I sat at the table pretending to read, eyes locked on the entrance like a hawk, anticipation crawling up my spine. And then she walked in. Her little skirt swayed with each step, catching the breeze from the ancient AC unit. Her hair shifted over her shoulders, phone in hand, thumb gliding across the screen, lip tucked between her teeth as she read something. My jaw clenched as jealousy surged out of nowhere. Who the hell was she texting? Fuck, I was in trouble.

She took the seat across from me without even glancing up. Set her water bottle down, popped the lid, and took a sip from the straw. And suddenly, all I could think about was her mouth. Her lips, soft and perfect, wrapping around that straw—and what it would feel like on me.

“So,” she said casually, sliding a notebook out of her bag, “after that meeting in Coach’s office, we’ve got work to do.”

Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Nothing about the slap. Nothing about the bathroom. Nothing about the begging or about her telling me to finish in the sink like a ‘good boy’. Nothing. I blinked at her, caught completely off guard. “Wait—seriously?”

She glanced at me, confused. “What?” she asked, brows raised, perfectly innocent.

My heart stuttered. Was she gaslighting me? Fuck, she was. I adjusted my jeans slightly, feeling myself already starting to stiffen. “I, uh—I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Pretty flowers,” she murmured. “Thank you… It’s water under the bridge.”

And I couldn’t help it—my voice dropped, quiet like I wasn’t even sure what happened anymore. “When you stopped by my place earlier—”

“Stopped by?” Her head tilted. That same slow, devastating smile spread across her lips. “Wow,” she said lightly, feigning surprise. “That doesn’t really sound like somethin’ I’d do.”

I just stared at her speechless. Too far gone to pull myself out. I laughed, breathlessly, trying to play it cool even as my pulse pounded. “Yeah, you did,” I said, watching her closely. “You stopped by and asked why I didn’t show up for our session.”

Her expression shifted. That teasing sparkle flashed behind her eyes. But her voice dropped—sharp and precise. “Well,” she said instantly, “I don’t make house calls, Rafe.”

My eyes widened. She threw my own words back at me, twisting the knife. God, she was good. I leaned forward slightly, heat pooling in my cheeks. “You told me to meet you here at seven. How would I know if you didn't tell me?”

She shrugged, twirling her pen between her fingers. “That is a mystery,” she said, sweet and curious all at once, “but good on you, Rafe. You showed up like a…” She paused and waited for me to finish her sentence. My heart slammed in my chest, sweat beading on my neck. I knew what she wanted me to say. She knew I knew. It tumbled out before I could stop it.

“…A good boy.”

Her head snapped toward me with a look of mock disgust, lips twitching like she was trying not to laugh. “Well, I was gonna say good student,” she drawled. “Jesus Christ, Rafe. Calm down.” And I swore my brain short-circuited trying to survive her. “So,” she said with a bright, innocent smile, “accounting?”

She reached into her backpack like nothing had happened—like I hadn’t begged her on my knees like she hadn’t ruined my ability to think about anything but her.

She slid one of the books across the table to me and clicked her pen a few times. The sound echoed, sharp in the quiet library.

Then she crossed her legs, skirt riding up just enough to kill my last two functioning brain cells. She leaned forward slightly to turn on the little table lamp, and the way her tits shifted under her shirt made me throw my empty head back, staring at the ceiling like it could save me. I shut my eyes. Drew a deep, jagged breath.

“Page 99,” she said casually, tapping the book in front of me. I looked down at the textbook—the weathered cover. The word Accounting staring back at me like a dare. I grabbed the lid, fumbling with the book. I tried to breathe like a normal fuckin’ human—and flipped it open. Then I stopped.

Dead.

My heart slammed against my ribs because a Polaroid sat between the pages. Her. In my hockey jersey. Nothing on underneath. Sprawled across, what I could only dream was her bed—her hair was perfection, lips parted, one hand curled in the hem of the jersey like she was seconds away from showing me more.

I forgot how to blink. I forgot how to breathe. “Wait—”

“Well,” she cut off my panic with faux curiosity, reaching over and calmly plucking the photo from the pages before slipping it back into her bag like it was just another sticky note. “How did that get in there?”

I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. Because all I could think about was how I’d do absolutely anything to see that picture again. So I did the only thing I could do. I sat there like a good student. I didn’t say a word. I barely breathed—I just followed her lead, turned the pages when she told me to and scribbled down notes willingly for the first time in three and a half years here, feeding off her praise like it was air. I couldn’t get enough.

I watched her closely, soaking in every detail. How her eyes lit up when she explained something. How her lips moved when she mouthed equations under her breath. How her ankle swung where her legs were crossed, skirt barely covering her thighs.

And it wasn’t just about how hot she was or how she looked in that picture that was now burned into my brain—it was everything. I could see her being mine. I could picture her in the stands, wearing my name, making her proud every fucking night. I could imagine her in my room. In my life. My everything. What the fuck is happening to me?

I was mid-sentence—trying to explain something I barely understood—when my voice caught. I stumbled over the words, and it wasn’t because the concept was hard. It was because her fingers had just brushed my thigh.

She walked them slowly over the denim of my jeans, right to the inside of my leg, making my heart race and my head spin. I tried to pretend I was okay. That I wasn’t seconds away from falling apart. I adjusted in my chair, but it was useless. Her hand moved higher.

My jaw tightened as she traced the seam of my jeans—light and teasing. I swallowed hard. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure she could hear it. I looked at her, but she wasn’t even looking at me. She was pretending to read one of my notes like she wasn’t currently turning me into a fucking mess.

Then she went further. Her hand landed on my thigh—a soft squeeze. “Good job,” she said warmly. A deep, involuntary groan left my throat. Her palm flattened over my crotch, slow and firm, cupping me through my jeans. My lips parted. Breath caught.

I flexed my thighs, trying to ground myself—trying not to jerk forward into her hand like I wanted to. She stroked me through the denim—soft, steady pressure—and I was already half-gone.

My blood was rushing low, fast. My cock pressed against the zipper so hard it ached.

I blinked down at the textbook and tried to read the words—any of them—but they were all fuzzy. I clenched my jaw to keep from moaning. I tipped my head back, eyes shut, fighting the urge to press my mouth to her skin or bury myself in her neck.

She smirked, wicked, and kept her hand moving. Slow. Unrelenting. I shifted in my seat, fingers curling against the underside of the table. My thighs trembled. My stomach tightened. Every nerve in my body was focused on her touch, the rhythm of it, and how goddamn close I was to losing it.

She leaned in, flipped a page in my notes like nothing was happening, and said— “So… what’s your final answer for number six?”

I could barely remember my own name. “A—A hundred and fuck,” I stammered, my tone nothing short of pathetic. “A hundred and five.”

She grinned, eyes flicking to my face. “Good choice… Good fucking boy.” I ran a hand through my hair, my forehead damp, and I couldn’t take it anymore. My orgasm hit me so hard I saw white.

I reached down and grabbed her wrist tight under the table as I came in my jeans—hot and heavy—every pulse dragging a deep, broken breath from my lungs. My head bowed. My mouth stayed open, panting, still locked in her grasp.

She didn’t move. Let me ride it out. Then, like it was nothing, she brushed her fingers over the wet patch on my thigh—spreading it slightly. I shuddered, completely overstimulated.

She pulled her hand back and, eyes still locked on mine, sucked the tip of her middle and pointer fingers clean. My fists clenched, and my jaw locked. My cock still twitched in the mess she’d made.

Then she reached over and closed the book like she hadn’t just ruined me. “Good job tonight,” she said casually, standing, her smile warm. Easy. Like she didn’t just blow my mind in the middle of the fuckin’ library. My breathing was still heavy, my hands still gripping the table.

I looked down at my stained jeans, still trying to catch up and understand what had just happened—when she walked away. I stared after her, paralyzed. The second she disappeared from view, I fumbled for my phone—my heart still hammering—and it buzzed just as I got it out.

Tutor Girl: My place. 10 PM. Don’t be late.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆. Later that night…

I stepped out of my car, adrenaline coursing through my veins. It was 9:57. I wasn’t about to be late.

I jogged to the door of the college house and knocked once—sharp and quick.

One of her roommates answered, giving me an uncertain smile.

“Hi,” she said hesitantly.

“I, uh… Is Your Name here?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, slightly confused. “She went to bed an hour ago—”

“She’s expecting me,” I cut her off before she could even finish. Your Name was fuckin’ with me. Again. And fuck… she was perfect. “Up the hall, to the left, yeah?” I asked, already stepping inside.

She nodded, and I took the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding harder with every step. Her door was closed. A thin sliver of light crept out from beneath it.

I knocked once. Then, I pressed my ear to the wood.

Silence.

Then I heard it. “Fuck, Rafe…” She whimpered. My cock twitched instantly at the sound. It was soft. Desperate. Like she’d been waiting all day to say it.

“Just like that—” She praised me, her tone so needy that I couldn’t help but push the door open, and then my heart stopped.

There she was, in the center of her bed: skin glowing, dewy, lips parted, eyes shut, that same satisfied little smile tugging at her mouth. She was wearing my jersey and nothing else.

Her fingers were buried deep inside herself. Her head tipped back against the pillow. Chest rising and falling in slow, heavy waves.

Her eyes met mine with a wicked sparkle that told me this was all for me. Unlike me, she wanted to get caught, and she wanted me to finish it.

tags: @rafesthroatbaby | @hughessweetheart | @slut-4-rafey | @blair-bears-blog | @iikximii | @akobx | @gri959 | @misatxox | @ch4rrykisses | @st8rkey | @laniirackssss | @barnesboo1967 | @justdamnpeachy | @dylsdaily | @rafesapprentice | @rafesheaven | @my-name-is-baby | @wtfisastiles | @skye-44 @romaescapes | @anothershorthuman | @rafeslovergirly | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @v3n1ce-bxtch | @maybankslover | theater-bitch | @frankoceanluvr11 | rcameronlova1 | @lhhlver | @yourmomdotcom42069 | @cameronsprincess | @kdoll-7 | @angelicameron | @imsiriuslyreal | @alphabetically-deranged | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @hyperfixationgirl | @faephoria | @wtfdudesblog | @rafesdoll | @yasmin-oviedo | @lizzysmith110 | @ietss | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @lilithblackkk | @premiumshitt | @littlelamy | @prettybabyyyy | @star017 | @hannieskzzz | @biascriptum

[baji-side-sideblog]

Clipped Bird Chapter 2

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚

Alfred looks to his side seeing Damian storm into the dinning room. The others aren’t far behind him, and before they can speak Alfred holds his hand up.

“I know what you all are going to ask, I didn’t tell you out of their own request,” Alfred’s voice was clear and firm leaving no room for doubt, “They wanted it to just be between us, so their move to their college dorms can go unbothered.”

“So you’re just saying they left us without any word at all, even after they got into a fight!” Damian huffs.

“Yes, they didn’t wish to stay any longer. They are in good health, and weren’t harmed in the fight, luckily.”

Bruce steps up putting his hand on Damian to remind him to calm down, “What college are they going to?”

“Gentlebrook University, they thought it was the best seeing as it has more options for their interest,” Alfred adjusts his tie, “Though you all better not rush them at once. They will only react negatively to it seeing as they’re not used to your attention.”

Bruce sighs, putting his hand to his chin as he thinks of a plan to get to you. He doesn’t need you running off and hiding from them more just by seeing all of them. Looking over to his sons he tries to think of who has the best relationship with you, so they can be the one to talk to you. But no one pops up right away for him, making the man grumble. They’ll all have to step up once they get you back and make up for everything they missed. A pit of guilt grows in his stomach thinking about how they all failed you so horribly.

