#since. they’re probably all Really Damn Tired

[pempempemto]

the ride back

[tonycries]

Go For It, Gojo! [Part 2] - G.S.

Synopsis. Just two weeks ago you could barely stand him - so, really, why is your heart beating so loud? Surely, it’s just the way he’s got you pushed against the wall, face stuffed in your cunt - right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, academic rivals to lovers, student president! reader, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, slight angst + comfort, vibrators, banter about physics, cunnilingus, Yaga is tired, oral sex (male + female), college! AU, both reader and Satoru do some growing up, overstimulation, super sappy actually, pet names (sweetheart, hardass), swearing.

Word count. 10.5k

A/N. Passed out five times, here’s Part 2 (joke). PART 1 HERE. Art by @_3aem on X.

Gojo Satoru likes to think he’s hilarious. A real connoisseur of the fine art of comedy. The fifth member of Impractical Jokers, if you will. 

Which is probably why, for someone who didn’t know the definition of shutting the fuck up, he sure was intent on staying quiet about whatever this was.

It’s been exactly 2 weeks, 5 days and 17 hours since you and Satoru had entered this weird limbo, and there still wasn’t a peep out of the man about what the two of you are to each other.

Friends? Acquaintances? A booty call that he happens to argue way too much with? You’d smack that pretty nose of his if that was the case - as soon as you admittedly stopped being a pussy yourself…

But, semantics.

And right now, his fingers intertwined with yours as he practically drags you through the aquarium ticket counter - you couldn’t help but wonder - was this a date?

Not exactly lovers, but definitely more than friends, a tense understanding crackling in the air between you two. Something prickly and jittery that pooled in your stomach and made your head spin. 

And as someone used to having the answers to everything, it bothered you that you didn’t have the one to this. 

You haven’t been to an aquarium since you were a kid - quickly having outgrown it at the ripe age of seven. So, really, it made sense that the 6’3 manchild beside you insisted it was the perfect spot to celebrate finishing your assignment.

“That damn quantum entanglement hell.” you’d called it - and ranted about all the way inside - more so to fill the charged silence than anything. His fingers still tight around yours despite the dissipating crowd, burning into your skin.

“You know for someone who loves the elegance of science, you’re an extra hardass about quantum entanglement.” he titters in-between worried mutters of “doesn’t that old lady look like the mafia queenpin from the café.” as you two try to navigate your way through the aquarium.

You desperately cling onto his remark - a sense of normalcy you could finally breathe in.

“Well, Satoru, for someone who treats life like an improv show, you sure have a knack for avoiding scientific precision,” you retort, some strange part of you delighting in the way his fingers tighten around yours. 

“Precision is for pussies.” he chuckles, bringing up a hand to your face, fingers wiggling in a ludicrous attempt at hypnotic suggestion. “Besides, sweetheart, life is a cosmic joke, and quantum mechanics is the punchline.”

“As expected from a Pilot-Wave theorist, that just sounds like an excuse to be lazy. ‘Oh, let’s embrace uncertainty and blame it on quantum mechanics!’”

“It’s also the punchline.”

“At least my punchlines make sense.”

He lets out an exaggerated whine, “And here I thought we were bonding over shared disdain for the hard-headed laws of physics.”

“Shared disdain? I actually respect the laws of physics. They’re the backbone of our universe.”

“Maybe.” he responds, voice a bit uncharacteristically somber. “But, quantum mechanics, uncertainty, whatever. In the end it doesn’t matter the universe, aren’t we all just wandering through a sea of unpredictability? It’s exciting.” he weaves through the crowd with you, gaze flickering between you and the vibrant schools of fish.

And maybe you’re an overthinker - you’ve always been told you were - but it felt like his words carried a heavy tone that went beyond your stupid little debate about quantum entanglement. This was not about physics.

“That excitement often leads to chaos, no matter the universe.”

“Embrace the chaos in every universe then. It keeps things interesting.”

“You’re incorrigible.” you scoff, meeting his intense gaze head-on, skin flaring at the sheer intensity of it. “I bet in every universe you’re an unchangeable hell-raiser.”

“Maybe.” He leans in, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, gaze now locked on you, his lips dangerously ghosting your ear. “Or maybe I’m just more of a hands-on learner?”

It might never have been about physics.

It’s innocent fun, right? Two classmates celebrating the end of an assignment? Innocent, innocent fu-

“Y’know with the way you’re so dripping wet f’me, I’m starting to think our lil’ arguments are just foreplay, prez.”

Sleek plastic cold against your back, Satoru’s mouth hot on yours - hungry and insistent. Lips tangy with the taste of minty toothpaste and the thrill of the forbidden as he cages you against that heady bathroom stall.

“You’re the one that riles me up. Got a degradation kink, Satoru?” you shoot back between gasps as his greedy hands map every curve and dip of your body. Groping. Kneading. Such a fucking tease.

“Mhm~ Love when you talk dirty to me, sweetheart.” he hums into the heated skin of your neck. White-hot tingles of electricity running along your body. “Though, I really prefer when that smart mouth is choking around my cock instead.”

“I’m gonna hah- drown you in the fucking clownfish tank.”

“Kinky, but that’s not that’s not the magic word, sweetheart.”

You grit your teeth - in both pleasure and irritation, but most importantly the need for more more more. He always did drive you insane. Words choked, “P-please.”

A sharp moan rips from your throat as long fingers graze your swollen folds through your soaked panties. Teasing the dainty hem. Pulling it down. Delving in. Curving deftly upwards, easily pressing into that one spot inside. Over and over. In and out in and out in and-

“Teasing hah- teasing bastard.” you hiss, even as your traitorous hips buck into his touch.

Satoru chuckles darkly, breath warm against your ear, sending shivers running down your spine. “Your teasing bastard.” Your heart pounds in your ears, mind caught on the “your”, drowning out the distant hum and bustle of the aquarium outside. 

And before you can open your mouth - maybe to say something so utterly stupid - he falls to his knees. Pretty lips ghosting your inner thigh, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. A stark contrast with the cool air of the bathroom stall. 

Mindlessly, your legs press together, a bead of slick trailing enticingly down them - aching for an ounce of friction. Down, down, down-

And Satoru notices - of course he notices - because his tongue darts out urgently, tracing the seam of your swollen folds. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, pooling your juices on his tongue before letting them flow down his throat - groaning as if it was his favorite taste. 

Shit, you really were his favorite taste. 

Nose-deep in your cunt and on his knees in that cramped aquarium bathroom, all he can do is lap up your juices. Cock aching, tasting you, breathing you in like a man dying of thirst. 

Pulling down his trousers just enough for his throbbing erection to spring free. Leaking tip smearing against his toned abdomen, trailing down the prominent vein in the middle. A large hand firmly gripping the base, pressing his heavy balls so obscenely on your calf, pulling in sinful little tugs to you.

Blood rushes straight to the throbbing erection in his hands at the way your breath hitches, pretty little mewls of his name leaving those kiss-bitten lips. Such a shame he had to muffle them, two fingers in your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself. 

Ah, he didn’t get to see those manta rays yet, but it’s alright - right now, hips bucking helplessly into him, your hands knotted in his hair - you’re his favorite view anyway. His pretty girl.

“Hngh- Jus’ like that, Satoru.” you moan.

He groans into your dripping pussy, vibrations sending a jolt of electricity shooting through your veins, making you clench further around the tongue pushing its way into your heated hole. Cunt aching for release, and his leaking cock not far behind as he fucks his fist urgently. Grinding into you like a fucking dog in heat.

“Please.” 

Granting your unspoken request, he moves purposefully. Nose catching on your clit, rubbing it over and over as he alternates between gentle sucks and rapid thrusts of his tongue dipping into your entrance. Satoru’s unspoken pace sends you spiraling into insanity - and the edge. 

Almost there.

You lock eyes with him, seeing just as much need for you reflected back in his own eyes. Flitting between his hungry gaze and the thumb teasing his flushed slit. Jerky, desperate strokes of his hand along his veined length - up, up, up - just the way you do it.

Time seems to stand still as with one two three thrusts you shatter all over his tongue. Choked-up cries of his name bouncing off the walls of the empty bathroom as you chase peak after peak on his pretty face.

Your vision blurs at the edges, blood roaring in your ears. Torn between wanting to scream in pleasure and not wanting to be arrested for public indecency. Breathless whispers of pleasure slurring together as your mind clouds with only Satoru Satoru Satoru-

As the haze clears slightly, you realize you’re cradling his head, stroking his silky locks soothingly. Pulling away - embarrassed more at this than what just transpired - you let Satoru rise to his feet, towering over you. 

“On your knees, sweetheart.”

Still delirious from your orgasm, you mindlessly drop to your knees before him. Wordlessly, he guides himself into your mouth, precum salty on your tongue and cock glistening in the dim light of the bathroom.

His hips begin to thrust, matching the pace from before as he fucks your hot mouth. You relax your jaw, letting him take control as he plunges deeper and deeper. Fighting the urge to gag as he hits the back of your throat. Saliva drips down your chin so lewdly, smearing on his cock,

Satoru’s breathing grows heavier and heavier as your nose hits the tufts of hair on his pelvis, already wet with precum and spit. Grip searing on your scalp, you look up to meet his gaze - eyes half-lidded and tears clinging to your lashes.

Maybe it was the carnal look in your eyes, or the way your glossy lips stretch so prettily around him - because with a guttural groan, Satoru spills his load down your throat. Grasp steady on your hair, making you sputter and drink every drop as his cock twitches on your tongue. Cum dribbling down the corner of your lips, the tap! tap! tap! of it ringing in your ears.

As his high passes, you feel as if you’re in a daze as Satoru helps you up. Voice shot and throat burning as he cleans the both of you up. 

Gentle hands on your cheek, a thumb caressing your lips. Your face burning at the way he looks at you. Why does he look at you like that.

A soft smile plays on his lips - kiss-bitten and prettily glossed with your juices. Wordlessly, he leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, sending a sudden tug at your heartstrings.

“I bet in every universe we sneak around and choose the worst lil’ hideouts.”

Yeah. Yeah, maybe you did.

And you don’t know why it hurt. 

It’s almost like you’re on autopilot as you quickly smooth down your clothes and follow Satoru outside, back into the bustling aquarium as inconspicuously as possible. 

As you walk side by side, you can’t help but feel the previous euphoria inside you coiling into something more. Something uncomfortable.

Passing by a group of kids excitedly pointing at a giant tank of tropical fish, you feel a wistful ache as you’re reminded of simpler times. Back when you didn’t analyze everything interaction. Maybe back when things were better.

Pulling back, “Satoru…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“About what happened…about us-” you sputter out, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “I don’t want-”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, y’know.” 

Your head snaps up. Unspoken words lingering in the air - is it me or you that doesn’t want to talk about it.

Your eyes catch on the shine of his hair in the cool light. The subtle flex of muscles beneath his shirt as he leads the way through the mesmerizing corridors of the aquarium, the soft glow of the tanks casting an ethereal light on his silhouette. 

His hand warm in yours, and that little dimple at the corner of his grin as he turns to you. Devastating.