“Tim, you're just a bit older than them. I think it’s best if you go and talk to them. Remember to be slow about it, we just want them back in our lives. No forcing them back into the house, it will only upset them more,” his voice is stern, “The rest of you all will be getting things ready just in case the worse situation happens.”

Jason, Dick, and Damian try to speak up, each wanting to be the one to go get you, but Bruce shakes his head. The trio sigh but reluctantly agrees.

"I'll track them down, so I have an easier time finding them on campus," Time speaks up, "I'll keep all of you updated when I go to talk to them.

Alfred looks at the group, “I shall not be helping you all, seeing as I don’t wish to make them feel isolated if anything goes amiss.”

Bruce turns to the butler wanting to bring him onto their side, but seeing the determination in Alfred’s eyes, he knew he couldn’t change his mind. He just nods having to respect his choice, plus they can use it to their benefit in case they have to force you back to the house. You’ll be more compliant hopefully with Alfred here and your two’s relationship stays secure.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚

Here you are in your first in person class! Your nerves are going crazy from all the excitement and anxiety. The class was just a simple math class even with your major they still require the general classes to be done first. Hopefully you can make some friends, but first you got to unhide your presence. It’s just a bit scary the idea of being not hidden, you’re not sure how your classmates will react to you. But if you want friends you have to be willing to be out there. So taking a deep breath you let your presence be known, spooking the lady sitting next to you.

“Oh goodness! I didn’t realize you were right next to me.”

“It’s ok, sorry about spooking you,” you hold out your hand introducing yourself but using Pennyworth as your last name, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too! I’m Jenny. Um, so would you mind if we hang out? I mean, well, sorry. I stumble over my words when I’m nervous,” she fidgets with her ginger hair, “I’m new here and I figure you are too, so would you want to be new together?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you nod excitedly, your first friend! This is it! Your heart pounds so fast, you hope you don’t scare her off. Jenny smiles and shakes your hand very fast, scooting closer to you to work together. Before you know it, class is over, and Jenny is leading you all around campus to hang out. This is the most fun ever, even though nothing is really happening besides talking. For the first time ever with someone who isn’t your dad, you feel like you belong. The campus is wonderful too since it was more colorful than the usual Gotham buildings.

Jenny is a rather fast talker, rambling about all sorts of things that pops into her head. But she makes sure to leave space for you to chime up, and when you do her focus is all on you. Happily listening to everything you have to say, as if it's the most important thing ever. And luckily enough Jenny doesn't listen to the news since it makes her sad, so she has no idea who you are. You never felt so lucky before to have a fresh start with someone.

A week later you’re walking over to the local breakfast place with Jenny like usual just chatting. Everything is perfect like nothing could go wrong, till Jenny’s squeal catches you off guard.

“What is it?”

“It’s Tim Drake!” Jenny pulls you closer, pointing over to Tim who was standing by the campus entrance, a crowd starts to form, “Isn’t he dreamy. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

You stand there in shock. What is he doing here?! There’s no way this guy just came to look around, you know it. On instinct your presence disappears as you hide behind Jenny. Are you in trouble? Is he just here to mess with you? Why? Why? WHY?! Bang, bang, bang, your heart is beating so loud you swear everyone could hear it. Your breathing goes crazy as you grip onto yourself trying to calm down, you can’t though, you try and try but nothing is working. You’re hoping he doesn’t see you or recognize you if you’re lucky enough.

“Huh? Where did you go?” Jenny looks around confused till she turns and bumps into you, “Huh when did you..what’s wrong?”

“I can’t breathe,” the words are hard to get out.

“It’s ok, I got you,” Jenny’s usual playful tone turns serious, “Look at me ok, focus on me”

You nod looking into her green eyes, she tells you to follow her breathing. And you do, in the out, in then out, in then out. Your breathing slowly steadies, but your body still shakes. Once you’re calm enough, she looks over you. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you close into her. Before moving your head onto her chest to focus on the sound of her heartbeat.

“It’s ok, I’m here. I’m here for you, I’m not leaving,” hearing your sigh of relief she says, “What’s wrong?”

“I uh well…can we go to the breakfast place. I’ll explain there, I don’t feel comfortable being out here in the open.”

Jenny nods with determination, pulling you with her quickly. The last thing she wants you to feel is in danger. You stumble a bit surprised at how fast she can go, it takes you a bit to catch up with her pace. Once you two sit down at the restaurant you quietly explain a bit about why you’re uncomfortable. Her concern face turns red with anger as her nose scrunches up.

“Why those jerks! How dare they ignore you, oh why I outta wallop them! I don’t care how dreamie they are, no one ignores my best friend!” she stands up determined to go out and beat the hell out of Tim.

“Jenny please calm down, I don’t want anyone looking at us,” you grab her hand, “And I don’t want to be left alone.”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Jenny takes a deep breath, “It just makes me so mad, they did that to you, it's not fair.”

“Yeah...I,” you stumble over your words a bit sniffling.

“Hey, it’s ok,” she pulls you in for a hug, “It’s ok to cry.”

You touch your cheek feeling how wet they are, you’re crying quite a bit. Damn, her words got to you, hearing her say it’s not fair, it feels good. It feels good that others see it the same way as you. She really cares about you so much and you just ugh this day is already filled with so many emotions and it barely even started. You feel like an other mess right now. You know she won't think you're weird, but your anxiety was telling you otherwise. Seeing you all scrunch up she rubs your back to comfort you, before gently nuzzling into you to make you laugh.

“Thanks, you’re the first person that’s not my dad who understands.”

“You don’t have to thank me at all. I’m just happy to be by your side,” she takes a breath, “So what do you want to do about your dumb brother Tim.”

“Nothing, hopefully he’ll tire himself out.”

“I would, but the coffee I drink is starting to hit,” a voice chimes up.

The two of you turn looking over and see Tim walking over to you two.

“How?” you gasp out

“You’re still on dad’s plan, so it was pretty easy to track your phone from there,” Tim tries to give you a reassuring smile, "I was actually hoping we can talk. Everyone misses you at home.

Jenny moves quickly to stand in front of you, “I can't speak for them if they want to talk with you, I'll never judge them for it. But if you touch my bestie or make them sad, I will bite you.”

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ᗢ𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ‧₊˚

Tag list- @cherryblossomfox @feral-childs-word @mindscape123 @halfacupofcoffee @luckeclover @lovermaybabe @pieceartsworld @humanerror-24 @notso-redhairedwitch @purplecowboygarden @galaxypurplerose @pang-stuff @spiderofgotham @leftwonderlandpatrol @lakari01 @red-phantom-0 @ghost3029 @telila96114229-blog @red-phantom-0 @jellystar-star @thelovelymoonlightofthemidnight @yandereforme

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 2, Part 2

Masterpost (Thank you jaythefae for reading over this so that I could post it! This migraine has me writing a lot of swapped words.)

Okay, okay fuck. That wasn’t what Wally was going for at all!

It was a tower! Like Titan’s tower and the lightning bolt was supposed to be him. He was trying to tell them who he was, not spell doom. Who made a tower doom?

Wally put his fingers to his lips and paced. Or paced as much as he could. If he went too far from Danny (and boy had it taken a long time to even learn Danny’s name) he would… disintegrate, for lack of a better word. And wow did Wally want a better word because he did not like disintegrating. People shouldn’t disintegrate!

“Okay, okay, I can work with this! I did go through a major—” Wally leaned in to try and hear the conversation. Danny was clear enough, but anything Mina (or not Danny) said was like listening to the words through wind storm.

“…upheaval and destruction. Change, basically,” Mina said.

He wished she’d shout.

“And… change is doom?” Danny said. He sounded as dubious as Wally felt about that.

Mina shrugged. “People don’t — change. Like — so they get grum— and then— and tada! Change bad.”

“Well, I mean. Of course they went through a change, they’re dead,” Danny said.

Wally winced so hard he bumped into and through Danny’s shoulder. Danny shuddered at the touch.

“Or if not dead, trapped somewhere,” Danny added with a glance towards where Wally was standing.

It was a good sign that Danny was starting consider that Wally wasn’t a ghost. Wally really, really didn’t think that he was dead, after all. But how to get across that he was trapped in the Speed Force? He didn’t think there would be a card for that.

Wally zipped over to Mina’s side, took the cards, and shuffled through them. He really wished that he knew what these damn things meant. A small part of his brain said that messing with the cards like this was messing up the meaning, but fortune telling wasn’t real. (At least not normal human fortune telling.) Once he had finished stacking the spread set with cards he hoped would be useful, he put the cards back and returned to Danny’s side.

The world blurred and crackled around him.

This was using too much energy that he didn’t have. Something had to come from it.

Please.

This had to help.

-

“Well, that wasn’t any help.”

“Don’t say that Danny,” Mina said, but even she was frowning slightly down at her cards as if they were a puppy that had piddled on the floor.

“Do you want to go grab some food? I’m craving one of those avocado, tofu, and facon sandwiches from that place you love.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds excellent,” Mina said, perking up. She stood from the table and started back towards the kitchen. “But before you go, I want to give you some of a special tea. It will help you settle into a sort of zone so that maybe you can have a better chance of connecting with your spirit without you being hurt.”

“Mina Aleshire, are you giving me drugs?” Danny gasped dramatically as he wandered after her, Hubris held limply in his arms.

She paused in opening the cabinet, as if really having to consider the question. “Well, nothing illegal?”

“Mina!”

“It’s an herbal blend!” she argued. “Just, maybe don’t have anywhere to go or anything to do for a few hours after taking it. You know, just in case.”

Danny sighed. “The worst part is that I’m really considering taking this mystery herb blend.”

“It’s better than having seizures,” she pointed out as she handed him a little satchel.

“It’s better than having seizures,” he agreed and took it.

-

The tea smelled like rain and honeysuckle. Danny cradled the mug he was using more carefully than the thick, chipped ceramic warranted. The warmth seeped into his palms and bones. He breathed the pungent smell in and then let out the breath slowly.

He didn’t know if this would work.

It was almost certainly a bad idea, what with him being not entirely human, but it was at least an idea. Danny had never seen one of Mina’s readings go so badly. It went so badly that Danny felt certain that the ‘ghost’ had been interfering. The problem was, is that Danny didn’t know if the sabotage was on purpose or from ignorance.

He wanted to believe that it was ignorance. That the ghost had been trying to tell them something, but in doing so had messed up the reading. But Danny always wanted to believe the best in people.

It had gotten him burned too often.

It might get him burned again if the ghost was really out to hurt him. Mina couldn’t give him the clearest answer on what the tea was going to do, but Danny was pretty sure that it was going to make his spirit less attached to his body for a bit so that he could commune with the things not of this realm. A less attached spirit meant one that was easier to sever.

But he was already half dead, so what did it matter?

Or so he told himself.

Before he could run around the logic again, Danny tipped the mug back and took a long, slow sip. It was spicier than he expected, but in a good way. He drained half the cup steadily as he slowly settled into the mound of pillows that made up his bed. It really wasn’t half bad, for magical drug tea.

“I think I can smell that from here. Which, dude, is saying a lot because I’m stuck in the Speed Force.”

Danny hummed. “What’s the Speed Force?”

“What’s the—can… can you hear me? Can you actually hear me? Did the weird tea do something?!?” the words came in such a rush that they were hard to follow. It didn’t help that they sounded like they were coming from a badly tuned ham radio.

“Slower. You have to be slower. I can barely understand you. You’re static. You’re always static to me,” Danny said.

“Sorry. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I am and that I hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t mean to. But you’re the only one that I can hear and see! I need your help!” The words sped up and up again until they were a blur—a roar—a scream—

The mug hit the mattress and bounced onto the floor with a crack as Danny clutched at his head to try to block the sound out.