It was like something snapped. And it hits you with a pang. All glory and beautiful.

He wasn’t yours.

And he probably might never be.

Somehow that terrified you. 

Because in the end, weren’t you just playing along in his elaborate cosmic joke? Just part of his unknown?

But why did that hurt so much?

“Gojo, I’m going home.”

Fear.

---

There have only been three times in his life that Gojo Satoru has truly felt fear. The first, of course, was right after kissing your pretty lips in that dingy closet - if there was ever a true “ah, if I live I’m making this my legacy” moment then that was it. 

The second was when he accidentally walked in on Yaga practicing his interpretative dance routine in the faculty lounge. The man had some moves - but it was something that Satoru saw nightmares about for days.

And the third time? Well, that’s the ongoing saga of trying to decipher you and why the hell you were sitting in another row during Advanced Quantum Physics, so gorgeous and unbothered ignoring him.

No texts, no calls, no snarky debates on anything since the aquarium a few days ago.  

Almost as if he was back to square one - worse even.

So yes, Gojo Satoru is scared. In fact, some might even say he’s utterly terrified. 

But even more than that, he’s so so stupid.

Because for the life of him he couldn’t remember what he’d done to mess up that fragile little connection that you two had formed. 

Maybe you just liked seafood too much to visit the aquarium? That couldn’t be it…

Did you find out he accidentally knocked over that stack of books in the library and blamed it on you? No, he’s heard you blame worse things on him to his face. 

Have you finally gotten sick of him?

…

Nahhh.

He steals a glance in your direction. Eyes mapping your ramrod posture, the way you’re hanging off of Yaga’s every word, and that slight frown marring your features. Ah, you looked so beautiful there even when you looked like you’re about to have an aneurysm.

It’s as if you’ve erected an invisible fortress around yourself, and he’s outside looking in. Desperately calling for you.

Satoru sighs inwardly, realizing he’s going to have to pull out the big guns. With the subtlety of a sledgehammer, he clears his throat, shifting his chair a little too loudly to yours in the row in front of him. 

Paying no mind to the irritated glance that Yaga (and you) shoot at him, he whispers loud enough that it probably carries to the entire classroom. “So, prez~ Did I accidentally stumble into an alternate universe where you still hate me or have you just been avoiding me like I’m a contagious disease.”

You flinch - probably both at the audacity and at him addressing you. Eyes still firmly trained on the now-disgruntled Yaga, you reply curtly, “This is not an alternate universe, Gojo. And I haven’t been avoiding you, I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy ignoring me? Space might’ve worked for Neil Armstrong but it won’t work for me, sweetheart. Just tell me what I did so I can get on my knees and beg for forgiveness.”

Your brows furrow, eyes rereading the same sentence on your textbook over and over. “Just focus on these causal dynamical triangulations, Gojo.”

“Oh yeah, I had one of those once.”

“Satoru. I swear to-”

A sharp call of your name - followed by his. Professor Yaga’s irritation, now palpable, hangs in the air like a storm. “If you two can't maintain some decorum, I suggest you continue your discussion outside.”

Satoru grins unabashedly, batting his long lashes, “Why, Yaga, I thought you enjoyed our discussions.”

“Out, both of you.”

Each word clipped and shattering your dreams of becoming Professor Yaga’s protégé into tinier and tinier pieces. 

“You heard the man, prez. Let’s take this show on the road.” 

Hastily, you gather your belongings, shooting an apologetic glance at Professor Yaga, who gives you a sympathetic look in response. As the door slams behind you, noise ringing in your ears, you stand frozen in a mixture of shock and disbelief. 

Satoru, however, seems unfazed. “Well, that was an unbridled success.”

Irritation spikes as you hiss out, “What?”

“I mean, you called me Satoru for the first time in days so I consider that an unbridled success.”

A strange stab at your heart, and maybe for the first time since working together on that quantum entanglement assignment, Satoru’s joke doesn’t land. 

Your eyes narrow at him, “This isn’t a joke, Satoru. I needed Professor Yaga’s guidance - how else am I going to get a research position with him?”

“It wasn’t a joke.” 

Following your weighty silence, Satoru lets out a heavy sigh. The expression on his face looked more serious than you’d ever seen it as his eyes search yours. “Look, prez, I didn’t mean to mess things up for you - though Yaga basically worships the ground you walk on so-” 

At your raised eyebrow he gets back on track, “Anyway, something’s wrong and I just wanted to understand what’s going on between us.”

A humorless laugh leaves your lips, “Now you want to talk about us?”

You clench your fists, frustration and confusion boiling over within you. You know you’re part of this too. You know you’re not blameless in this tangled mess. And right now, the sheer warmth of his gaze made a strange little part of you consider just giving in and running to his arms. Fuck what he wants of you. Fuck all the uncertainty. 

And that’s exactly what scared you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of thoughts within your mind. “I don’t even know what ‘us’ is, Gojo. And I don’t think you do either.”

Your voice is surprisingly steady - as are your feet as they carry you away from Satoru. You’d caught one, final glance at the slump of his shoulders, and the silent plea in his eyes. 

Purposeful steps sound in your ears as you walk to God-knows-where. Yet, they still stutter - as does your heart - as Satoru’s voice rings in the hallway behind you, “Take all the time you need, prez. I’ll win you back with my world-renowned Gojo charm again~”

Light words following a heavy admission, his humor attempting to bandage over the cracks of what you two had not too long ago. The echo of his words accompany you down the corridor, and despite yourself, you find your lips tugging into the slightest beginnings of a smile. The slightest.

It’s okay. This is okay. Things can go back to whatever they were now - normal, steady.

“World-renowned Gojo charm.” you repeat under your breath, ready to find a quiet corner of campus where you can throw yourself into causal dynamical triangulations. 

Gaze unwavering, Satoru stands still, searching for any signs of you looking back. Turn around. Turn around turn around turn-

“Mr. Gojo, are you going to find the building exit with the same enthusiasm you exhibit when spouting lines from your imaginary romance novel?”

“Ah. Yaga, I was just- wait imaginary? I can assure you that my charm is as real as quantum mechanics - just ask your star student! Although these days even quantum mechanics might have trouble explaining why she’s-”

“Mr. Gojo.”

“Understood. On my way.” A comical salute, “May your lectures be as riveting as my girl when she’s threatening to drown me in clownfish tanks~”

“Good. And please, spare us all from any more ‘unbridled success’ in the future.”

---

The following week turned into a delicate dance, a waltz of cautious side steps and tense half-glances - all of which were met by that fond gaze that made your heart clutch so involuntarily. Like a silent drama where neither of you knew the next line.

The sprawling campus now seemed so tiny, a tension connecting the two of you like an invisible thread. From Professor Yaga’s class - now so dull without that usual bickering - all the way down to that café just off-campus where the stuffy air hums with old banter and unspoken words.

Yet, the routine remained unchanged, you still found yourself visiting there time and time again - by that little booth in the corner, right next to the window. Just without your familiar companion.

You never realized how quiet the café could get without someone talking your ear off about everything from the Pilot-Wave theory to why the little girl at the grocery store who mistook him for a Kakashi cosplayer is definitely conspiring against him. 

It’s thrown you off - and you’re sick of thinking of that stupid smirk when you’re trying to meticulously sort through the overflow of student archives.

Ugh, you’ve been losing sleep over these for days. Feeling hot under your temples, you try to push away the pressure behind your eyes - If you don’t get this categorized before the next meeti-

“Whatcha reading, sweetheart?”

Speak of the devil.

Startled, you look up from your sea of paperwork. 

Ah, there he was. All nonchalance and grace, eyes twinkling with mischief and an easy grin curling his lips. And for a moment - a brief, fleeting moment - you’re filled with a familiar warmth, tension from the past few days melting into nothingness.

“Oh, just some archives.” you blink, with a measured calmness.

“Absolutely fascinating.” Satoru chuckles, sliding into the chair across from you with the casual elegance of someone who’s completely unaware of the mess he left in his wake. “What’s next, a riveting analysis on the historical significance of paperclips?”

Ignoring his banter, you focus diligently on the task at hand - Gakuganji would have your head. “If only. Now what do you want, Satoru? I’m busy.”

His grin widens, undeterred. “Busy with what? Cataloging the thrilling history of staplers and notepads?”

You shoot him a pointed look, “The secret lives of archives can be more scandalous than you think, Gojo.” 

“Just how do you contain your excitement, prez?”

“I don’t.” you drone out. Shuffling your papers, gathering them with a deliberate focus. “Now, if you’re done with your stand-up routine, I actually have work to do.”

Satoru straightens up, the playfulness in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. “Wait wait, sweetheart, we need to talk.”

You let out a sigh - there it is. And maybe you were being petty. Maybe you were slightly scared. “Oh, now, we do? How convenient.”

“Can’t we just go back to the way things were? I don’t want things to be weird between us.” He runs a hand through his silky locks, a gesture that usually accompanies his frustration. 

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Weird? Gojo, things have been weird between us for a while now. You just never bothered to notice until it got inconvenient for you..” You stand up, your archives now neatly organized. “I have to finish seven files of these now, excuse me.”

A subtle ache takes residence in your bones as you walk away, his gaze hot on your back. The barista, a friendly soul who had witnessed countless interactions between you and Gojo, offered you a sympathetic smile as you made your way out.

The café's atmosphere, once cozy with laughter, now suffocatingly laced with unease. That invisible thread connecting you both feels strained. Hanging by the thinnest of threads - on the verge of snapping. 

And, yet, through it all one thought rings clear. 

You missed him.

Satoru didn’t know what hurt more - the way you called him “Gojo” or the way he didn’t even get a giggle out of his paperclip joke.

“Gojo, things have been weird between us for a while now.”

Yeah, definitely the way you called him “Gojo”.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the cloud of doom himself. I can barely enjoy my Earl Grey. What’s eating at you, young man?” 

Satoru’s head snaps up at the curious croak, tone a mix of concern and amusement. His eyes meet sharp, perceptive ones that seem to cut through his sulky haze. Oh, it’s the mafia queenpin.

At his wordless staring she plows on, taking a seat opposite him, “Oh c’mon, boy. Don’t think I haven’t seen you lurking and moping about. You’ve got as much subtlety as my late husband - and he once tried to hide a mistress by having her disguise as a potted plant.”

A half-hearted grin makes its way onto his face, “No potted plants here, just the usual existential crisis. You know how it is.”

The old lady snorted, unimpressed. “Please, spare me the theatrics. I’ve seen drama queens with more subtlety. Now spill.”

Satoru hesitated, wincing at the stare that seemed to cut right into his soul. It reminded him of a little someone. 

Finally, he sighs relentingly, “It's complicated. Things with someone... changed. I miss the way it used to be, you know?”

A sharp cackle, echoing in the empty space around them. “Ah, love troubles. You youngsters make it sound so dramatic. Look, boy, if you want something, go and get it.”