The talking stopped.

His head continued to ring.

Danny curled up into the pillows with a whimper.

It was a minute or days later when Danny felt fingers running through his hair. They were wonderfully warm.

“—always hurting you. You keep trying for me though, don’t you?”

“Wanta help,” Danny mumbled.

The fingers stilled then picked back up their path. “I need the help too, which is… I’m supposed to be the hereo here, you know?”

“You’re dead,” Danny said.

“Ugh, no! Come on, you were finally moving away from that idea, Danny! I’m not dead! I’m trapped in the Speed Force.”

Danny finally found the strength to roll himself over. Bright blue eyes set among fiery hair and a beautiful scattering of freckles blinked down at him. Danny reached up an unsteady hand to brush over one of the freckled cheeks.

“Speed Force?”

“What gives me my powers. Something went wrong and I’m trapped. You seem to be the only one that can hear or see me and it’s hurting you.”

“Yeah, seizures suck,” Danny said. The world around them was just a swirl of color. Like when a ride at a carnival was spinning so fast that nothing was real anymore. “I don’t think I’m going to be okay when I wake up.”

They laughed, but it was a bitter, choked off sound. “No, Danny, I don’t think you’re going to be okay either.”

“Oh. How can I help you?”

They shook their head, red hair flew about. “You should focus on yourself.”

“Already hurt,” Danny pointed out. “Make it worth it. How can I help you?”

Their blue eyes searched his and then closed as they gave an almost keening whine. Man, they really were worried about him, weren’t they?

“If you can remember, go to Titan’s Tower,” they said finally. “Ask for Nightwing and… and tell him that I said that he's a real dick, okay?”

Danny blinked.

The world spun and spun and spun.

“What?”

“He’ll know what I mean,” they insisted. “He’ll know it’s from me. Tell the Titans that I’m with you and I’m trapped in the Speed Force and I need them to get me out.”

There was an alarm screaming now. Was it time to get up?

“And take care of yourself a little, okay?”

People were shouting.

“Okay.”

The world went dark.

[bjlipss]

synopsis: you have a huge crush on suguru, right? so why is that your heart starts beating faster only when satoru appears. and why does he act like he knows it.

miyan’s notes: yay!! i like this. enjoy!!

part 1

you don’t even realize when it happens.

one day, you’re still sighing over suguru, watching the way he ties his hair back before training, admiring how effortlessly cool he is, and then—somewhere along the way—your focus starts shifting. not all at once, not in any dramatic way, but in little, subtle moments.

like when you enter a room, and instead of searching for suguru first, your eyes automatically flicker to messy white hair, scanning for that familiar, towering frame. or when something funny happens, and you catch yourself turning to tell satoru first, laughing before you even realize he’s already looking at you, grinning like he was waiting for your reaction.

you don’t think much of it at first. gojo has always been there, always loud, always impossible to ignore. he’s just—gojo. annoying, arrogant, a constant presence in your life whether you want him there or not.

but then, you stop talking about suguru as much. you don’t even notice at first, but shoko does.

“you used to bring him up every five seconds,” she says one day, exhaling smoke as she watches you from the corner of her eye. “now it’s just satoru this, satoru that. what happened to your lovesick little crush?”

you blink, caught off guard. what happened? you don’t know. but as you think about it, you realize suguru’s name doesn’t come up in your thoughts as often anymore. you stop trying so hard to be near suguru, but you do find yourself lingering when gojo’s around. you don’t hold your breath when suguru walks past you anymore, but you do when gojo leans in too close, his familiar, teasing grin a little softer than before.

you stop staring at suguru with admiration, but you do watch gojo when he’s not paying attention, when his guard is down and he’s just a boy with the world on his shoulders. when you walk into a room, your first instinct isn’t to find him. when you want to share something, it’s not his reaction you’re looking forward to.

instead, your days are filled with satoru—his dumb jokes, his stupid antics, the way he somehow always manages to drag you into whatever nonsense he’s up to. he annoys you, gets in your space, pokes at you until you snap, and then grins like it’s all part of some big, amusing game.

except—except when did it stop annoying you?

when did you start rolling your eyes but laughing instead of groaning? when did you start letting him pull you closer without shoving him away? when did your stomach start flipping when he leans in too close, when his fingers brush against yours absentmindedly, when he grins at you with something just a little softer in his expression? something you rejected even though you noticed

and then it happens. the realization slams into you out of nowhere—like walking straight into a glass door you didn’t see coming.

you’re sitting outside after training, stretched out on the grass, listening to satoru ramble about something or other. you’re not even really paying attention to what he’s saying, just watching him, the way his hands move animatedly when he talks, the way his lips quirk up at the edges, the way his sunglasses are slipping down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of bright blue beneath.

and then he turns to you, catching your stare, and grins. “what? do i have something on my face?”

your heart stumbles. and it hits you all at once.

oh.

oh no.

you panic. this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to like suguru. you were supposed to get flustered around him, supposed to daydream about him, supposed to be thinking about ways to impress him. but here you are, sitting next to satoru, feeling your heart pound over a simple smile.

you try to deny it at first. try to brush it off, tell yourself it’s just because you spend too much time together, because he’s always around, always teasing, always pulling you into his orbit whether you like it or not. that’s just how satoru is, no? a magnetic force, a pull no one can resist— except, they can and you don’t even try.

but then he tugs on your sleeve, pulling you closer as he whines, “you’re ignoring me again,” like he’s entitled to your attention, like it’s only natural that you look at him, and you don’t pull away. you let him hold onto you, let his fingers linger against the fabric of your uniform. let him mess up your collar and your hair and give him a halfhearted glare instead of cursing his bloodline.

and when he grins at you, pinkish lips glistening with your lip balm he likes to use, something warm curls in your chest.

you’re doomed.

the worst part? satoru notices.

he notices the way you don’t stumble over your words around suguru anymore. how you greet him with a smile that is more casual than anything else before your gaze moves to satoru and you beam because he is already looking at you. the way your gaze lingers on him now, worry seeping into you whenever he looks out of it. the way you get quiet whenever he gets a little too close, whenever his hand brushes yours, whenever his knee bumps into yours. whenever he tilts his head and watches you with that smirk like he knows exactly what’s going on in your head.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just keeps teasing you, keeps nudging into your space, keeps tugging on your sleeve whenever you start looking at anything that isn’t him. hopes that you’re smart enough to realise what is happening on your own, with a little help from him.

and then, on a sunny afternoon, when you’re watching him a little too closely, lips parted like you were about to say something and forgot—he leans in, way too close, and smirks.

“huh. looks like someone finally came to their senses.”

your breath catches in your throat.

you don’t move, don’t blink—don’t even breathe—because satoru is inches from your face, smirking like he’s just won a game you didn’t even realize you were playing.

your brain short-circuits. your heart is hammering, and you can’t tell if it’s from the sheer audacity of him getting this close, or from the slow, sinking realization that he might be right.

you have come to your senses. and it’s terrifying.

“wh-what are you talking about?” you stammer, trying—and failing—to lean away without looking like you’re running. but satoru follows, resting his chin in his palm, his elbow propped on his knee, his whole body angling toward you like he has all the time in the world to sit here and watch you squirm.

his smirk deepens. “oh, don’t play dumb now. it was kinda cute when you were still pretending, but—” he reaches out, flicking your forehead, grinning when you scowl and swat at his hand. “—i know you like me.”

your entire body jolts with panic. does he? you were barely figuring it out yourself, barely coming to terms with the idea that maybe—just maybe—your crush on suguru had been a distraction, something safe, something comfortable. that maybe—just maybe—what you actually felt, what had been sneaking up on you all this time, was something much more dangerous.

because he always felt so unreachable despite how close he always was. so it was much easier to ignore that there might just be something for him.

and if satoru knows that? if he sees it? then what the hell are you supposed to do?

“y-you’re delusional,” you mutter, turning away, hoping—praying—that if you don’t look at him, he’ll drop it.

he doesn’t. of course, he doesn’t.

“am i?” he hums, tilting his head like he’s considering it, like this is just some casual conversation and not your entire world tilting on its axis.

you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, crossing your arms over your chest, refusing to meet his eyes. but the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

satoru clicks his tongue. “see, if you really didn’t like me, you’d be yelling at me by now. pushing me away. threatening to beat me up even though we both know that’s impossible.”

you glare at him. “i could try.”

his grin is blinding. “ooh, feisty. you do like me.”

“do not.”

“do too.”

“i don’t—”

and then his hand is on your wrist. gentle, loose—barely a touch at all, really—but it’s enough to stop you mid-sentence, to make your heart stutter so violently in your chest you’re sure he can hear it.

his fingers brush over the inside of your wrist, tracing slow, lazy circles, and you swear your entire body is on fire.

“you do.” he says again, but this time his voice is softer, lacking its usual teasing lilt.

you swallow. hard.

you should pull away. you should.

but you don’t.

because the truth is, the second he touched you, something inside you melted, something warm and terrifying curling low in your stomach. and the worst part is—you like it. you can’t even deny it.

you like the way he touches you without hesitation, like he belongs there, like you belong there. in his arms that feel endless and in his hold that feels the closest. you like the way he looks at you, sky blue eyes sharp and knowing, like he’s peeling back every excuse, every ounce of denial, and seeing you.

you like him.

oh, you’re so screwed.

“…so what if i do?” the words slip out before you can stop them, your voice quieter than you’d like, but satoru hears them anyway.

his smirk fades. for a moment, just a second, something flashes in his expression—something that makes your stomach flip, something real.

“then,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your pulse, feeling it race under his touch, “i win.”

your breath shudders.

he’s too close. too warm, too confident, too much. you can smell his shampoo, feel the slight weight of his hand, the steady rhythm of his breathing. your body is screaming at you to do something, to move, to say something, to react.

so you do the only thing you can think of.

you flick his forehead back. hard.

“ow—!” satoru reels back, dramatically clutching his forehead like you’ve just dealt a fatal blow. “betrayal! and after i was so nice to you!”

“you deserved it.” your face is still burning, your heart still racing, but at least he’s not touching you anymore.

he pouts, rubbing the spot between his brows. “you’re just mad because i’m right.”

you are, but you’ll never admit it.

instead, you roll your eyes, shoving yourself to your feet, brushing imaginary dust off your uniform. “i’m leaving.”

“aww, don’t go, i was just starting to enjoy this.”

you ignore him, willing your legs to move, but then—

“wait.”

his voice is different this time. not playful, not teasing—something else, something more serious.

you freeze.

he pushes himself up, stretching his arms above his head before shaking them out, like he’s psyching himself up for something.

then he grins at you, tilting his head. “come on a date with me.”

your heart stops.

you turn to him slowly, carefully, because surely you misheard him. surely he didn’t just say what you think he said.

“…what?”

he raises an eyebrow. “a date. y’know, where two people hang out because they like each other? ring any bells?”

your mouth opens, then closes. then opens again. no words come out.

he waits, watching your expression with a smug little smirk, like he knew he was going to break you.

finally, you manage to find your voice. “you’re asking me out?”

“mhm.”

“because…?”

he sighs, dramatic as ever, running a hand through his hair. “because, my dear oblivious kouhai, i like you.”

your stomach twists.

“you… you do?”

“duh.” his tone is light, but there’s something underneath it, something steadier.

your head spins. “but—but you never—”

he shrugs. “figured i’d let you figure it out first. wouldn’t be fair if i did all the work, y’know?”

you stare at him.

gojo satoru likes you.

gojo satoru, the most annoying person alive, the strongest sorcerer of your generation, the boy who has been pulling you into his orbit from the second you met him—he likes you.

your hands are clammy. your face is on fire. your heart is a mess.

but then he reaches for your wrist again, tugging gently, looking down at you with that same insufferable, familiar grin.

“so? what do you say?”

and, somehow, impossibly, your lips curve into a smile.

“…okay.”

your lips barely part before satoru grins like he’s already won. like he knew what your answer was going to be, like he was just waiting for you to finally catch up.

“okay?” he echoes, stepping closer, still holding your wrist in his hand, his thumb brushing over your pulse.

you swallow hard, willing your heart to calm down—but it’s impossible when he’s standing so close, his entire presence swallowing up the space around you, making it impossible to focus on anything but him.

“okay,” you repeat, firmer this time.

his grin softens—just a little, just enough that it makes your stomach flip in a completely different way. and then his grip on your wrist shifts, fingers lacing through yours instead, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and maybe, you think, maybe it is.

“good,” he murmurs, voice dropping just slightly, eyes flickering over your face. his gaze is heavy, unreadable, and you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he tilts his head and smirks. “so… do i get a kiss now, or do i have to wait until the actual date?”

your face burns. “excuse me?”

“what? i think i deserve one, after everything. y’know, for my patience.”

“you bullied me for months—”

“—lovingly—”

“—because you knew i liked suguru—”

“—past tense, nice—”

“—and now you want a kiss?”

“…yes?”

you gape at him, heat prickling the back of your neck. you should say no. you should shove him away, roll your eyes, something, because that’s how it always is with him.

but instead, you find yourself staring—at his lips, at the way they quirk up in amusement, at the way he’s still watching you so intently, like he wants you to kiss him just as badly as he wants to tease you about it.

you want to.

you really, really want to.

so before you can overthink it, before you can talk yourself out of it, you tug him forward, standing on your toes and pressing your lips against his.

satoru makes a small noise of surprise, but he recovers fast—his grip tightening around your hand, his free arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close as he kisses you back.

and it’s—

it’s dizzying.

his lips are warm, unfairly soft, and he kisses you like he knew this was going to happen, like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s making sure you know—that you feel—that this isn’t a joke to him. that he meant it.

he likes you.

his fingers curl against your back, pressing you against him, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough that your knees go weak, just enough that you have to grab onto him to keep yourself steady, his uniform creasing between your fingers.

and when you finally pull away, breathless and dazed, he doesn’t let you go.

instead, he presses his forehead against yours, grinning so wide you can feel it, his fingers still tangled with yours.

“…yeah,” he breathes, voice warm and smug and so stupidly fond. “definitely worth the wait.”

you groan, shoving at his chest, but you don’t pull away—not really. you don’t want to.

temporary taglist: @booklova0-0 @sttm99 @linaaeatsfamilies @sylusonlylove @enyathedrakaina @paintedperidot @fawnfaer

[gojoidyll]

mohawk mark x fem!reader

“Girl, no, no, no. no. NO!”

You winced and flinched back at every single “no” thrown at you as you fiddled with your fingers in your lap. Your head tilted down as you refused to look your friend in the eye.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a bad idea! He will break your heart and humiliate you in front of the whole school!”

Your friend, Rebecca, was trying her hardest to deter you, and frankly it was working. What she was trying to stop you from doing?

Your eyes glanced over at Mark Grayson who was sitting five tables away, his back turned from you, but his usual attire and mohawk styled hair were hard to miss. You were his next door neighbor and have had a crush on him ever since you were in elementary school, but your shyness always made you stay in your lane and never talk to him, and when you both reached high school, he changed drastically. He was kind of like a school bully, but meaner, tougher. You still liked him though.

And Rebecca was determined to protect you from the embarrassment you were about to get by talking to the guy.

“Hey,” she snapped her fingers in front of your face, “eyes on me. Not at him.”

You reluctantly tore your eyes from his back and looked at your friend. With one look at your pouty face, she sighed, “don’t give me that look… listen, I can’t stop you from liking the guy, but with stuff like this with guys like him you have to do things slowly.”

“Slowly?”

“Yeah, like write him a cute little note and stick it in his locker. I mean, your locker is right next to his, so it should be easy sticking something in there.”

That … isn’t a bad idea!

Rebecca laughed a little at the little happy face you made before reaching for you and patting your head. She still very much worried for you, but if you didn’t sign your name to your note, then she was sure everything will be alright.

Until she realized that being subtle wasn’t your strong suit at all.

It was the very next day at lunch time in the cafeteria when Rebecca felt a hard kick to her leg causing her to turn and glare, “hey-,” her words died in her throat when she saw Mark staring down at her, “leave or move over, cunt.”

She clenched her fists hard as she stared at him, his lunch was held in one hand and a pink piece of paper was in the other, your name was signed as clear as day at the bottom of it. Grumbling to herself, she wished she told you to sign it as “secret admirer” not with your actual name.

Moving over, Mark laughed, causing her to glare up at him again, “did I give you the option to move over? My bad, I meant to say beat it or get your face slammed into the table.”

“If you think I’m going to let you be with y/n by herself, then-“

“By herself,” Mark looked around at the packed cafeteria, “what on earth am I going to do to her with everyone here?”

The smirk on his face and the amount of people in the cafeteria didn’t make Rebecca feel better, so she looked to you, but you were lost in your own world as you practically had hearts in your eyes as you stared up at Mark causing Rebecca to groan outwardly.

She knows its cruel, but she hopes Mark let’s you down so you aren’t heartbroken later.

“Well?”

Rebecca rolled her eyes as she took her lunch and stood up, “whatever.”

As she found a new seat, one where you were in view so she could rush in to help you if need be, she found herself wanting to rip her hair out as Mark didn’t even take her spot, instead, he slid in right next to you. His lunch tossed onto the table, an arm thrown over your shoulders, and the pink love letter waving in front of your face as he pinched it between his index finger and thumb.

“Someone’s got a crush.”

He said it in a taunting voice, one that was meant for you to cower a little in his hold, but surprisingly, you just seemed to blush even hotter as you leaned into him slightly, your eyes staring up at him as if he hung the moon and stars themselves.

“You- I- you’re talking to me!”

No matter what your first words to him were, you honestly didn’t know what to say. Your mouth ultimately betraying you as you would stutter out the dumbest shit.

But Mark sure didn’t mind. In fact, he liked the attention.

Amber always wanted it to be about her, how he wasn’t making time for her. Eve was always trouble, making it difficult as anything he said always seemed to piss her off.

But you, well, seems like he could use you just fine. Definitely doesn’t seem like you will give him any trouble especially since you were an A-grade people pleaser.

He stuffed the letter in his pocket.

“Want to come to my place?”

You nodded almost immediately causing him to grin, “’then let’s go.”

As he got up, dragging you with him, you let out a squeak, “right now?!”

He frowned at you, “why? Don’t want to?”

Watching you panic was adorable as you stuttered, “No! I want to!”

“Then stop asking dumbass questions,” he yanked you forward as he left the cafeteria with you in tow. Your friend Rebecca, all the while, was still trying to process what in the hell just happened.

Are you seriously ditching school because Mark asked you to?!

[gpcwsl]

Leah Williamson x Reader

Stranger

WC: 2.2k+

MasterList

Warnings: Emotional vulnerability and personal health struggles (endometriosis), Unsolicited contact with a stranger, Developing an emotional connection with an unknown person, Text-based conversations leading to a sense of attachment, Feelings of loneliness and seeking comfort from someone unfamiliar, Growing attraction and emotional conflict in an online conversation, short?

Song: Accidentally in love - Counting Crows

Leah Williamson was lying on her bed, staring at her phone. Her cramps were relentless tonight—worse than usual—and she felt like curling up into herself and disappearing. But she needed to talk to someone, and Beth Mead was usually the first person she’d go to.

Leah: Meado, I need you.

She hit send and let out a slow breath, pressing the heel of her hand against her stomach. A few seconds later, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Who’s this?

Leah frowned. Beth wasn’t the type to mess around when she knew Leah wasn’t feeling great.

Leah: Haha, very funny. It’s me, idiot.

A moment passed before another text came through.

Unknown Number: I think you’ve got the wrong number.

Leah sat up a little, confusion cutting through the pain. Then, it hit her—Beth had changed her number a few weeks ago. She’d mentioned it in passing, but Leah had been too distracted to save it.

Leah: Oh. Right. Sorry.

Unknown Number: No worries. Hope you find who you’re looking for.

Leah should’ve left it at that, but something made her pause. Maybe it was the fact that she was feeling miserable, or maybe it was because this stranger didn’t just ignore her. Instead, they answered.

Unknown Number: You okay?

Leah hesitated. This was ridiculous. She didn’t even know this person. But at the same time… she’d started the conversation. And right now, she just wanted someone to listen.

Leah: Not really.

Unknown Number: Want to talk about it?

Leah chewed on her lip. Then, almost against her better judgment, she typed:

Leah: You wouldn’t get it unless you’re a woman.

There was a short pause.

Unknown Number: I’m a woman.

Leah let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Leah: I have endometriosis. Flare-ups are hell, and I don’t want to be alone right now.

She didn’t know why she told her that. She could’ve just said she had bad cramps and left it at that. But something about texting a stranger made it easier. There was no pity, no awkwardness—just words on a screen.

Unknown Number: I’m really sorry you’re going through that. That sounds awful.

Leah swallowed.

Leah: It is.

Unknown Number: I’d offer to be there, but I don’t think you’d be okay meeting me. Maybe text your friend?

Leah sighed. She could, but Beth was probably asleep by now.

Leah: Yeah. Maybe.

Unknown Number: Well, it was nice talking to you. Hope you feel better soon, whoever you are.

Leah stared at the screen. She didn’t even know this person’s name, but for some reason, she didn’t want the conversation to end.

Leah: Wait.

A few seconds passed. Then, a reply:

Unknown Number: Yeah?

Leah hesitated, then typed.

Leah: What’s your name?

Leah stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard as she debated whether to keep the conversation going. There was something about this stranger—something that made her feel at ease, even though she had no idea who she was. And it was comforting, in a way, to talk to someone who didn’t have any expectations.

Unknown Number: If you really want to know my name… well, I’m a stranger. I’m not sure why you’d want to know that.

Leah read the message, chewing on her lip. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she wanted to keep talking.

Leah: Maybe, since you don’t sound like a creep, we can keep in touch. You seem like a good person, and I’d love to have you around—even if you’re a stranger.

There was a short pause before the stranger replied.

Unknown Number: I’m glad to hear that. But, if we’re being honest, I think you should tell me your name first.

Leah hesitated, her heart picking up speed. She wasn’t sure why it felt so important, but for some reason, it did. Maybe because she didn’t want to seem like a stranger anymore, even if that was all she really was to this person.

She typed quickly, before she could second-guess herself.

Leah: It’s Leah Williamson.

There was a longer pause this time. Leah didn’t know if she should be nervous or relieved. She stared at the screen, waiting for the stranger’s response, the silence hanging in the air like a heavy weight.

Then, finally, a message came through.

Unknown Number: Oh, I’ve been talking to Leah Williamson this whole time?

Leah’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected it to be so… blunt. She felt the familiar nerves creeping up her spine.

Leah: Yeah, I guess you have. But don’t worry, I’m not one of those celebrities who goes around acting all important. I’m just… me.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately with the reply.

Unknown Number: No worries, Leah. I’m not one of those fans who goes crazy and asks for autographs. Promise.

Leah chuckled softly at that, feeling her shoulders relax. It was nice to be treated like a person, not just the public figure people assumed her to be.

Leah: Well, in that case, I feel better.