He huffs in defeat, now way more into impromptu love counseling than he initially thought he’d be. “I tried but-”

But the old lady cuts him off, sharp and incisive, “Trying isn’t the same as doing, kid. And let me tell you, I’ve seen enough guys like you wasting time pondering instead of acting.” 

It seems this mafia queenpin brought out all the childish, petty sides of him. Because Satoru whines in a way that he definitely wouldn’t if you hadn’t been avoiding him and if you hadn’t called him “Gojo” and-

“But she hates me, and she’s sick of me.” A rare vulnerability creeping into his voice. “Maybe things were better the way they were.”

“Life’s too short for that crap. And trust me, that girl does not hate you, you’re just scaring her off. I would have smacked you after that first dumb comment about paperclips.” The old lady snorts, dismissing his complaint. “Uptight academics, always scared of their own feelings. Afraid that if they acknowledge them, the world might end.” 

Satoru blinks, taken aback by the unexpected insight. “Scaring her off? I'm just being myself.”

She leans in, sharp eyes drilling into him - picking him apart. “Being yourself doesn't mean avoiding the real conversations. You’ve got feelings, boy. Instead of playing the joker, try being sincere for once. Maybe you’ll be surprised.” 

Taking a patient sip of her tea, “Now, go and fix whatever mess you made. Or better yet, just grab the girl and give her a damn good kiss. Works wonders.”

Satoru blinks, taken aback by the unexpected advice. The old lady cackles again, a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“Now, scram, and let an old lady enjoy her coffee in peace.” 

He nods, more to himself than her, feeling a strange mix of determination and embarrassment at being given advice by the same lady he had a silent bet with you about being an underground overlord.

Immediately standing up, he salutes her goodbye before rushing out - only to stop abruptly halfway out the door. Turning and speedwalking back to the table, with a mix of curiosity and urgency. 

“Hey, granny, I have a question.”

“Anything as long as it isn’t my age, boy.”

“Would you happen to have any mafia connections by chance?.”

Ah, you think you’re dying. 

Or maybe that’s just what the towering stack of papers on your cluttered desk want you to think…

It mocks you. A painful reminder of the mundane world you were now in. That invisible thread connecting you to that little booth in the corner of the café now feels like a noose tightening around your neck. 

What’s done is done. And right now you have bigger fish to fry - fish shaped annoyingly like the unresolved chaos of these archives.

You rub your eyes, room swaying slightly as you squint at the tiny print, letters melting into one another and conspiring against you. Rereading the same sentence over and over, sweat beading on your forehead.

God, was the heater on too high?

The documents on the desk seem to dance, a mocking waltz that laughs in the face of your feeble attempts to restore order. Chaos. 

Stop it.  

An incessant pounding on your temples, blood roaring in your ears. 

You reach for a pen, your fingers fumbling as it slips through your grasp. Falling onto the floor with a clatter that reverberates in your throbbing head. Chaos. 

The room is stifling, walls closing in on you. Breaths hot and labored. Temples drumming louder. And louder.  Urgent and insistent. Chaos.

“Open up! It’s Satoru!”

Satoru.

Body acting before your brain, you stagger out of your seat, the world spinning dangerously as you clutch onto the desk for support.

Satoru?

Your unsteady feet carry you towards the door - almost subconsciously. You wince at the stab of pain in your temples as it throbs in time with the urgent knocking.

Hands unsteady on the doorknob, vision bleary, yet you’d recognize that shock of cloudy hair anywhere. His words hit you before the realization that Satoru was here, and why was he here looking so adorably disheveled like he’d run here and what was he rambling about now-

“I'm so so sorry. I messed up, I should’ve noticed. I know I’ve been avoiding the real conversation and I didn’t realize how much-”

His voice, tinged with a vulnerability you’re not used to hearing, is abruptly cut off as Satoru looks up from where he was fumbling with his fingers in nervousness - wide blue eyes taking in your glassy eyes and clammy skin. In your hazy vision you make out the deep concern creeping its way onto those pretty features.

“Sweetheart?”

A sudden wave of dizziness hits you. The room tilts, and for a brief, disorienting moment, you feel like you’re floating in space. Ah, didn’t know you could breathe in space. Wonder if you’ll win a Nobel for this discovery?

A sharp call of your name cuts through the haze, the last thing you register before the world folds around you like a delicate paper. Fading to black., and perhaps the warm arms around you are the only thing grounding you right now. The chaotic waltz has won.

Now, the great Gojo Satoru usually calls his mother for only one of two reasons - 1. His beloved ramen shop is closed, or worse - out of his favorite special spicy sauce, and 2. A dire and life-threatening emergency.

“Mama! I’ve got an emergency and no it’s not the ramen this time.”

His mother’s voice crackles through the phone, a mix of concern and amusement. “Satoru, are you sure it’s that dire? I’m at a work meeting, y’know”

Dramatically, “Of course, mama. Someone I care about is sick. Yes, I have a heart under this fabulous exterior. A real one.”

A brief pause, “Oh my lil’ Toru~ You mean you finally confessed to that student prez you’ve been swooning over for months? The one with ‘a brilliant mind like a quantum computer’ and ‘eyes like-’”

Squirming in embarrassment, “Well- not exactly, but-”

“Spill.”

“I need the recipe to our secret family chicken soup, like, urgently. It’s a life-or-death situation.”

His mother’s laughter echoes through the phone. “Life-or-death, huh? Alright, my little drama king, I’ll send it right away. But you owe me a detailed account of what's happening.”

“Deal!”

With a click, the call ends, and Satoru is left in your hallway, holding you in his arms, desperately awaiting the secret weapon - his mother’s legendary chicken soup.

In the meantime, he shifts you in his arms, steady hands carefully lifting you off the ground, cradling you to his chest. 

Face burning at the practiced way his feet carry him to your room. “Come on, sweetheart. Wake up. Don’t make me regret not calling an ambulance. Should I call an ambulance? No, chicken soup first, then maybe an ambulance. Ugh, I should've paid more attention in first aid.”

Slow, deliberate steps through the corridor. Heart dropping as his eyes catch on the mountains of scattered papers and files. Next time he passes by Gakuganji’s office he’s gonna swap the keys on that fossil’s keyboard. 

The soft click of the door closing seems too loud in the quiet room as he lays you gently on the bed. Heart clenching at the way you bury yourself mindlessly into the covers, pretty eyes still screwed shut, he mutters to himself “What am I going to do with you?”

His gaze drifts to the scattered papers on the floor, starting to gather them, creating a semblance of order amidst the chaos. Satoru glances at you, noticing the creased lines on your forehead even in your unconscious state. A pang of guilt hits him.

“Avoiding the real conversation, huh?” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. He risks a glance at your sleeping figure again, “I’m sorry, my sweetheart.”

Finishing his impromptu cleanup - and after taking maybe one picture of you all snuggled up - he gets up determinedly to make the legendary chicken soup. “I’ll make it right, prez. First, chicken soup. Then, we'll have that real conversation, no matter how scary it gets.”

You wake up to the cacophony of pots and pans, and a voice…cursing bad cooking for being genetic? The aromatic smell of chicken soup hits you - as does the cold sweat beading on your forehead.

Joints aching, you try to sit up, the room still spinning - but ever-so-slightly less than before. Recollections from earlier slowly come to you, you don’t even have to look at the figure now standing at the doorway to know who it is.

“Whoa, there, sweetheart. Lay back.”

Your weakened smile is met with a worried frown. Satoru’s gentle tone, masking his franticness, rings in your ears like a song you loved but haven’t heard in a long time. He rushes to guide you gently back onto the bed, a thumb wiping away the sweat trickling down your temple. “Soup’s on the stove. But first, let’s get you cleaned up. Is that okay?”

Before you can protest - as if you had the strength to - Satoru scampers off to your bathroom. You lay there in the deafening silence as he does. You had an image to uphold, archives to categorize, and a Satoru to distance yourself from. 

But right now, your eyes meeting his like constellations aligning in the night sky as he returns with a small basin filled with warm water, a soft cloth draped over his shoulder, you think that you wouldn’t mind falling apart for him. 

Sitting down beside you, his gaze never leaving your face, “Just relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” A tenderness in his voice matching the warmth of the damp washcloth gently dabbing your forehead.

A heavy feeling settles in your gut. You want to shy away from the fondness in those blue depths as they never leave yours. You want to block out the hushed whispers of reassurance as his fingers trail lightly across your skin, uncomfortably hot. You want to cry. 

And you don’t realize you are until Satoru’s hand stiffens, eyes widening with emotions you can’t name. 

Oh. 

Satoru has seen you strong, capable, and fiercely independent. He’s seen you turn his elaborate equation into a doodle of a ramen bowl with the caption, “Even my ramen has more substance than this theory, Satoru.”

But Satoru has never seen you like this. 

“Hey, hey, c’mon. It’s okay, prez. I’m here. I’ve got you.” Satoru whispers, as if afraid that speaking louder might shatter the fragile reality you both find yourselves in.

His words hanging in the air, and the sincerity in his eyes coax you to unravel the knot of emotions you’ve been suppressing ever since you were pushed into that damn closet with him.

“Satoru.” And it spills out. “I’m scared. And I missed you. And I’m scared that I missed you - scared of what that could mean, and scared of where this might lead. Because I missed you and you’re here.”

His brows furrow in concern, but he remains silent, urging you to continue.

“I've built walls, convinced myself that I can’t afford to be vulnerable out of fear of the unpredictable. Yet, here we are. I can’t escape it, and it terrifies me.” you confess, eyes flickering away from the intensity of his gaze as if avoiding the reality of your words.

Satoru inches his hand closer to cradle yours. “You don’t have to be scared, prez, I’m not going anywhere.” His voice a steady anchor, “Though, I was scared too. Scared that if I confronted these feelings, you’d run away. So, I waited, telling myself that I was giving you time, but honestly it was just a shitty excuse.”

His thumb caresses the back of your hand, a gentle rhythm matching the beating of your heart. “Because for all I spout about chaos and uncertainty, facing these feelings head-on is scarier than any angry Yaga.”

A fresh wave of tears - both at his admission and at that familiar attempt to lighten the humor. “You’re an idiot you know.” you sputter.

“I know.”

“And your theories on life and the universe are stupid.”

“Absolutely.”

“And your overpriced glasses make you look like the fourth blind rat from Shrek.”

“Now that’s too far, he’s a mouse, sweetheart.”

A watery chuckle as his fingers interlace with yours. Satoru leans in, his forehead resting against yours - no care in the world for how contagious you might be. Because fuck if the sickness might not be then these feelings sure were.

“You scared me, y’know.” he confesses.

“I’m sorry. I should have taken care of my-”

“Not that.” Satoru’s unspoken words echo in the small, charged space between you two.

Your heart clenches, understanding. “For that, I am sorry, too.”

Disappointment spikes your heart as he withdraws slightly, hand feeling cold at the sudden absence. But before you can question the impending doom at his mischievous glint, Satoru produces a pen from your top drawer. 

“What are you up to now, Satoru?” you drone, raising a brow at his antics.

“Just a little insurance policy.” he smirks at your confused hum, taking your left hand back in his. Pen poised over your ring finger, ink cold on your skin.