Unknown Number: I’m glad. I’m Y/n Y/l/n, by the way.

Leah smiled, feeling the weight of the conversation shift again.

Leah: Nice to meet you, Y/n.

Y/n: Nice to meet you too, Leah.

It was funny—how quickly she felt like she could be herself around this stranger, despite the distance between them. Leah glanced at her phone one last time, wondering where this unexpected connection could lead.

As the conversation with Y/n continued, Leah found herself completely immersed in it. The dull ache in her stomach that had been bothering her all evening slowly faded into the background. She wasn’t focused on her cramps anymore, not with how engaging the conversation had become. Y/n’s messages were thoughtful, funny, and easy to talk to, and for the first time in hours, Leah didn’t feel like she was completely alone.

They were talking about everything—random topics that made Leah laugh and moments that seemed so normal, so easy. Y/n’s humor was quick and clever, and Leah found herself smiling without even realizing it. She was lying back on her bed, her phone in her hand, and it felt so natural, like they had been talking for years, not just a few hours.

Then, Y/n sent something that made Leah laugh aloud, really laugh, for the first time all night.

Y/n: I once tried to make pancakes for breakfast. They turned into an unintentional flatbread instead. I swear, I’m not cut out for anything that requires a skillet.

Leah’s smile widened, and she covered her mouth in a soft chuckle. It was just so funny.

But suddenly, as the laugh died down, a wave of realization hit her. She sat up a little, shaking her head slightly. Why was she so happy?

Leah (thinking to herself): Y/n is just a stranger. You just met her over a text—why are you feeling like this?

She closed her eyes briefly, trying to pull herself back to reality, but the warmth of the conversation lingered, and that feeling in her chest wouldn’t go away.

Just then, Leah’s phone buzzed again. The message popped up, and her heart gave a little jolt.

Y/n: Hey, you okay? Is it just your pains?

Leah blinked, instantly feeling a pang of guilt. She hadn’t told Y/n the full truth about how bad her flare-up had been. She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but there was something in the way Y/n asked, something caring and attentive, that made Leah hesitate.

Leah quickly typed a response, hoping to deflect and keep things light.

Leah: Yeah, just the pains. Nothing I can’t handle.

She hit send and stared at the screen for a moment, her stomach still aching, but she forced herself to push it aside. Y/n didn’t need to know how bad it really was.

Y/n: Rest up, then. You need to take care of yourself.

Leah read the message twice, the concern in Y/n’s words wrapping around her like a warm blanket. She didn’t know why, but something about Y/n’s kindness made her heart flutter a little.

Leah (thinking to herself): Why does she care about me? I’m just some random person to her.

But deep down, Leah couldn’t ignore the feeling gnawing at her. Maybe she wasn’t just a random person anymore. Maybe she was someone Y/n genuinely wanted to help. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind that at all.

The next morning, Leah walked into training with a lightness in her step that wasn’t just because the pain from her flare-up had finally subsided. No, it was something else—a feeling she couldn’t quite shake. She couldn’t stop thinking about Y/n. The conversation from last night, the way Y/n had been so kind, so effortlessly genuine. It was the first time in a while that Leah had felt so… comfortable in her own skin.

Leah’s mind wandered as she jogged through her warm-up, the thoughts of Y/n making her smile, even if she tried to hide it. A part of her felt guilty for smiling at something so trivial—after all, it was just a text conversation, right? But another part of her couldn’t help it. Y/n had been so caring and understanding, and for once, Leah didn’t feel like she was just the player or the professional. She felt like a real person.

In the changing room, Leah sat down on the bench, tying her boots, the hum of conversation around her fading into the background. She was lost in her thoughts again, her fingers working at the laces without thinking.

Then, her phone dinged.

Leah glanced at the screen, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw Y/n’s name pop up. Her stomach did a little flip, and before she could think, her hand shot out to grab the phone. She wasn’t even aware of how quickly she reached for it, but the instant her fingers closed around the device, she knocked something off the bench.

“Ow! What the hell, Leah?” Katie McCabe yelled from beside her, clutching her foot.

Leah barely even registered it, her eyes glued to the message from Y/n.

Y/n: Hey Leah, hope you had some sleep. Assuming you’re training today. Hope you’re feeling better.

Leah’s heart fluttered. She read it again, just to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.

Y/n: Hope you’re feeling better.

The words were simple, but they hit her in a way she didn’t expect. Leah blinked, finally aware that Katie was still rubbing her foot beside her.

“Sorry, Katie,” Leah muttered, not really paying attention as she read the message one more time.

Katie raised an eyebrow. “You good, Lee? You’ve got that look on your face again.”

Leah barely heard her, her mind still caught up in the text she was holding.

Leah (thinking to herself): Why does she care about me? It’s just a text. But it feels like… so much more.

She shook her head slightly, trying to focus back on the present. But all she could think about now was what Y/n had said. It wasn’t just polite—it was genuine, warm.

Leah didn’t know what was happening, but she didn’t want it to stop.

The rest of training passed in a blur for Leah. She tried to focus, to keep her head in the game, but her thoughts kept wandering back to Y/n. Every time she received a pass or made a play, her mind would drift back to her phone, to the message Y/n had sent, to that feeling of someone truly caring about her.

After training, Leah pulled her phone out as she was walking to the locker room. There was another message from Y/n.

Y/n: How was training? Hope it went well. I know how hard you work.

Leah smiled to herself as she typed back quickly, not even bothering to think about it too much.

Leah: It went well. Got through it, thanks for checking in.

She paused before hitting send, chewing her lip. There was a part of her that wanted to say more. A part of her that wanted to tell Y/n how much she’d appreciated the kindness she’d shown, how much her texts had meant. But she stopped herself. It was just a few messages. She couldn’t let herself get carried away.

Leah: How about you? How’s your day going?

The response came almost immediately.

Y/n: Busy, but not too bad. Glad to hear you’re doing well. Maybe we can chat again later?

Leah grinned, her heart doing that strange little flutter again.

Leah: Yeah, I’d like that.

As she slipped her phone back into her bag, Leah couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement. She didn’t know where this connection with Y/n was going, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t afraid to see where it might lead.

Leah (thinking to herself): Maybe it’s just a wrong number. But sometimes, the wrong number can turn into something really right.

And with that, Leah left the training ground, her mind already anticipating the next conversation, and whatever this unexpected connection with Y/n might become.

[rowdydevs-nhl]

more sub jack?

Of course!!! 💕 Thank you for your ask

+18 -> smut | after throwing you under the bus with his coach, jack has to make it right, and you're not going to make it easy.

*spoilers* c/w: dom!reader, dark!reader, mean jack, sub!jack, possessiveness, swearing, name-calling, pet names, gaslighting (by the reader), walking into his room uninvited, begging, degradation, teasing, rubbing him over his jeans at the library, cum tasting, slapping, unsolicited nudes, jack is down bad

𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓰𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝔂 𝓢𝓾𝓫𝓑𝓾𝓵𝓵𝔂!𝓙𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓓𝓸𝓶𝓣𝓾𝓽𝓸𝓻!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

Jack’s POV 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

I knew I was screwed the second I walked into Coach’s office. The way he was sitting—arms crossed, jaw tight—that look usually came before a sharp whistle and a no-pucks practice. But today wasn’t about my performance on the ice. No, this was about the damn accounting test I’d bombed. Again.

And sitting beside me, looking as composed as ever, was her. Your Name. My tutor. My painfully bright, always-on-time, way-too-fuckin’-hot-for-her-own-good tutor.

She was brilliant. And yeah, okay—maybe I had a massive, inconvenient, completely unrequited crush on her. But I was also failing, and now we were both in deep shit.

“Jack.” Coach’s voice was low and controlled, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “This is your third failed test. And it’s not just embarrassing for you—it’s embarrassing for this whole program.”

“I know, Coach—”

“Then why the hell am I sittin’ here havin’ this conversation? You have a tutor. A good one. One who’s never had a student fail like this. So what’s the problem?”

I glanced at Your Name—her posture stiff, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked ready to fight, but she wouldn’t. She never lost her cool.

Coach sighed, turning to her. “I don’t get it, Your Name. You’ve got a perfect track record with these boys. My players always pass. But now, suddenly, Jack’s grades are tanking. What changed?”

She cleared her throat, sitting straighter. “Nothing, sir. I’ve been doing my job. I promise—”

“Then why isn’t it working?”

There was a beat of silence. She shot me a side-eye. I knew she wanted me to take the hit.

“Maybe she’s just not into it anymore,” I said with a shrug. “Could be personal. Or maybe she’s not working as hard as she used to.” The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d fucked up yet again. I felt the heat of her glare without even looking as Coach exhaled sharply.

“Well, Hughes, if she’s not into this, maybe we should find you a new tutor.”

My stomach dropped. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable—but I kept my face neutral. I didn’t want a new tutor. Not because I actually cared about passing accounting but because I liked sitting next to her during those torturous sessions. I liked the way she barely tolerated my jokes. I liked being around her. I wasn’t about to admit any of that, though.

So I just said, “I’m sure she’ll do better.”

The air in the room thickened. I didn’t dare look at her, but I could feel her anger radiating off her—controlled, contained, ready to boil over.

Coach sighed, rubbing his temple. “Fine. The accounting professor is letting you redo the test. Your Name, this is your last chance to prove yourself. If he fails again, you’re done.”

She nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. “Understood, sir.”

Coach dismissed us, and the second we stepped into the hallway and the door clicked shut behind us, she turned on me.

Whack.

My head snapped to the side as the sting seared across my cheek. I blinked, stunned.

She slapped me.

She smacked the hell out of me in the middle of the athletic department hallway… And God help me, I had never been more turned on in my life.

I stared at her—chest rising, cheek burning in the best way. She was fuming, her eyes ablaze, breath short and tight.

“Are you kidding me, Jack?” she hissed. “You’re failing because of you. Because you don’t fucking care. And you sat there and threw me under the bus? In front of Coach? You’re a fuckin’ pussy.”

I licked my lips, heart hammering. “Yeah,” I murmured. “That was pretty messed up.”

Her eyes narrowed, clearly unamused. “Messed up? Jack, I need this job. And if you fail that test again, I’m screwed.”

“Guess you’ll just have to make sure I pass, then.”

She let out a frustrated noise, fists clenched, and I couldn’t stop the smirk that tugged at my lips. God, she was hot when she was mad.

“Fuck you,” she snapped. I lowered my bag, trying to hide the hard-on, tenting out my sweats. “Library. One PM.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes before sucking my teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆. Later that day…

Reader’s POV 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

Fuck…

I’d never hit anyone before. But the moment he threw me under the bus in Coach’s office—like I hadn’t been bending over backward trying to drag his sorry-ass GPA above a D—something in me snapped.

And now I was doing something just as impulsive: marching up to the damn hockey house at 1:30 because he stood me up.

After all that… Jack Hughes dared to try me.

I climbed the stairs, the heavy scent of Dior Sauvage and sweaty hockey equipment already leaking from under the door. The second I knocked, Trevor answered.

He leaned into the doorframe with a lazy, cocky grin, hair still damp from a shower, towel slung over his shoulders, wearing nothing but sweats and slides.

“Well, shit,” he drawled. “How are you, tutor girl?”

“Good,” I smiled, stepping inside, feeling his eyes rake over me.

“Jack’s upstairs, sunshine. You better not slap him again,” he laughed, half-teasing, half-genuinely impressed. “Or, you’re never gonna get rid of him.”

“—Hey, Your Name,” Quinn greeted me at the steps, before I could even process the embarrassment of Jack telling Trevor.

I sighed and smiled, stepping past him on my way up. “Jack missed our session. Again.”

“Figures,” Quinn said through a yawn. “Are we surprised?”

I rolled my eyes, chuckling tiredly. “Nothing surprises me with him.”

“You coming to our game tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said with a soft smile.

“Good,” he called after me. “We play better when you’re watchin’.” He flirted and winked, and I shook my head, trying to hide the dizzy grin tugging at my lips. But it was useless as Nico passed by and agreed with the captain.

I walked to the end of the hallway, my footsteps soft against the worn hardwood, my heart pounding harder with each step. I stopped before Jack’s door—faint music trickled from the other side. I knocked twice. No answer. That anger from earlier started to swell again.

Creak.

The old floorboards shifted. He was definitely in there.

“Jack,” I snapped. “I know you’re in there. You missed your session, and this is important. I’m coming in.”

I gave him one final second, then twisted the handle and opened the door. Nothing. Then I heard it. Soft and breathless. My name? Not just whispered—but whined.

The room was dim, the curtains mostly drawn. I stepped forward, slow, trying to process what I’d just heard. And then, my name again... Quieter this time, but unmistakable. And just as unmistakable—his deep, fucked-out moans.

I froze, fingers grazing the edge of the half-open door. His voice was hoarse and low, spilling from his lips like he was talking to me.

“Fuck, Your Name, always lookin’ at me like that… You don’t know what you’re doing to me…”

My lips parted as I caught the sloppy, rhythmic sounds making it painfully clear what he was doing. His voice was thick with need and desperation. “Gonna bend you over, pretty—this perfect fuckin’ ass. This fuckin’ pussy… All for me? Mmphh… I know it is. Atta baby…”

Knock.

I smacked the door, loud and hard. The air in the room shifted. Jack sucked in a breath so fast it sounded like it hurt, no doubt scrambling for his clothes.

“What the hell, Your Name?” His voice was weak—defensive in a way I’d never heard before. And I couldn’t help it—I smiled. Because Jack Hughes—cocky, insufferable, wildly infuriating Jack Hughes—was just jerking off to me. Confirmed. No more guessing. No more wondering. And maybe, just maybe… I loved it.

Jack’s POV 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

Fuck…

I rolled out my neck and took a deep breath. She was so angry. So righteous. So fuckin’ sexy. And I was losing my mind over it.

Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead to the door that separated us. “Your Name…” I mumbled. “I deserved it, alright… Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that why you’re barging into my room? That fuckin’ slap—I needed it, okay—”

“What were you doing?” Her voice was soft and innocent—almost sweet. A voice I’d rarely heard her use. But it hit like a gut punch. Because laced in that tone… That tone that let me know she heard everything. Blood drained from my face so fast I felt dizzy. There was no coming back from this. “May I?”

I didn’t even think—just mumbled, “Yeah,” under my breath. Weak and defensive. Like a guy who’d just been caught doin’ precisely what I was doin’.

The handle twisted. The door creaked open. Then—she stepped inside. She smiled at me as if this wasn’t the most humiliating moment of my entire fuckin’ life.

But my eyes couldn’t help it. They dropped instantly—to her glossy lips, then lower, catching the way her shirt clung to her tits; the way her jeans sat just right on her hips. She was glowing. Soft. Sexy. I licked my lips before I could stop myself, the fire under my skin reigniting like she’d flipped a damn switch. Focus. “What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped, voice sharper than I meant. “What—making house calls now? Gonna start poppin’ in every time one of your screw-up athletes misses a session?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She just smiled again and stepped closer, and the second she did, so did I, drawn to her like a goddamn magnet. My breath caught. She stayed quiet, and I couldn’t take the silence—the waiting. I felt like I was crawling out of my skin.

“Say somethin’,” I huffed, voice low and desperate. “Please.”

She tilted her head—all fake innocence and lethal calm. “So…” she said, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Do you wanna tell me what you were doin’ in here—” She took another step closer, eyes glinting. “Or do you want me to guess?”

My whole body locked up. Cheeks burning. Skin on fire. Shame and heat colliding. I’d never blushed harder in my life. “Tell me,” I whispered. And I hated how needy it sounded. I didn’t even know what I was asking for. Maybe I did. I just wanted to hear her say it. I wanted the words from her mouth.

She looked up at me, that same maddening smile tugging at her lips—like she knew exactly what I needed. And she was going to make me suffer for it. “You want me to say it? Okay—” She leaned in slightly, chin tilted up, voice just this side of mocking. “You were in here,” she said slowly, voice dripping with condescension, “moaning my name with your hand wrapped around your cock, thinking about how I slapped you. How I put you in your place.”

Every word hit like a blow. Hot. Sharp. Precise. I couldn’t even look at her. She tilted her head, eyes sweeping over me with slow, deliberate amusement. Then her lips curled, and she delivered another strike.

“You really couldn’t help yourself, huh?” She murmured. “All that discipline on the ice and none of it where it counts. You’re just a pathetic, horny mess in the bathroom over a girl who slapped the shit out of you.”

I moved before I could think. Surged forward. But she stepped back with a laugh—light, sharp—dodging me easily before she walked deeper into my room.

“What was that?” she asked, looking over her shoulder, brow arched in disgust—like the idea of me touching her was laughable. “Seriously, Jack? After today? After that?”

It was cruel. It was perfect. She was baiting me—dangling herself just out of reach, pretending I was the one crossing a line when she was the one playing the game like a fuckin’ pro. It made me want her more. My voice cracked as I followed her. Heat crawling up my neck. “You want me to beg?” I asked, my voice stuttering in my throat.

She turned slowly, smiling like she’d already won. “Yeah,” she said sweetly. “I think that’s a good start.”

“Please…”

She laughed. Her arms folded as she looked me up and down as if I were a toy she was still deciding whether or not to play with. “Unless there’s a puck and a stick, you really don’t give a fuck, do you?” Her smile darkened. “I heard you in the bathroom, Jack. I heard how desperate you can be.” She stepped closer, her voice turning to a blade. “Fucking beg.”

And as soon as those beautiful, brutal words left her lips—I sank. I dropped to my knees on the cold hardwood, my chest rising and falling rapidly. She looked down at me with a glint in her eyes—and I couldn’t tell if she wanted to ruin me or kiss me. I wanted both.

“Please, Your Name,” I whispered. The words barely hold together. “I’m sorry—about everything. I didn’t mean to be an asshole earlier, I just—God, I don’t even know. I can’t think straight around you. You’re so smart and pretty, and I’m such a fuckin’ mess, and I know I don’t deserve it, but I want you.” My hands rested on her thighs, my eyes locked on hers, desperate and pleading.

She was starting to melt—I saw it. In the flicker of her lips. In the shift of her stance. The way her breathing changed. I leaned in, crawling a little closer.

“Tell me what to do,” I begged again, softer now, hoarse. “Make me earn it. I’ll do a good job for you, I swear. I’ll tell Coach what’s goin’ on… I’ll take the hit I should’ve taken from the start. You can trust me. I just want to make you feel good. I want to apologize—”

“Meet me at the library at seven,” she cut me off, cool and final, brushing my hands off her thighs with a touch that shattered something inside me. “Don’t be late.”

“Your Name, wait—” I scrambled up, voice cracking, stumbling slightly as I reached out, catching her wrist before she could leave. “You’re—Shit. Uh… You’re leaving? Why? Don’t go. Please. Just—Just stay. You wanna stay, don’t you? C’mon…”

“Calm down, Jack…” she purred. “If you’re that desperate, you can finish what you were doin’ in the bathroom. Like a good boy.”

Oh, shit.

And just like that, she walked out—leaving me hard, flushed, and aching.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆. Later that night…

I showed up at 6:30, Thirty minutes early—with flowers in hand. Not just any flowers, either. Romantic shit. Her favorite color in a desperate attempt to score a few points. The kind that said ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I want you’ all at once. Or at least that’s what Trevor said. I don’t fuckin’ know. I was panicking.

I’d actually put on an outfit: a button-up that wasn’t wrinkled or my gameday attire. No sweats, no hoodie. She’d once complimented my clothes—some random day when I had a meeting and wore something halfway decent. But it had stuck with me for weeks.

Now I sat at the table pretending to read, eyes locked on the entrance like a hawk, anticipation crawling up my spine.

And then, she walked in. Her little skirt swayed with each step, catching the breeze from the ancient AC unit. Her hair shifted over her shoulders, phone in hand, thumb gliding across the screen, lip tucked between her teeth as she read something. My jaw clenched as jealousy surged out of nowhere. Who the hell was she texting? Fuck, I was in trouble.

She took the seat across from me without even glancing up. Set her water bottle down, popped the lid, and took a sip from the straw. And suddenly, all I could think about was her mouth. Her lips, soft and perfect, wrapping around that straw—and what it would feel like on me.

“So,” she said casually, sliding a notebook out of her bag, “after that meeting in Coach’s office, we’ve got work to do.”

Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Nothing about the slap. Nothing about the bathroom. Nothing about the begging or her telling me to finish in the sink like a ‘good boy’. Nothing. I blinked at her, caught completely off guard. “Wait—seriously?”

She glanced at me, confused. “What?” she asked, brows raised, perfectly innocent.

My heart stuttered. Was she gaslighting me? Fuck, she was. I adjusted my jeans slightly, feeling myself already starting to stiffen. “I, uh—I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Pretty flowers,” she murmured. “Thank you… It’s water under the bridge.”

And I couldn’t help it—my voice dropped, quiet like I wasn’t even sure what happened anymore. “When you stopped by my place earlier—”

“Stopped by?” Her head tilted. That same slow, devastating smile spread across her lips from earlier. “Wow,” she said lightly, feigning surprise. “That doesn’t really sound like somethin’ I’d do.”

I just stared at her, speechless. Too far gone to pull myself out. I laughed breathlessly, trying to play it cool even as my pulse pounded. “Yeah, you did,” I said, watching her closely. “You stopped by and asked why I didn’t show up for our session.”

Her expression shifted. That teasing sparkle flashed behind her eyes. But her voice dropped—sharp and precise. “Well,” she said instantly, “I don’t make house calls, Jack.”

My eyes widened as she threw my own words back at me, twisting the knife. God, she was good. I leaned forward slightly, heat pooling in my cheeks. “You told me to meet you here at seven. How else would I know that if you didn't tell me?”

She nodded slowly, twirling her pen between her fingers. “That is a mystery,” she said, sweet and curious all at once, “but good on you, Jack. You showed up like a…” She paused, prompting me to finish the sentence. My heart slammed in my chest, sweat beading on my neck. I knew what she wanted me to say. She knew I knew. It tumbled out before I could stop it. “…A good boy.”

Her head snapped toward me with a look of mock disgust, lips twitching like she was trying not to laugh. “Well, I was gonna say good student,” she drawled. “Jesus Christ, Jack. Calm down.” And I swore my brain short-circuited trying to survive her. “So,” she said with a bright, innocent smile, “accounting?”

She reached into her backpack like nothing had happened—like I hadn’t begged her on my knees like she hadn’t ruined my ability to think about anything but her.

She slid one of the books across the table to me and clicked her pen a few times. The sound echoed, sharp in the quiet library.

Then she crossed her legs, skirt riding up just enough to kill my last two functioning brain cells. She leaned forward slightly to turn on the little table lamp, and the way her tits shifted under her shirt made me throw my empty head back, staring at the ceiling like it could save me. I shut my eyes, drawing a deep, jagged breath.

“Page 99,” she said casually, tapping the book in front of me.

I looked down at the textbook and the worn cover. The word Accounting staring back at me like a dare. I grabbed the lid, fumbling with the book. I tried to breathe like a normal fuckin’ human—and thumbed it open.