“Insurance policy against what?”

“A promise.”

A delicate infinity sign, it draws your gaze and locks it there. You almost miss the flush creeping up on Satoru’s ears, “Just a symbol, y’know- We can get an actual ring if you want, my mother is actually best friend’s with-”

The sight of him makes something bloom in your chest. It hurt. Not because of fear, but because you felt so full. 

Cutting off his rambles with your lips on his. Steady, and electric, molding together as if they were meant to fit perfectly. A lingering promise. 

When you finally pull away, he huffs out an euphoric laugh. “I was gonna say you look like you wanted to kiss me so bad, but you already did.”

Rolling your eyes, “Think if I tell you something now you can write it off as me being sick and delirious?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Satoru, I love you.”

And that’s all Satoru ever wanted to hear.

“And I love you, in every universe.”

---

The sleep that follows Satoru’s “world famous Gojo family chicken soup” - and that heavy conversation - is the best you’ve had in days. You dream of manta rays in tuxedos, the guests of honor at yours and Satoru’s Nobel prize ceremony.

And, 12 full hours later and finally clear-headed, you find yourself groggily standing in the middle of your room. Blinking in disbelief at the perfectly categorized files of archives, and the sparkling organization of your once-scattered space - Satoru, peacefully snoring at your desk, pen still tightly gripped in his hand.

He…finished all of it?

Your heart clenches, warmth flowering all over your body. 

As you approach, Satoru stirs, those familiar blue eyes slowly opening to meet yours. A dazed smile stretches across his face as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

“Got a bit carried away. Guess you really are rubbing off on me, prez.” he chuckles, his voice still laced with sleep. 

“Good then, soon your brain won’t be a black hole of theoretical abstractions.”

Eyes sparkling, he throws his head back to laugh, carefree. “There’s my girl. Feeling better now, hm?”

Your face burns at his words, and his proximity as he stands from his chair to tower over you. Heat radiating off his skin. “Yeah, all thanks to your mother’s recipe.”

“And my charm, of course.”

“Oh, yes, the begging on your knees.”

“Hey it worked, didn’t it? Don’t insult the world-renowned Gojo charm that way~!”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress a smirk. “Yes, yes of course. That world-renowned ‘Gojo charm’ strikes again. Is that why Yaga sent me a gift basket apologizing on your behalf?”

“Listen, sometimes collateral apologies are inevitable. And I learned the hard way that wishing Yaga’s lectures are as riveting as my girl when she’s threatening to drown me in clownfish tanks does not go well.”

A startled laugh escapes your lips, sound bouncing off the once-heavy walls, and you almost miss the captivated expression on Satoru’s face. A tender smile spreads across his lips.

Laughter bating, you throw your hands around his waist in one, fluid motion, relishing at his flustered expression. “We should go to the aquarium again sometime.”

“Mhm~”

A beat of silence. One. Two. 

“Satoru?”

He leans in, minty breath fanning your face. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Thank you.”

Body moving almost subconsciously, your lips crush against his. Hungry and yearning. Kissing each other with a desperation that eclipses the need for air. He didn’t mind dying if it meant suffocating by your lips anyway - both of them. 

You let out a muffled moan as he pulls on your lips, hands snaking down to grip your ass, squeezing possessively. His tongue was sloppy, intertwining with yours with matching urgency. Trapping yours between his ruby lips, sucking so lewdly. 

Large fingers bruising on your waist, pulling you flush against his body till you could feel the incessant banging of his heart against his ribcage - or maybe that was yours. 

His shirt is all but ripped off of him - as is yours, and if you were in a clearer state of mind you’d feel sad at the tattered state of your favorite Steins;Gate t-shirt. But all that flies out of your mind at the creamy skin of Satoru’s chiseled chest. 

You raise your hips to meet the throbbing erection now straining against his pants, fabric stretched and precum forming a pool right at the tip of his leaking head. A low groan is stifled into your mouth, almost as if it hurt to be apart. 

Satoru’s fingers dig into your hips, moving you to grind against his achingly hard length at a maddeningly sensual pace. Up and down, up and down, up and-

A white-hot jolt of electricity runs down to your cunt each time the prominent vein down his side catches on your covered clit, thin panties now soaked with your slick and his precum.

You almost don’t recognize the disappointed whine that leaves your lips as he pulls away, delicate strings of spit snapping.

“You drive me insane, sweetheart.” he murmurs, breathless with lust. 

“The feeling’s mutual, Satoru.”

And it was like something snapped - maybe his sanity, probably you by the end of this.

Because with a low, carnal growl, Satoru picks you up as if you weigh nothing. Seating you roughly onto your nearby desk and pinning you down. Papers scattering everywhere in the heat of the moment, rendering his earlier hard work useless. 

Satoru crowds your space, ravaging your mouth, grinding against your heated core till the only thing you can see is him, the only thing you can feel is him, the only thing you can think of-

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The friction is maddening, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

Yet, Satoru, as always, disrupts your plans. Breaking the heated kiss, he trails his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You cry out - both in pain and pleasure - as he continues his assault, digging your nails into his sculpted back.

“I won’t be the first one to cum.” he mutters into the crook of your neck as a hand roams up your thigh, deftly pulling off your shorts. You writhe beneath him as lithe fingers tease the hem of your dripping panties, relishing in the choked gasp that leaves Satoru’s mouth as your swollen lips catch on his tip.

“Oh yeah? Damn well won’t be me either.”

You’ve barely gotten the words out before he tears off your panties, pocketing this pair as well for a lonely night - though, with the way your cunt quivers at his touch, he doubts it’ll be any time soon. “Wanna bet, prez~?”

He plunges his fingers inside you with a savageness that steals your breath away. Easily finding that magical spot, thrusting inside to hit it with scary accuracy over and over. Your plush walls convulse around him, crying out his name. Ah, he missed this. 

But you weren’t gonna sit there and be one-upped. A trembling hand moves down to urgently tug down his tight boxers. Rock-hard cock springing out, glistening with precum, your favorite shade of pretty pink. It made your mouth water. 

Satoru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he feels your tight grip on his length, thumb swirling deftly under the sensitive slit. Spreading his precum along his flushed head. Torturing him. Warmth pooling at your core at the way he fucks your fist in mindless, shallow thrusts.

“Fuck. You really do drive me insane.” he groans, voice strained with desire as he keeps up the punishing pace of his fingers in your dripping cunt. Both of you unrelenting. Both of you in a fight for the other’s release.

It’s a close tie.

“Oh- oh, sweetheart I’m-” 

And Satoru spills into your hand in thick, hot spurts and pornographic moans. Your fist still pumps up and down his twitching length, milking him for all he’s worth as you tip over the edge as well, walls fluttering around his merciless fingers.

“I win.” you challenge, eyes half-lidded as you still reel from the intensity of your orgasm. Satoru’s fingers quiver inside you as he pulls out with a hiss. Pupils blown-out, the look in his eyes feral.

A slow grin spreading across his lips, words breathless and tinged with a bit of insanity that made your pussy clench, “Best out of three?”

“Always knew you were a sore loser.”

“Nah, I’d win.”

“You’re on.”

Before you know it, you’re being thrown onto the bed, bouncing at the sheer force of the throw - cut short as Satoru looms over you, pinning you down onto the mattress.

His lips graze yours with a tenderness that doesn’t translate to his hips as they grind on yours. You moan as his still-painfully hard erection throbs against your wall, head falling back in surrender as your swollen folds envelope him in his favorite heaven. Sensitive - so sensitive. 

Hands moving to your breasts, cupping them, teasing. Rolling your nipples between his deft fingers as your hips buck wildly into his. Precum and slick smearing obscenely. Faster. More desperate. Absolutely filthy. Racing towards the end.

And your voice cuts through the heady air, “W-wait, Satoru, wait. As the winner last time…” Words trailing off enticingly, a hand reaching hastily underneath your pillow. 

Oh, just when Satoru didn’t think you could surprise him any more. 

A jolt goes through his body at the thick, pink vibrator that emerges from beneath the pillow. Sleek metal catching the light, his eyes trailing up, up, up, intimidatingly large in your hands.

Eyes widening, Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat as he watches you handle it with practiced ease. Flip, switch - bzzzzz-

It rings in his ears and resonates through the room. A surprised smile stretched across his lips, despite himself. “Oh, who knew the esteemed student prez was such a little minx. Shit, sweetheart, gonna give me a heart attack.”

“You’re not the only one with lonely nights.” You nod pointedly at his pants - strewn across your bedroom floor and panties stuffed safely in his pocket. 

You bite your lower lip in a way that has probably all the blood in Satoru’s body rushing to his pulsing cock. Aching for something. Aching for you. 

Sensually, you press the buzzing toy against your clit, hips bucking at the immediate and intense stimulation. A jolt of pleasure making you gasp.

Satoru watches, spellbound, as you writhe beneath him - eyes locked so dangerously with his. He can see the slick beading at your folds, pooling onto your bed sheets. 

Impulsively, he reaches out, wrapping a large hand around yours, guiding it to your dripping hole. “Now…” your eyes light up in excitement at his predatory tone. “That’s just playing dirty, prez. I might just cream myself.”

Agonizingly slow, Satoru eases the vibrator inside you, walls clamping down so deliciously. A clever hand draws tight, little circles on your throbbing clit. 

You arch off the bed at the sensation and the stretch - full. So full. Full and so in heaven.

A fresh wave of slick coating the already-glistening metal, Satoru begins to fuck the toy into you, matching the rhythm of the vibrations. Relentless, he was absolutely relentless. Base meeting your swollen lips, tip kissing your cervix. 

It drives you insane. He drives you insane. 

“Fu-fuck Satoru-” Breathing ragged, tears pricking your eyes at the sensitivity, it only takes one two three more thrusts of the vibrator stuffing your cunt before you’re cumming with a loud cry of Satoru’s name, till you see stars behind your eyes. 

“Ah, I’m so glad we made it to the bed this time.” 

“Idiot.”

“Love you too~” Satoru continues to fuck into you mercilessly with it over and over, drawing out your high until you’re left limp and boneless beneath him. The only thing you can do being to take it.

As the shocks of electricity in your body fade, Satoru carefully removes the vibrator. You whimper at the sudden emptiness.

“Round 2 goes to me.” smugness evident in his words, slightly muffled by your lips.

“Shut up and kiss me. It’s the tie-breaker.”

His lips capture yours in a deep kiss. You can taste the salt of your sweat on his lips, and the desperation of the moment. It’s intoxicating. More addictive than any drug in the world. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him against your body - sticky with sweat and cum - till you can feel his rock-hard cock once more. Eager and aching for you. Teasing your folds with his leaking tip, readily spreading for him.

Finally, after what feels like hours - maybe even weeks - of buildup, he sheaths himself in your snug cunt the way you’d been dying for these lonely nights with just your vibrator. And with the way Satoru lets out a low, desperate moan - head thrown back - you think he might share the sentiment.

“God. Hah- Ah you look so beautiful under me, sweetheart. Hngh- wouldn’t get used to this in my lifetime.”