Then stopped.

Dead.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Tucked between the pages: a Polaroid. Her. In my hockey jersey. Nothing underneath. Sprawled across what I could only dream was her bed—hair perfection, lips parted, one hand curled in the hem of the jersey like she was seconds away from showing me more.

I forgot how to blink. I forgot how to breathe. “Wait—”

“Well,” she cut off my panic with faux curiosity, reaching over and calmly plucking the photo from the pages before slipping it back into her bag like it was just another sticky note. “How did that get in there?”

I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. Because all I could think about was how I’d do absolutely anything to see that picture again.

So I did the only thing I could do. I sat there like a good student. I didn’t say a word. I barely breathed—I just followed her lead, turned the pages when she told me to and scribbled down notes willingly for the first time in three and a half years here, feeding off her praise like it was air. I couldn’t get enough.

I watched her closely, soaking in every detail. How her eyes lit up when she explained something. How her lips moved when she mouthed equations under her breath. How her ankle swung where her legs were crossed, skirt barely covering her thighs.

And it wasn’t just about how hot she was or how she looked in that picture that was now burned into my brain—it was everything. I could see her being mine. I could picture her in the stands, wearing my name, making her proud every fucking night. I could imagine her in my room. In my life. My everything. What the fuck is happening to me?

I was mid-sentence—trying to explain something I barely understood—when my voice caught. I stumbled over the words and it wasn’t because the concept was hard. It was because her fingers had just brushed my thigh.

She walked them slowly over the denim of my jeans, right to the inside of my leg, making my heart race and my head spin. I tried to pretend I was okay. That I wasn’t seconds away from falling apart. I adjusted in my chair, but it was useless. Her hand moved higher.

My jaw tightened as she traced the seam of my jeans—light, teasing, electric. I swallowed hard. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure she could hear it. I looked at her, but she wasn’t even looking at me. She was pretending to read one of my notes like she wasn’t currently turning me into a fucking mess.

Then she went further. Her hand landed on my thigh—a soft squeeze. “Good job,” she said warmly. A deep, involuntary groan left my throat. Her palm flattened over my crotch, slow and firm, cupping me through my jeans. My lips parted. Breath caught.

I flexed my thighs, trying to ground myself—trying not to jerk forward into her hand like I wanted to. She stroked me through the denim—soft, steady pressure—and I was already half-gone.

My blood was rushing low, fast. My cock pressed against the zipper so hard it ached.

I blinked down at the textbook and tried to read the words—any of them—but they were all fuzzy. I clenched my jaw to keep from moaning. I tipped my head back, eyes shut, fighting the urge to press my mouth to her skin or bury myself in her neck.

She smirked, wicked, and kept her hand moving. Slow. Unrelenting. I shifted in my seat, fingers curling against the underside of the table. My thighs trembled. My stomach tightened. Every nerve in my body was focused on her touch, the rhythm of it, and how goddamn close I was to losing it.

She leaned in, flipped a page in my notes like nothing was happening, and said— “So… what’s your final answer for number six?”

I could barely remember my own name. “A—A hundred and fuckk,” I groaned, my tone nothing short of pathetic. “A hundred and five.”

She grinned, eyes flicking to my face. “Good choice… Good fucking boy.” I ran a hand through my hair, my forehead damp, and I couldn’t take it anymore. My orgasm hit me so hard I saw white.

I reached down and grabbed her wrist tight under the table as I came in my jeans—hot and heavy—every pulse dragging a deep, broken breath from my lungs. My head bowed. My mouth stayed open, panting, still locked in her grasp.

She didn’t move. She let me ride it out. Then, like it was nothing, she brushed her fingers over the wet patch on my thigh—spreading it slightly. I shuddered, completely overstimulated.

She pulled her hand back and, eyes still locked on mine, sucked the tip of her middle and pointer fingers clean. My fists clenched, and my jaw locked. My cock still twitched in the mess she’d made.

Then she reached over and closed the book like she hadn’t just ruined me. “Good job tonight,” she said casually, standing, her smile warm like she didn’t just blow my mind in the middle of the fucking library. My breathing was still heavy, my hands still gripping the table.

I looked down at my stained jeans, still trying to catch up and understand what had just happened—when she walked away. I stared after her, paralyzed. The second she disappeared from view, I fumbled for my phone—my heart still hammering—and it buzzed just as I got it out.

Tutor Girl: My place. 10 PM. Don’t be late.

ᝰ.ᐟજ⁀➴⋆. Later that night…

I stepped out of my car, adrenaline coursing through my veins. It was 9:57. I wasn’t about to be late.

I jogged to the door of the college house and knocked once—sharp and quick. One of her roommates answered, giving me an uncertain smile.

“Hi,” she said hesitantly.

“I, uh… Is Your Name here?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, slightly confused. “She went to bed an hour ago—”

“She’s expecting me,” I cut her off before she could even finish. Your Name was fuckin’ with me. Again. And fuck… she was perfect.

“Up the hall, to the left, yeah?” I asked, already stepping inside.

She nodded, and I took the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding harder with every step. Her door was closed. A thin sliver of light crept out from beneath it.

I knocked once. Then, I pressed my ear to the wood.

Silence.

Then I heard it. “Fuck, Jack…” She whimpered. My cock twitched instantly at the sound. It was soft. Desperate. Like she’d been waiting all day to say it.

“Just like that—” She praised me, her tone so needy that I couldn’t help but push the door open, and then my heart stopped.

There she was, in the center of her bed: skin glowing and dewy, lips parted, eyes shut, that same satisfied little smile tugging at her mouth. She was wearing my jersey and nothing else.

Her fingers were buried deep inside herself. Her head tipped back against the pillow. Chest rising and falling in slow, heavy waves.

Her eyes met mine with a wicked sparkle that told me this was all for me. Unlike me, she wanted to get caught, and she wanted me to finish it.

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

[vmlnrzmp4]

hiii, I js wanted to send in a request if ur not busy or anything, but I wanna ask for the bllk dads!AU where the kids who r like 14 u could say, have their own insta acc which is set on private cuz even if they r children of football stars it’s much safer but anyways yeah, so I’d like to request where the kids r showing their parents like their story that they posted when they went out w their friends and like the parents (us and the character🤭) honestly like the kids’ aesthetic and like the kids reactions to that and they’re happy so ya

it’s also fine if u don’t wanna do it

ty

🫶🏽

a/n: hey darling! i altered your request a lil. hope you don't mind🫶🏼

itoshi sae

hardly active on instagram, the uninterested itoshi sae accidentally peeked into natsuki's account as they both sat on the couch. "what?" natsuki asks. "nothing," he shakes his head. natsuki only smiles at her old man, showing her account to him. later that day in the afternoon, sae and natsuki sat at the dinner table scrolling through their respective phones. "papa, your fans keep following me." "that's not a fan. it's me." "...what?" @/itoshisaeeee followed you. "what's with that username?" natsuki chuckles as sae says that rest other names were taken. natsuki then helps sae aesthetify his account and give him a better username.

itoshi rin

rin always kept up with sakura on her socials(not out of overprotectiveness)(...ok maybe just a little)she was an actress after all. but what surprised him was when he found out that sakura had a secret private account. and the worst part? "you...you two knew??" rin asks sternly to souta and shouma. the twins looked at each other, then at their papa sheepishly. "papa i know this is you." sakura says as she looks up from her phone when she gets a follow request from a blank account. to which, rin just responds with—"what are you talking about."

isagi yoichi

"no papa, you're not my friend. hence, i won't follow you back." papa yoichi who was pouting gasped. feeling so so betrayed. you just laughed, watching them bickering. "he's sulking." you whisper to yuki. "im not." he lies. "sure." you chuckle. "how is this fair??? you followed kaito! who's not your friend. he's your brother and yet you—" yoichi sighs, "y/n, tell her!" "sorry yo-chan. she's right." later yuki follows him so that grown ass man would stop sulking. she only had one post of when kaito was a baby. she's mostly active on stories and has a highlight of her friends(and kazuki). but she hid them from her papa.

michael kaiser

anne's account—both public and private were filled with her arts. the only thing was that her papa followed her on public but no matter how much he requested her from his fake account, she didn't accept. cause on her private acc, there were her personal favourite drawings(of her friends, you, michael—which all her papa was aware of. except where she would be making magnificent arts of alex.) he one day confronted her. she knew that fake account was her papa all along. "papa it's nothing." "if it's nothing then follow me back." "papa," anne sighs, "it's just my friends, ma, you and...yeah that it—" "it's alex, isn't it?" the silence that followed was loud, "i knew it," michael shakes his head, "im your papa. he's just some guy." "he's my boyfriend." "not for long if you don't let me in."

taglist: @anyaminz @luciddre @kongkhoi @illyriakrasniqi2007 @passw-0-rd @x3nafix @levihanmyotp @vellichorira @sapph1r3x @tamashithe2nd @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 [open]

[callikari]

ωση──── nanwu felt right, especially with jungwon

{LOVE} ** yjw x fem!reader .ᐟ 2.5k + && fluff

look out !。 skinship kissing …

、vivi says .. this is so corny bai

nanwu was the kind of place where everything felt a little slower, where the summers smelled like jasmine and asphalt, and where the shopkeepers knew your name before you even introduced yourself. it wasn’t a bad place to grow up—just small. small enough that everyone knew each other’s business, and small enough that no matter where you turned, yang jungwon was always there.

tonight, the streets were alive with the usual weekend energy—kids running ahead of their parents, old men playing cards on plastic stools outside shops, the scent of grilled lamb skewers and fresh-squeezed orange juice in the air.

“you’re late,” jungwon calls out as you weave through the crowd toward him. he’s waiting by uncle zhao’s convenience store, arms crossed, leaning casually against the wall. the neon sign overhead flickers, casting a soft glow on his face.

“i wasn’t aware we had a set time,” you retort, adjusting the strap of your bag.

mei snickers beside you. “you know how he gets.”

jungwon rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “come on, yuxi and ren are already at the tanghulu stall.”

the streets are packed, and as you walk through the crowd, jungwon’s hand brushes against yours—once, twice, until finally, he just takes it. your heart stumbles, but you don’t pull away.

at the tanghulu stall, yuxi is already munching on a stick, and ren is haggling with the vendor for an extra skewer. jungwon orders for you without asking, handing you the one with the biggest, shiniest berries.

“you act like you know my taste,” you tease, taking a bite.

jungwon just smirks. “i do.”

he does. too well.

later, at the hotpot restaurant, the five of you squeeze into a booth, the bubbling broth steaming up the small space. yuxi and mei argue over spice levels, ren complains about the lack of cold drinks, and jungwon—jungwon just watches you, like he’s been doing all night.

“what?” you ask, nudging his knee under the table.

he leans in slightly, voice low. “you have sugar on your lip.”

you barely have time to react before he reaches forward, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. it’s such a simple action, but it sends a rush of heat to your face.

mei, ever observant, raises a brow. “huh. interesting.”

jungwon shoots her a look, but you’re already turning back to the pot, pretending to be very focused on the fish balls.

as the night winds down, the group decides to head home, splitting up at the familiar street corner. yuxi and mei exchange knowing glances as they leave, and ren just sighs dramatically before jogging off.

which leaves you and jungwon, walking the last stretch home together.

the night air is cooler now, cicadas humming softly in the distance. jungwon’s fingers find yours again, intertwining them this time.

“so,” he starts, glancing at you. “are we ever going to talk about this?”

your heart skips. “about what?”

he huffs a soft laugh, stopping in his tracks. you stop, too, looking up at him under the warm glow of the streetlamp.