“Then hngh- find me in the n-next.”

He presses in slowly, languidly - a sensuality that envelopes you and makes you keen at the stretch. Finally bottoming out, he savors the heavenly feeling of being completely inside you. You really were heaven on Earth. 

Pulling back, prominent veins grazing that spot just right, he rams back into you with purpose. Savoring you. Torturing you. “Satoru oh- f-fuck me like you hah- mean it goddamit.”

But it’s not long before the great Gojo Satoru loses his handle on himself. Maybe it was the tears clinging to your lashes. Maybe it was the way your legs wrap so tightly around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust. Or maybe it was the fucked-out whines of his name spilling from your mouth.

Because he’s fucking into you desperately. Feral, deliberate strokes that make you ass sting at the smack of his heavy balls. The harsh slapping of skin on skin echoing in your heady bedroom at his unforgiving cadence.

The air charged so tensely that you could barely breath - or maybe that was the way Satoru’s furious tip kissing your cervix over and over knocked the air out of your lungs. Every nerve ending in your body felt alight with white-hot pleasure, electrifying you from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head - filled only with Satoru Satoru Satoru-

Vision blurry, head dazed so lustfully, you barely notice the way Satoru reaches down between you, his fingers familiarly finding your clit to rub harsh circles on it in time with his thrusts. It’s too much. Ah, you were going to pass out.

Instead, you cum - all over his twitching cock. The sensation almost too much as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. Especially when your walls clamp down, milking his cock so sinfully as Satoru spills into your snug cunt.

Balls tightening as he thrusts thick ropes of seed into your dripping pussy, your juices mixing with his as he thrusts animalistically into you, fucking it deeper and deeper. Decorating your plush walls white, cum spilling out of your sloppy hole as it overflows. 

Flashes of light behind his eyes at the sensitivity - pain, pleasure, yearning all melting into one, gooey mess that mirrored his heart right now. Desperate calls of your name leaving his lips like a prayer. Because maybe you were his salvation.

With a moan of pure ecstasy at the feeling of being so full you think you’d explode, you pull Satoru to you, nails dragging down his shoulder and every part of you wrapped around him so impossibly tight. As if you never wanted to let go - and you didn’t.

You don’t, even as you both gasp for air - and sanity. Even as he collapses his sweaty body onto yours, careful to not crush you with his weight. And you especially don’t let go as those dazed eyes bore into yours, a tender moment in the weighty silence. 

Because right now, no words were needed.

“I love you.”

“And, I love you. In every universe.”

Except maybe those. 

It’s only once reality is setting in, exhausted and intertwined so tenderly in his arms, that a sense of familiarity permeates the heavy air. 

“I win.”

An agitating, grating voice that you loved so much.

You let out a dragged out groan, rolling your eyes. “That’s only because I went easy on you.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’d love to prove you wrong, sweetheart, but I think my dick is out of commission for the next week at least.”

A sharp bark of laughter startles its way out of your lips as he bounces you two on the mattress, laying on his stomach and swinging his feet as if he was at some slumber party.

“Soooo~ Now that we’re finally dating, I can finally stop holding back on the quantum entanglement puns, I’ve got a list on my Notes app that-”

“I’m gonna entangle your face with my fist.”

“Jokes on you I’m into that.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“But you love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

---

Gojo Satoru likes to think he’s hilarious. A real connoisseur of the fine art of comedy. The fifth member of Impractical Jokers. 

So, of course, he had to barge into the hell that was his new 8am class with style. Bursting in through the swinging doors, imaginary cape flowing in the wind. Sue him, so what if he’s an attention-whore?! 

His bright gaze sweeps over all the students barely keeping their eyes open, before finally landing on you - on the edge of your seat, brows furrowed so adorably and eagerly drinking in every word Yaga droned on about. Who the hell found advanced quantum physics that riveting?

Intrigue piquing as he makes a beeline to you, Satoru’s heart lurches at that weird little part of him that wishes your attentive gaze was on him instead. Strange. 

Sliding into the empty seat beside you, of course he immediately turns on his world-renowned Gojo charm. You’ll be putty in his hands in no time~!

“Any closer to Yaga and you’d be fucking his wife, y’know.” 

“...”

Okay, maybe that didn’t come out as suave as he expected, but damn, not even a giggle?

You couldn’t blame the guy for getting nervous in front of a pretty girl! Nor could you really blame him for plowing on despite that - not after the jolt of electricity that ran through his body the second your irritated eyes met his. 

Oh wow. So that’s what it’s like to have your soul pierced and buried six feet under.

It was sort of addicting.

And if Satoru thought his knees were weak at just a glare from you - well, he was not ready for the way you snapped at him and told him to shut the fuck up. Ah, truly a woman of his dreams. 

Not even half an hour into the lecture and if you asked Satoru to recall a word spoken by Yaga then he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The words went in one ear and he couldn’t even remember if it went out the next - too focused on getting your attention on him at least once more. 

He just wished you’d look at him - let him see all the shades of your eyes, and the exact degree at which your lip curls in annoyance. What would that smart mouth say to him next? 

“Now, would anyone here be able to discuss the interpretations in the debate between the Copenhagen interpretation and the Pilot-Wave theory?”

Which is why he positively jumped at the chance to show off his academic prowess to you. Only to find…you teetering on the edge of your seat as well? 

Your voice is even, a fiery glint in your eyes. He’s entranced. 

“The Copenhagen Interpretation uses Heisenberg's uncertainty principle and emphasizes measurement to state that quantum-level particles can act as both waves and particles. It’s the most widely accepted and pragmatic theory.”

Oh. This was going to be interesting.

Heart banging against his ribcage, voice slightly shaky, “Not to be the devil’s advocate but the Pilot-Wave theory makes way more sense practically.”

Thus, Gojo Satoru, in his failed attempts to flirt, starts a rivalry with you that shakes the entire physics department - and his heart. 

He was sure if he told Shoko and Suguru the real reason why he was suddenly spending hours poring over his physics textbooks then they’d definitely laugh their asses off - after giving him a good smack for being so ridiculous. 

It’s not that he didn’t like being on the receiving ends of your snarky remarks and death stares - but it’s just that he also wishes you’d kiss him silly while you do it. God, for someone voted campus hottie three times in a row, why was it so hard to just ask you out?

Which is why, seeing you being dragged into their little circle at that off-brand frat party, he thinks - ah, this might just be fate. 

Silently thanking Shoko for her accidental wingmanning, Satoru watches in amusement as you reluctantly scribble your name on that crumpled piece of paper. And if he slipped in a couple extra with his name on it, well, he was only glad you were too busy cursing his entire bloodline out to catch him.

The smell of cheap beer filling his senses, strobe lights matching the banging of his heart against his chest. Even if he did cheat at the game a little, Satoru didn’t think he’d end the night with your soaked panties burning a hole in his pocket - and the whisper of your lips on his searing even more. He was dazed. 

Was that…a dream? 

It must be, right? There’s no way the gorgeous student prez who hates his guts would suddenly be in the same proximity as him - let alone let him tonguefuck you into insanity. 

You tasted so sweet.

Yeah, must’ve been some hallucination. 

Months later, your soft grumbles in his ear, and your hand warm in his, swinging playfully between you two in the buzzing aquarium - a part of Satoru still thinks he’s hallucinating.

“Slow down, Satoru! The fish aren’t going anywhere.” you huff as he flits excitedly from tank to tank, eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store. Yet, you couldn't help the beginnings of a smile curling at the corners of your lips at his childlike excitement.

“Can’t! I couldn’t show you this last time, even a hardass like you’d love it.” 

Whatever retort on the tip of your tongue is cut off by the breathtaking sight before you.

A grandiose tank - a kaleidoscope of an underwater world that stretched beyond your field of vision. Hues of blues and greens glimmering before you. Marine life you wouldn’t be able to name - no matter how many hours of watching NatGeo - in an ethereal dance across the water.

“Last time we were here we talked about multiverses. I know now, I hope that in every universe, we’ll be here together. Standing side by side, watching the deep blue and arguing about physics.”

Eyes widening at the beauty - and his words - you turn to Satoru, only to see his piercing gaze already on you. Satisfied grin bathed in a soft blue light from the tank, his twinkling eyes reflecting you and the lights and you. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

“See? Didn’t I tell you you’d love it? I’m always so great at these thi-”

You shut up that big mouth - with your lips on his. 

Tender and weighty - as if you two had all the time in the world. And, your hands electric under Satoru’s touch, cold metal of the infinity sign searing into your ring finger - you think you probably do. Because Satoru’s tastes like candied apples and everything you could ever want. A promise.

“T-told you I was irresistible.” 

Confident words, muffled by your lips. You pull away with a disbelieving huff of laughter, and you’re glad you did - because you catch a glimpse of the nervous twinkle in his eyes and the flushed cheeks betraying him.

“You wish.” you chuckle, brushing your fingers over his cloudy white locks. That familiar, easy grin tugs on the corners of your heart, and for a moment - just this moment - it feels like just the two of you in this bustling aquarium. In this uncertain world.

“Sure do.” he whispers, as if a secret - meant for just the two of you. 

“Now, my prez, wanna go to our little booth at the café and debate the Copenhagen interpretation and the Pilot-Wave theory?”

A/N. Can you tell the title was inspired by Go For It, Nakamura?

Also so sorry for posting only sporadically this week, for some reason my posts refuse to show up under any tags and as a creator that’s really discouraging. But here’s to next week being better hopefully!

Plagiarism not authorized. 

Taglist:

@bbyxxm @maskedpacific @mrs--imperfect @dunixxd @scarammouch

[criminalamnesia]

simon’s been having dreams since you left.

horrendous, sickeningly sweet dreams, all of you. it’s always you. reminding him of something he’s not sure he ever really had— something like a mirage, there one minute and gone the next.

but you’d been gone for a while, really. since you’d woken up in that infirmary bed, hatred and terror in your eyes every time you looked at him.

perhaps it’s been longer than— probably since they had you in that damn chair. maybe even before, when whispers of a traitor slipped into their minds and dug its claws in. all signs pointing to you.

most of the dreams start like this:

he wakes to the sound of birdsong. sweet little chirps that sound just outside the window you insist be left open during the springtime.

he’d conceded, not daring to tell you no. it was always yes with you, which surprised him. yes, nonetheless.

he gives a soft groan as his eyes begin to crack open. you’re curled into him, your head resting atop his inked arm. the limb is completely numb, but he doesn’t dare to move it. he’s content to lay here and watch you, because this is when he feels he truly has you.

(but it’s a dream, he realizes when he wakes. and he thinks he never really had you— a destination he desired but never reached. he doesn’t have you anymore, and he never will again.)

the fragrant smell of your favorite flowers, which fill the flower beds surrounding the little blue cottage, wafts in through the window. vibrant pinks and yellows that came after days of hard labor— simon planting each little seed and tending to it until it blossomed. he refused to let you help. said it was his gift to you.

a token of his love.

(even though you’ve long since gone from the little blue cottage, he still labors over those flowers every growing season. a gift to you, that you’d never see the longevity of. that you’d never known was a labor of love.)

(he hated that the first time you’d laid eyes on the cottage, he hadn’t been with you. that you’d been forced to go there— that they (he) had forced you out.)

you curl deeper into his side, your hair tickling his arm. he watches you sleep, your eyelids fluttering as you dream. he can tell it’s a good one by the way your nose twitches and a grin spreads across your lips.

(too often, he wakes to your screams of terror. the screams you had loosed under his tortuous hand. no longer are the nightmares that plague you ones of the perils of your job. now, they’re memories of what he’s done.)

(he wonders if you still wake up screaming. he wonders if you wish he was there to calm you back to sleep, like he’d done countless times before.)

(he wonders if he is what you see in your nightmares now.)

he shifts his body slightly. you stir, eyes still tightly shut as sunlight beams through the airy sage green curtains. again, he couldn’t say no to you.

especially when you had given him the reason behind them. “I want to spend every minute together. just us. every moment out of service, I want.”

it was always yes with you.

“good morning, si,” you grumble, voice still thick from sleep.

“did I wake you?” he whispers, lips pressing to the hair atop your head.

“birdsong outside did,” you reply, a yawn splitting your mouth wide. his free hand finds your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

“told ya we should shut the window, love.”

it’s here when things start to differ.

in the good dreams, you look up at him with a grin. the pair of you spend the next hour in bed, drifting in and out of sleep and whispering mundane thoughts to each other. him holding you tightly, swearing he can feel your warmth next to him even when he inevitably wakes.

the bad dreams are more common.

when you look up at him, he sees one of two faces. the first face looks at him with the same expression you’d had back in price’s office, before you had slammed a fist into his jaw.

it’s heartbroken and it’s tired. it’s hateful and scared and ashamed.

(he still thinks it’s beautiful.)

the second face is battered and beaten and bruised. it’s the face you’d worn when in the chair, tortured by his hand. swollen and discolored. bloody. broken.

but most of all, it’s betrayed.

and that jolts him awake. but he doesn’t mind the bad dreams. doesn’t mind any dreams, now.

because they’re always about you. about his greatest failure, his greatest love. he sleeps so he can see you because it’s all he gets now.

he doesn’t know where you went after the cottage, none of them do. you wanted it that way. he wouldn’t dare seek you out. he owed you that much.

so he sleeps.

and he dreams of you.

here’s a little drabble about simon after reader leaves at the end of traitor. definitely inspired by ‘sailor song’. hope you all enjoy :)

p.s. I hate tumblr bc I had written this and tried to save it and the app crashed. so this is my poor attempt of recreating a work I was proud of :(

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

[grayandthyme]

what the quiet hides | oneshot

masterlist

jackson!joel miller x f!reader synopsis: Joel struggles to readjust to life in Jackson—a quiet life untouched by the constant specter of death that once followed him. Learning to live as someone who's no longer a killer is no easy thing. When does a monster cease to be a monster? Simply put, when you love it.

author blabble: you know him, you know the terror he's caused, the lives he's taken. hell, you probably encouraged some of it. you aren't someone random. you're important—important enough that he keeps you an arms length away. I like writing the reader as someone who is just plain tired. you want to love, but you're also exhausted from the hell you've been through—and joel can be a frustrating man. you love him, definitely, but at the end of the day you're tired of the wall he's forcing you behind. anywayzzzz warnings/tags: heavy fluff, angst, sexual suggestions, implied intercourse, semi-established relationship, reader is downbad for joel, he's traumatized ofc, lots of dialogue, you play with his hair, something about domestic reader and joel makes me start crying andshitting at the same time

w/c 10.2k

“You have to talk to him,” Tommy says, low and slow, teeth grazing his bottom lip like the thought’s gutting at him. At this point, it’s less a suggestion and more a quiet plea. His fingers twitch against the warm surface of his coffee mug—white, plain. Trembling just slightly. Nervous energy in every motion.

“I don’t know who you think I am to him,” you say, the words scraping out of your throat like sandpaper. You inhale sharp and dry, coffee clinging to the back of your tongue like a ghost. “Whatever he’s doing, whatever he’s not saying—that’s on him. That silence? It’s his choice.”

“Maria’s on my ass—” he starts, but you cut him off before the rest can tumble out.

“I know how she feels about him, Tommy. I know how the whole damn town feels about him.” The words spill out hot, too fast, like you’ve been holding them in too long and they’re finally clawing their way free. “But I can’t just—fix it. He hasn’t said a word to me since we got here. Hell, I don’t even live with them.”

You pause, breath shaky, eyes fixed on anything that isn’t him.

“I traveled across the goddamn country with him—and Ellie,” you say, softer now, voice rough at the edges. “And this is where we ended up. Right here. Barely a word between us.”

The silence that follows chews at your throat. You try to swallow it, try to make it into something cleaner. Something that hurts less.

“You’ve known your brother a hell of a lot longer than I have,” you say, voice low, frayed at the edges. You drag a tired hand down your face, like maybe the weight behind your eyes will go with it. It doesn’t. Your fingers find the mug again, still warm, still useless.

“So, why don’t you tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do?”

The words hang there—sharp, bitter, hollow in the way grief is hollow. You’re not angry at Tommy. Not really. But the question is more than a plea; it’s an admission. You're out of road. Out of maps. And out of whatever thread was holding all this together. Before there was a plan, a mission. Now? Nothing. It's all freewill.

Tommy doesn’t speak right away. Just stares, jaw tight, like he’s weighing the truth against the damage it’ll cause.

“I think…” he starts, then trails off, eyes dropping to the mug in his hands like maybe it’ll give him courage. “I think he’s scared. And Joel… don’t know how to talk when he’s scared.”

You scoff, dry. “Yeah, well. I don’t know how to wait around for someone who won’t even look at me.”

Tommy doesn’t rise to meet your frustration. He lets it pass, steady and silent. He understands—probably better than anyone ever could. He shared blood, breath, and a womb with that man. But more than that, he sees the truth for what it is. Sees it clearer than you’re ready to admit. Two people, equally wrecked, equally stubborn, and completely in love. It’s written all over both your faces, even when you won’t look at each other.

A few heartbeats drag by in silence. Heavy ones. Worried ones.

“Have you talked to Ellie?” he asks finally. Not so much a question as a sideways shuffle—dodging the heat of your words, giving himself something safe to stand on.

“Every day,” you reply, with a tired breath. Your fingers tap out some nervous rhythm against the table, soft and restless. “She drops by. Talks shit. Makes me laugh.”

You pause. The next part stings, but it’s true, and you owe the truth to Tommy, even if it’s ugly.

“She makes jokes, too. About Joel and I—says we’re professionals at pretending the other one doesn’t exist.”

A humorless chuckle slips out before you can stop it. “She’s not wrong.”

Tommy doesn’t smile. He just looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say the one thing that matters most. The thing you keep dancing around like broken glass on a kitchen floor.

“I think she gets on him about socializing,” you mutter, words slipping out like they’re trying to escape your throat before your heart can catch up. “Hell, I know she does.”

And still, he doesn’t come around.

The confession comes quiet, bitter, reluctant.

Truth is—you miss him. God, you miss him more than you’d ever admit out loud.

You miss the almost-smiles, those fleeting little ghosts of warmth he used to give when no one else was looking. You miss the gravity of him—how the air changed when he was near, how the silence always seemed heavier, fuller. You miss the scent of coffee on his skin, like he carried the morning with him wherever he went.

You miss the way his eyes found you in a room like they were built for it. Always watching. Always knowing. Seeing right through you without ever asking too much.

You miss that laugh—barely a breath, a half-hearted exhale that said more than words ever could. You used to live for that sound. Now it’s just an echo in your skull.

And those eyes. God, those deep, forest-dark eyes. Like dusk caught in human form. The kind that made you feel seen. The kind that burned. The kind that made you want to stay.

You drag your fingers across your mug again, fingertips numb from the cold now. You’re not even drinking the coffee. Just holding onto it like it might hold you back.

“Tommy, I—” you start, voice catching on the edge of something you’re not sure you want to say. “I don’t want to look desperate. I don’t want to seem like I need him. Knowing damn well he doesn’t need anyone, not really.” You swallow, trying to shake the weight off, but it’s there. Always there.

A long, suffocating beat of silence stretches between you.

And then, quieter, as if saying it aloud makes it more real: “I don’t want to… get hurt.”

The words hang in the air, brittle with honesty, and they taste bitter on your tongue. The weight of them presses down on your chest like something you’ve been carrying too long, but never dared to unpack.

Tommy doesn’t rush to answer. He leans back in his chair, hands resting on his knees, his eyes searching your face like he’s weighing something heavy. He knows this—he’s been here before, watching people break without ever meaning to.

“Hell,” he says, voice quiet but firm, like he’s been carrying this truth for a long time and it’s finally time to share it. “You’re not the only one scared of gettin’ hurt. We all are. Joel, me, you, Ellie…” His gaze softens just a fraction, the edges of his expression sharpening with something that feels like regret. “We all keep our walls up, ‘cause it’s easier than lettin’ someone in and watchin’ ‘em leave. Easier than lettin’ them hurt you.”

A pause, long and measured, before his eyes flick to the empty space between you both.

“But you know what, kid? You can’t keep livin’ like that. You can’t keep waiting for the hurt to come before you decide to feel anything. ‘Cause it’ll eat you alive, piece by piece.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice softer now, a little more worn. “You can’t fight what’s real. Not forever.”

You laugh—more of a bitter chide than anything else. The sound of it barely even feels like yours.

“What, you think your brother loves me?” Your eyes lock with Tommy’s, deadpan and heavy with a kind of dark amusement, though the smile you offer is anything but genuine. It’s a fragile thing, a mask you slip on just to hide the ache beneath.

Tommy’s expression hardens at your words. For a moment, there’s a sharp edge to his gaze—something that goes beyond the casual brotherly concern. It’s raw, almost desperate, like he’s reaching through the layers of sarcasm and deflection, trying to make you see the truth.

“You think I don’t see what’s goin’ on here?” His voice drops, low and urgent, as if every word matters too much to waste. “I’ve only watched you two—hell, for a few months, tops—and I see it. The way you look at him. The way he looks at you.” He shakes his head, frustration in his tone. “But neither of you want to admit it. Both of you too goddamn stubborn to let the walls down.”

Tommy leans in, eyes locked on yours, a kind of plea in them that cuts through the sarcasm.

“Look, I know my brother,” he says, his voice strained with a rawness you don’t often hear from him. “He’s broken. But goddamn, he cares about you. He wouldn’t let himself care, but he does. And you—” He pauses, “You’re no better. I know you’re scared of getting hurt. Hell, I get it. But if you don’t stop pushin’ him away, you’ll lose him before you even get the chance.”

You'll lose him before you even get the chance.

A beat of silence hangs in the air. His voice softens, almost pleading.

“I want this for you both. I want you to make it work.” He exhales sharply, like the weight of it all is finally catching up. “But you’re gonna have to stop running, or you’ll end up with nothin’ but regret.”