“you know what,” he murmurs. “the way i look at you. the way you look at me.”

his free hand comes up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. his touch lingers, knuckles brushing against your cheek.

“if i kiss you right now, are you gonna run?” he asks, voice teasing but eyes serious.

you shake your head.

so he does.

his lips are warm, soft, lingering like he’s memorizing the moment. your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he smiles against your mouth before deepening the kiss.

when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, breath a little unsteady.

“finally,” he murmurs.

you laugh, threading your fingers through his. “yeah. finally.”

maybe nanwu was small. maybe life here was predictable, slow, and a little boring at times.

but if jungwon was a part of it, you didn’t really mind.

ҽɳԋα perm taglist :: @ash-engen @cheruphic @jungwonbropls @chrrific

© callikari — all rights reserved

[weeb-simp-11]

🃟☏➢NEED THAT SHAPEABLE VEINY DIH!!

NOTE: You should also give some love for my guy Shapesmith/Rus Livingston, I wanna eat this stretchy man. Also might not be accurate, semi-proof read.

Pairing: Shapesmith!Rus Livingston x Fiancée!Reader — Female Anatomy and She/They + You Pronound, Engaged and to be Married

Sypnosis: Calling your ‘husband’ after his flight to Mars and you notice he seems to be acting strangely sooo it ends up with fucking because you miss him, teehee.

Warning: Eventual Smut

RING RING!! RING RING!!

“Rus? Baby?”

He almost dropped the unknown electronic device as it rang, accidentally accepting the call, fumbling with the screen as he heard a woman speak.

“Russell?”

“H-hello?”

“Oh god Rus, I thought you weren’t gonna answer my calls.. I’ve missed you so much.. Christ.” You softly spoke through the phone, holding it near your ear as you smiled gently to yourself.

“Yes— yes hello fellow human. Uhh..” Shapesmith trailed off, looking at the caller’s ID. “Honey..”

As far as Shapesmith is aware, Rex taught him various lessons about relationships during their time with the Guardians of the Globe. He instructed the struggling Martian not just about mating, but about sex and how to make women feel appreciated every day, whether through intimacy or other means. He also helped him improve his grammar.

“I’m at your apartment, I just finished cleaning here. Will you be coming home?” Her small chuckle masked the longing she’d felt for her fiancé, all those days without him.

“Uh, Y-yes Ok I will end this cellular device. Goodbye. Uh— baby.” Shapesmith replied, feeling a bit sheepish as he ended the call, making his way out of the Moon Base

_

“Welcome home Rus, you were right. I really did miss you a lot.” You spoke, his name dripping off her tongue like honey. She hovered in front of him, holding him close, their first hug after what? Two weeks? Months? Man Shapesmith didn't even know that the guy’s identity he’d stolen from had a wife, he wondered, a bit unsure of things.

“Sweetheart..” Rus would call her, trying to figure out things, especially with him engaging with a human in physical contact as what she’d doing right now — hugging the Martian.

“Yes?” You’d look up in anticipation. You did notice his weird differences from before, he was a bit timid and shy right now. Not that she didn't mind. It was just unusual for her fiancé.

“You’re acting weird, as if you aren't my boyfriend.” Shapesmith’s eyes slightly widened. Did she find out he was a Martian? Will you stab his three-chambered hearts? Skin his skin off? Grind his body?!

“Hey no— I’m just tired, y’know. Mars and going to space.. And other human stuff..” Shapesmith replied, gently scratching his cheek, swallowing his saliva. Her arms that held him trailed up to the back of his neck; nape.

“Don’t you miss me too?” She mumbled, staring deeply into her lover’s pupils. Eyes trailing down from his irises to his lips, and back. “Aren’t you gonna kiss me?” You frown, puckering your lips up for him as you sigh.

“Oh- uh yes- sorry.” Shapesmith apologizes, immediately pressing his lips against hers. The kiss was reasonably messy and unnaturally sloppy. Rus knew how to kiss, he kisses as if she was his last meal, he kisses as if he's eating her face out. But right now, it felt too different, was this really her Rus? She was a bit skeptical. Shapesmith tried to pull out from their kiss as you lead him on instead, your tongue darting between his lips, trying to slip between them.

You pulled him close. Clutching him using the collars of his uniform, leading him further into the house as they reached the kitchen. You sat on the edge of the counter, with him against you of course. His Martian senses heightened at the feeling of her warmth that emanated from her body. He rutted against her thigh, you halted his desperate movements, helping him out of his uniform, discarding it somewhere in the living space. She was too much into the sensations that she did not bother to notice whatever he hid beneath his pants, it was similar to a dick, although not technically one? God who knows?

You shimmied off your clothing, throwing it somewhere in the room, you’ll have to worry much more about different things tomorrow, for now. They should focus on each other. Both of you were bare naked under the dimly lit kitchen, soft breathing could be heard and gentle thrusting can be seen happening between the two.

Rus’ hips stuttered against yours, his dick slipping in and out into her warm hole. He gripped your calves, rutting against your leaking pussy that ached for your Fiancé.

“Ugh.. You feel so different. Does space do this?” You moaned and whimpered, clutching onto his body, feeling air gets sucked out of your own lungs whenever you’d help him thrust.

He is learning gradually. He is trying to understand how the human he is fucking also felt good.

Female Human’s pussies felt too good. It was making him light headed already he his pounded his cock into her velvety warmth. He could almost—

“Oh— chums—!” He spilled his Martian seed inside her, his body shuddering along with hers as they both climaxed. You swore when you shut your eyes, you were having sex with a green alien Martian, maybe that was just your eyes playing tricks at you. He slowly pulled his member out of your gaping hole, watching as his essence mixed with hers and dribbled onto the countertop. You clenched onto nothing, softly whining as cool air hit your body. You fell into his arms, both of you now resting and relishing each other’s embrace after being separated.

Maybe stealing Rus Livingston’s body wasn't bad after all. (Stealing is bad kids)

NOTE: Probably making a sequel where you found out it wasn't the real Rus Livingston and admitting it to him hat you thought it was him that you fucked but it was actually a Martian and it ends with also them fucking. I don't know.

[day-dreamed]

shark week

melissa schemmenti x f!reader

summary: in which the construction going on next to your apartment causes you to lose sleep, so melissa offers you a room at her house.

tags: reader gets her period (unexpectedly), cramps, blood, pet names (hon), food consumption, set before jacob lives with mel, mel takes care of u <3333

word count: 1.1k

author’s note: sorry about the title, i couldn’t think of anything better lol

A loud bang from the construction site next to your apartment causes you to shoot awake with a gasp. After rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you glance over at the clock on your night stand and groan when you realize you’ve overslept your alarm. You rush to get ready for work, throwing on a haphazard outfit and shoveling down your breakfast before you leave and head over to Abbott. 

You’re out of breath when you walk into the teacher’s lounge, where everybody is taking the little time they have to relax before the day begins. You try to ignore their concerned gazes as you put your things away and move to make yourself a cup of coffee. 

Melissa gets up out of her chair and meets you at the coffee machine. “Hon, I got this. You go sit.” 

“No, it’s fine, you don’t have to,” you argue. 

Your shoulders slump at the look she gives you. So you sit next to Barbara, who frowns as she takes in your appearance. 

“What has gotten you so frazzled at this early hour, my dear?” she asks. 

You let out a deep sigh. “There’s been construction going on right next to my apartment, so I haven’t been able to get much sleep for the past week or so,” you explain. 

“Why don’t you come stay at my place?” 

Your face burns at Melissa’s offer as she sets your coffee down in front of you. “I couldn’t, I don’t want to impose—”

She huffs. “That’s the last thing you’d be doing. C’mon, it’ll be fun.” 

You miss the knowing looks your coworkers share as you consider the thought of staying over her house. Normally, you’d be too nervous to accept, but in the end, the promise of uninterrupted sleep wins you over. 

“All right, all right. I’ll stay,” you smile. “Thanks, Mel.”

“No thanks needed, hon.”  

The rest of the day goes smoothly, except for a weird stomach ache that starts bothering you in the afternoon. It isn’t too debilitating so you brush it off, not thinking anything of it. When the bell finally rings signaling the end of the last class, you dismiss your students and head over to the teacher’s lounge to gather your things. You say goodbye to the group before heading out to your car and pulling out of the parking lot, nerves starting to spike at the thought of going over to Melissa’s house for the first time. The radio does little to distract you as you drive to your apartment. 

When you get home, the sounds  of the construction drive you to immediately start packing your things. You only grab some clothes and the necessities—you’re hoping you won’t have to stay for too long. Once you have everything, you shoot Mel a text that you’re on your way and head out the door.

The drive feels too short. You try not to let your hand shake too much as you ring the doorbell, your heartbeat sounding too loud in your ears. Only a minute or so pass before the door swings open to reveal Melissa, who smiles when her eyes meet yours. She’s wearing a green t-shirt with a jean jacket over it and a pair of leggings. Your breath catches in your throat, not used to seeing her in such casual clothing. 

“Hi Mel,” you say, and you can only hope that she doesn’t notice the way your voice is higher pitched than normal.

She steps aside. “Come on in. Make yourself at home, okay hon?” 

Once you settle in, time moves by quickly. Melissa makes the most amazing dinner, which you keep stuffing into your mouth until you feel like your stomach is going to burst. When it’s time to go to bed, she leads you to the guest room where she’s set up your stuff. 

“If you need anything, come get me, all right? Even if I’m asleep,” she says.

You nod, smiling. “I will. Thank you, again. I can’t even begin to express how much I appreciate you for doing this.” 

Mel rolls her eyes playfully. “Hey, what’d I say about saying thank you? It’s the least I can do.”

A huff of laughter escapes your lips. “Good night,” you grin. 

“Night,” she says. 

Your eyes follow her for a moment as she walks down the hall to her room. Part of you still can’t believe that you’re staying overnight in Melissa Schemmenti’s house. Sure, you had hoped it would happen eventually, but not like this.

It only takes you a few minutes to get ready for bed. You slip under the covers and reach over to shut off the lamp on the nightstand, shrouding the room in darkness. Warmth envelopes you as you pull the sheets up to your chin and turn to lay on your side. Exhausted from the long day, it doesn’t take long for you to slip into a deep, dreamless slumber. 

When you wake up in the morning, something feels off. Your stomach is still aching, and you swear you feel something trickling down the inside of your leg. It takes a few seconds for the realization to hit you. 

You started your period.

Shit. 

The sight of the blood when you throw the covers off makes your stomach drop. You’re horrified at the thought of Melissa walking in and seeing the mess you made of her sheets. Before you can think of how to go about this situation, the redhead herself appears in the doorway. She opens her mouth to speak, but snaps it shut when her eyes land on the blood. 

You cringe, face growing hot. “Mel, I’m so, so sorry. I—I didn’t know that my—”

“Hey, it’s okay. Not a big deal,” she shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. You have tampons with you? Or do you use pads? I got both in the bathroom if you need ‘em.” 

You stare at her. “You… You’re not mad?” 

She scoffs. “Mad? Hon, not even a little bit. Why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up, okay? I’ll take care of this.” 

“I…” Tears pool your eyes. “Thank you,” you say, voice small.

“Don’t mention it,” she says softly. 

You get out of bed and quickly grab some new clothes to change into before heading into the bathroom. After you’re done, you walk back into the bathroom to find Melissa making the bed with a new set of sheets.

“Mel—” Your voice cracks. 

She walks over and opens her arms to you. “C’mere, hon.” 

You nearly melt into her embrace, snaking your arms around her shoulders as you bury your face into her neck. She hugs you around your middle and rubs soothing circles onto your back. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, not letting go until you pull away. And for that, you’re eternally grateful.