You're gonna have to stop running. You'll end up with nothin' but regret.

You shift uncomfortably in the diner booth, your eyes drifting over the busy room, lingering on the Tipsy Bison—a familiar chaos of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses. It's louder than usual today, the air thick with chatter and the smell of fried food. You don’t even register it, though. Your mind’s elsewhere, caught in a storm of what-ifs.

“It’s complicated, Tommy…” you start again, voice hesitant, like you're not sure if the words will come out right—or even if you want them to. “What if Ellie doesn’t want us together? What if—”

Your throat tightens, and you break off. There’s a lump there, one you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Ellie. She's a part of this too, in ways you can't ignore, in ways that make the whole thing feel like walking on glass. You can’t just pull Joel out of the wreckage of his past without considering her, without wondering if you’re tearing apart something she holds together.

Shit, maybe you're making excuses at this point.

“I don’t want to make things harder for her, or him,” you mutter under your breath, eyes flicking back to Tommy’s. But even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. It doesn’t feel like you’re talking to him anymore, but to the fear inside you.

Tommy’s gaze hardens, but there’s something in his eyes—an understanding, mixed with the frustration of seeing you wrestle with the same doubts he’s been carrying for a while now. He leans forward, hands pressing into the table as he speaks, voice low but firm.

“Ellie’s not gonna stop you from doing what you feel is right,” he says, the words carrying a heaviness that suggests he’s had this conversation with himself a thousand times. “She’s smart. She knows what’s goin’ on between you two. Hell, she probably sees it clearer than either of you do.” He exhales sharply, “And if you think for one second that you’re doin’ her any favors by staying away, you’re wrong.”

He pauses, staring at you with a kind of raw honesty you don’t often get from him. “Ellie’s already lost enough people in her life. She knows the damage of keepin’ people at arm's length. And I think she wants you and Joel to make it work. She wants him to stop runnin’. But you—” Tommy leans in closer, voice growing softer, more insistent. “You gotta stop runnin’, too. The both of you are too goddamn old, and scared of gettin’ hurt to even take a chance on what could be good.”

He pulls back, letting his words hang in the air, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. “If you’re waitin’ for things to be perfect before you let your guard down, you’re gonna be waitin’ forever. And by then… it’ll be too late.”

Christ.

You exhale—deep, shaky. The kind that comes from somewhere buried, where you've been holding it all too tight for too long. Your forehead drops into your hands, elbows on the table, the weight of everything finally pressing down.

“You gotta stop clocking me like this, Tommy,” you mumble through your fingers, voice muffled, worn thin with exhaustion. There's no bite to it—just a hollow kind of resignation. The truth hurts worse when someone else says it out loud.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The noise of the Tipsy Bison hums around you, distant, like you’re underwater.

Tommy leans back, arms folded, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter—gentler.

“I’m not tryin’ to call you out. I’m just tired of watchin’ two good people pretend they don’t want the same damn thing.”

“Fine.” You say it like a weight’s being dragged out of your chest. Your eyes flick up from the mug, settling on Tommy—guarded, but less so than before. “I’ll try.”

The words taste strange coming out, like they don’t quite belong to you yet. But they’re real. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, the wall you’ve been holding up cracks just a little.

You lean back in the booth, staring past Tommy now, past the crowd, into the blurry space where you let yourself imagine something different—something softer.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna say to him,” you admit. “But I’ll try. If he still wants to hear it.”

. . .

It’s later now. The sun’s long gone, buried beneath the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of deep blue and silver. The moon hangs heavy above Jackson, casting a soft, almost mocking glow over the dirt roads and still porches. The air’s thick—hot in that suffocating way that clings to your skin. You tug at your shirt, the fabric damp and stubborn where it sticks to you, like even it doesn’t want to let go.

Joel’s house stands quiet in front of you. Still. Heavy. That same heavy stillness he wears like armor. He's intimidating. Fuck, even his house is.

You stare at the door like it might lunge at you. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to turn around. To walk back home. To pretend like this never happened. But your feet don’t move.

You can’t run anymore. Not from this.

Your hand rises before you even realize it—slow, shaking just enough to betray you—and you knock.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Each one lands like a heartbeat, louder in your chest than it is in the air. And then nothing. Just silence pressing down on you like a second skin.

You swallow hard, already halfway regretting it—but it’s too late now. You’re here.

And he knows it.

You wait, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat, like your body can’t quite decide whether to brace for impact or run. The seconds stretch—long and hollow—and just when you’re about to turn away, the door creaks open.

But it’s not him.

It’s Ellie.

You blink, your posture faltering ever so slightly. She’s standing there barefoot, hoodie slung half-off one shoulder, a brow raised like she’s been expecting something, just not you.

“Oh—” you exhale, breath slipping out in a sigh you didn’t mean to let go. “El, hey.”

Ellie leans on the doorframe, chewing the inside of her cheek for a second, eyes scanning your face like she’s reading a book she’s already halfway through.

“Hey,” she says, casually enough, but there's something knowing behind her tone. “Tommy send you?"

You glance past her, instinctively, but don’t see him. Just low light and a half-finished glass of water on the table inside.

“Is he here?” you ask, softer than you meant to.

Ellie nods, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Yeah. He’s in his room. Pretending he’s not listening.”

She steps aside, wide enough for you to enter, then adds, dry as ever, “Try not to break anything, yeah?”

“Yeah, ’boutta wreck your house,” you tease, giving her a gentle nudge with your shoulder.

Ellie snorts, but her smirk is soft. “Figured. Thanks for the warning.”

You step just inside the doorway, letting the air of the house settle around you—familiar and heavy all at once. The door clicks shut behind you, but it still feels like the world’s wide open, pressing against your back.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, the words leaving your mouth on an exhale like they’ve been sitting in your lungs for weeks. Maybe longer.

Ellie’s smirk fades, and her eyes meet yours, more serious now—older, somehow. “I know,” she says, simple, sincere. “Me too.”

You nod, pressing your lips together to keep the ache at bay. “I know things have been… weird.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, shrugging one shoulder, “Weirds definitely the word.” Then she looks at you again, more gently this time. “But it doesn’t mean they’re broken.”

A silence passes between you, one that feels less awkward and more like mutual understanding. She takes a step back toward the hallway and jerks her chin toward Joel’s room.

“He’s not gonna bite,” she says, almost teasing—almost. “Probably.”

You stand there, staring down the hallway like it’s the mouth of hell itself—dark, quiet, unforgiving.

“Well,” you mutter, squaring your shoulders with mock solemnity, “just so you know… you’re in my will.��

Ellie quirks a brow, arms crossed, already bracing for the punchline.

“And if I don’t come back from this,” you go on, dramatic, waving a hand toward the hallway like you’re heading into battle, “I want you to have my jacket. The one with the fleece inline."

Ellie scoffs. “Wow. Generous.”

“Also, my stash of knitting spools. And—” you glance over your shoulder, dead serious for a beat, “—burn my journal. Don’t read it. I mean it.”

Ellie’s laughter finally breaks through, light but real. “You’re such a dork.”

You flash her a shaky smile, one that barely masks the pounding in your chest. But it’s enough to steady your feet. Enough to take the first step down the hallway.

“Yeahhh,” you breathe, voice low now. “… You're my dork.”

And then you're moving—one slow, inevitable step at a time toward his door.

You take those few agonizing steps toward his door, each one louder in your ears than they should be. The hallway feels longer than it is, stretched by nerves and silence, the soft creak of the floorboards underfoot like a countdown.

You stop in front of the door—his door—and for a second, you just stand there. Your hand lifts before you can talk yourself out of it. A soft knock. Barely audible.

Your voice follows, thinner than you meant. “Joel…?”

Silence.

Then something shifts behind the door. A quiet sound—maybe the creak of floorboards, maybe just your own heartbeat in your ears. The air feels too still, like the house itself is holding its breath.

You swallow. Everything in you feels crooked, like you’ve walked into the middle of something fragile and sacred and utterly unknown. Your knuckles hover near the door again, but you don't knock a second time.

Instead, you speak—awkwardly, gently. “It’s… just me.”

Still nothing. But you know he’s there.

Because that silence? That’s Joel’s kind of silence. The kind packed with meaning. The kind that makes you want to run and stay all at once.

“I guess you could say… Tommy got to me.” You offer it like a half-joke, your voice barely carrying through the door, but it’s all you’ve got. “Wouldn’t shut up, really.”

Nothing yet. Not a sound. But you keep going, because if you stop now, you won’t start again.

“I wanted to talk about… things.” The words stumble out in a rush, awkward and unpolished. You wince the moment they leave your mouth, like you already hate how vague they sound. “About us. About what happened. About what… didn’t happen.”

You let out a shaky breath, one hand ghosting against the doorframe.

“I don’t even know if you want to hear it. Maybe you don’t. I wouldn’t blame you. But I… I’ve been carrying it. All of it. And it’s getting heavy, Joel.”

There’s a quiet inside that doesn’t feel empty—it feels held. Like someone’s standing just beyond the door, rooted in place. Listening.

You lean your forehead against the door, lowering your voice like a secret. “I miss you. Even when you’re right in the same room, I still miss you.”

“I know things have been awkward since we came back… since Salt Lake City.”

The words slip out, slow and uneven, like they’ve been stuck in your throat for months.

“I’ve thought it over a million times in my head,” you admit, your voice softening, fraying at the edges. “What I could’ve done. What I should’ve said. If I made you upset, angry… shit, happy.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter and breathless. “I don’t know. You never told me.”

There’s still nothing from the other side of the door. But you don’t stop. Can’t.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” you whisper. “This thing between us. This silence. I want us to be whatever we were before.”

You pause, your hand resting on the wood like it might anchor you. “Friends?” you offer, the word clumsy on your tongue, too small for what you really mean. “I don’t know.”

And it’s the truth. You don’t. All you know is the ache in your chest and the ghost of what you had—whatever it was—flickering in every quiet second he doesn't speak.

“But I’d rather fumble through it with you… than keep pretending I don’t care.”

You pause, chest rising, falling. Waiting.

The silence is thick—almost suffocating now. Like the walls are leaning in, like the air is pressing too close.

And you know.

You know it deep in your gut, in the stillness that follows your words like a cold wind after a flame.

He won’t talk to you.

He’s not going to.

Maybe he never was.

You pull your hand back from the door like it burned you. Your fingers curl into your palm, like they’re trying to hold something that’s already slipping through.

Your throat tightens, and you bite down on the lump rising there, hard enough to hurt. It’s all unraveling now—the hope, the effort, the trembling truth of how much you wanted this to go differently.

But it didn’t.

And maybe it never would.

You hear it before you see him—a deep, guttural clearing of his throat. The kind of sound that carries years of whiskey and smoke, rough around the edges, just as familiar as the gravel in his voice.

You freeze.

And then you turn—slow, too slow, as if your body can't quite catch up to the pounding in your chest.

Your eyes fall first to a chest too broad, just a little too close. The worn fabric of his shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

But it’s when your gaze rises—slowly, reluctantly—that the air hits you like a punch.

It’s him.

Standing there.

You blink, the words coming out softer than you meant, almost lost in the rush of your heartbeat. “Oh.”

The stupid thing is, you thought he’d been in his room, behind that door. You thought he was keeping his distance.

He was never in his room. He was right fucking behind you.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the thick air. Your fingers curl into fists, but you don’t look away. Not now. Not when you’ve come this far.

“I had… a lot to say to that door… in case you couldn’t tell,” you say, your voice smooth, confident—maybe even a little too sassy. But it's a mask. And for once, you're not hiding behind it.

Joel's eyes flicker, dark and unreadable, like he's weighing the space between the two of you. His jaw tightens, and there's a flicker of something in his gaze—a mixture of anger, sorrow, and something softer, something dangerous. He steps forward, closing the gap between you, but not too much. Just enough to remind you he’s there, that he's always there. Even when you don’t see him.

“You talk to doors often, now?” His voice is rough, like it’s been sitting under layers of dust and regret.

You shrug, trying to keep the snark, the bravado, up even though it’s crumbling under the weight of his stare. "I thought I’d give it a shot. Guess it didn't work."

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like the whole world’s suddenly too damn heavy. Because it is. Your presence alone is heavy. His shoulders are stiff, tense, like he’s holding back an ocean of things he doesn’t want to say—or maybe things he’s too terrified to admit.

“You don't know what you're asking for,” he mutters, voice low, gravel rough. "You think you do, but you don’t."

Your heart kicks in your chest, but you don’t flinch. “I think I just want you to talk to me.”

Joel's eyes narrow, his chest rising with a deep breath. You see it—the way his gaze flickers toward the floor, the way his hands twitch like he’s holding himself back from doing something he’ll regret. “You don’t know what it’s like. What I’ve done. Who I am. I—” He pauses, shaking his head like the words won’t leave him, even though they’re clawing at his throat. "I'm not the man you think I am."

You take a step forward, closer, but just enough to show him you’re not afraid. You’re not backing down this time. “I don’t think you're a damn saint, Joel. I know that. I've seen that.” Your voice softens, just a fraction. "But I don’t care about that. I care about you. And I want to fix this. Whatever this is."

Joel’s eyes flick to you—deep, tortured—and for a second, just a second, you see it: the war inside him, the cracks that he’s been trying to keep sealed. His lips press tight, and you can almost feel the weight of his self-loathing hanging between you like a wall too thick to break through.

“You don’t know what I could do to you.” His voice is raw now, quieter. Dangerous. "I ain't good for you."

You shake your head, every bit of your soul pushing back. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

The silence settles between you again, thick and heavy, but you don’t look away. Not this time. Not when you’re finally here, finally saying it. Whatever happens next—whatever he says, whatever he does—you’ll face it. You’ll face him.

“What do you think you’re going to do to me, Joel?” You exhale sharply, feeling the anger bubble in your gut, each word sharp as glass. “Break my heart? Shit! You’re halfway fuckin’ there!”

The words leave you faster than you can control them, a slip of frustration, of everything you've been bottling up for far too long. You hope it doesn’t come off as a confession, but the weight of what you just said lingers in the air between you. The ache you’ve been carrying around—growing like an open wound—is bleeding out. And you hope to God it doesn’t hit him wrong. That whatever oozed from your heart doesn’t make him pull away even more.

You wipe your palms against your jeans, trying to ground yourself before the next words come out, but they do anyway.

“I don’t know what we are, or what I want us to be—but I do know I can’t go without talking to you. Seeing you.”

Your voice is quieter now, but still laced with the same fire. The same desperation.

“Tommy coming to me like you’re already halfway in the ground, begging me to get you to talk to somebody around here. Fuck, Maria thinks you’re a liability.”

You’re pushing, and you know it. But it’s not without reason. The words burn like gasoline on your tongue, and part of you is waiting for him to snap—waiting for that goddamn wall to crack, for any emotion to spill out of him. Anything.

You pause, just long enough for the words to settle between you, before they fall out, heavy and reckless.

“Thinkin’ that if I walked right into that bar and grabbed the first man I’d see… would you do anything about it?”

Joel’s gaze hardens as you speak, each word you throw at him building tension between you like a fuse to a bomb. He’s still standing too close, but this time, it feels like more of a challenge than an invitation.

His jaw tightens, his fists flexing at his sides as if he's trying to hold onto something—control, composure, whatever's left of him.

“You think I’m going to break your heart?” His voice is low, a rough growl that cuts through the air, but there’s something strained in it—something raw, something rabid. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing to you?”

He steps closer, a fraction. “You really think I want to keep you here in this mess?” His eyes burn, a flash of anger now, but something darker, too—fear, regret, maybe guilt. It’s hard to tell with him. But you see it there.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like he's pulling the anger and pain out of him, trying to keep it from spilling over. His words are like gravel now. Rough, jagged.

“Tommy came to you about me, huh?” His voice drops a little, bitterness creeping in.

“Figures. He’s always had a way of making everyone else carry my weight.” He shakes his head, eyes flicking away momentarily, before settling back on you. “Maria can think whatever the hell she wants. She doesn’t know a damn thing about me. About what I’ve done.”

He doesn’t back away from your challenge. If anything, his presence becomes more imposing, like he’s daring you to push harder.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t care?” he mutters, his voice quiet but thick with something unspoken. His eyes narrow, hard and unyielding. "Do you really think I wouldn’t do anything about it?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you—doesn’t move a muscle, as if holding himself back from something he can't control. The silence between you swells. He’s trying to choke back whatever’s clawing at him, and you can feel it in the way he holds himself, rigid and cold.

“I’ve never wanted you to walk away," he says, his tone softer now, "But I’m not the kind of man who deserves you. Not the way you think. I’m trying to keep you safe, and you… you just don’t get it.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Please,” you breathe, the word escaping more like a crack than a whisper, jagged and raw.

Your voice trembles under the weight of it, tears burning behind your eyes—thick and hot, pressing hard against the dam you’re trying so damn hard to keep in place.

“Just let me help.” It slips from you like a split thread, like hope stretched too thin. “Let me do something.”

You blink, once, twice—but the tears don’t fall. Not yet. They just sit there, glassy and defiant, blurring the edges of him as you fight to keep them at bay.

“I don’t want to beg,” you murmur, softer now. Almost ashamed of how close you are to breaking.

But it’s already there—in your voice, your eyes, the way your hands tremble like they’re reaching for something that might never reach back.

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

His face shifts—barely—but you catch it. A flicker of pain that cuts through the stone of him. His mouth opens, then shuts again, like the words hurt too much to form.

“You think I want you to beg?” he growls, but it’s not anger. Not really. It’s fear dressed in anger’s skin. His hands flex, jaw tight, like he wants to grab something—you, maybe—and shake some sense into both of you.

“I hear you talk like that and it makes me feel like I already broke you.”

His voice is low and uneven, the kind of sound that comes from a man who hasn’t cried in years but might start now if he lets go for even a second.

He shifts, takes a step back like he’s trying to create distance between your pain and his guilt, but it doesn’t work. It never works. He may not want it to work.

“You wanna help?” he mutters, not looking at you. “You are the help. Just being here, standing there—looking at me like I’m not… like I’m not some monster—I don’t deserve that.”

He finally meets your eyes again, and this time, there’s no armor left. Just Joel. Just the tired, hollowed-out man beneath all the grit.

“I don’t know how to let you in without ruining you.”

There it is. The truth.

But even then—he hasn’t walked away.

You pause, eyes locked on him, heart pounding so loud it might as well reverberate through the damn room. He looks like something cornered—scarred and tired, a man built of walls too high and wounds too deep.

A feral thing, wounded. Backed into himself. An animal.

“Do…” you falter, swallowing the tightness in your throat. “Do you trust me?”

It's not a weapon. Not a trap. Just a question.

Laid at his feet like an offering. Like maybe, if he says yes—just maybe—something in both of you can finally rest.

His brow furrows slightly, like he doesn’t understand how anyone could still ask him that. How anyone could look him in the eye and mean it.

Then—quietly, a rasp, low and broken like gravel over ash:

“…Yeah. Yes.”

His voice shakes on the word.

“God help me, I do.”

He looks at you like it costs him something to admit it. Like handing you that truth took a piece of him he’ll never get back.

Your breath stumbles out, ragged and quiet, and then—you move.

You reach for him with care, like he’s something fragile under all that roughness. He is. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, steady and deliberate, guiding it upward with a kind of grace that feels almost reverent. Like you’re not just moving his hand—you’re inviting him in.

You press his palm to your skin—just there, along the slope of your collarbone, your jaw. Not forceful. Not demanding.

It’s not control. It’s not surrendereither.

It’s trust. A quiet way of saying: I’m not afraid of you.

Not like you’re afraid of yourself.

And he feels it—how you don't flinch, how you don’t recoil. How you let him in, even here.

Your voice comes low, breath warm, eyes searching his like you’re trying to stitch together something he’s long since torn apart.

“There’s a moment,” you murmur, “before and after someone learns the truth of you… the real you. What you’ve done. What you carry.”

“And in this moment… this world after?”

You tilt your head into his hand, just slightly. Just enough.

“I still choose you.”

Joel doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, frozen in the raw gravity of your words like they physically hit him—like you knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His hand stays where you placed it, warm and heavy against your skin, but his fingers twitch—once, like he’s unsure if he should pull away or hold tighter.

He should walk away. That’s what the voice in his head screams—the voice that’s always screamed. The one that’s kept him alive through blood, betrayal, and loss. Sarah.

But for the first time in years, he ignores it.

Because the way you're looking at him? Like he's not just a wreckage of a man? It breaks him.

His palm spreads wider, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing it, religiously.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he rasps, voice low, nearly pleading, almost broken. “You think you do, but—God, darlin’, you don’t.”

Still, he doesn’t pull away.

He steps closer.

So close the heat from his chest radiates through your skin like fire licking at every nerve. His breath fans against your face, hot, unsteady.

"I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

And then, something shifts—snaps.

His other hand comes up fast, almost desperate, cupping the back of your neck, pulling you in. Not rough—not this time. But there’s a bite to it, a hunger barely contained. His forehead leans against yours, the closeness almost unbearable.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters, barely audible. “One day, you’ll see me for what I really am.”

Fuck, you hope so.

His mouth hovers near yours—right there—but he stops. Breath trembling, lips barely apart. Waiting.

For you to move. To choose him again. Even now. Even like this. It's selfish. He doesn't care, he wants to be selfish. Selfish with you.

You lean in, slow and surrendering, your hand resting over his—where it cradles your jaw.

Your body leans into his, like a tide drawn to the gravity of something larger, heavier, older than reason.

It's not an act of bravery.

It's not even hope.

It's desperation—that aching kind. That aching, pathetic kind of deal people make with the devil when they’re too tired to run anymore.

If he wanted you whole, he had you. And if he wanted to ruin you? You’d let him.

Because some part of you knows… he already has. And you're still here, reaching for him like ruin is worth it if you end up with him.

Whatever restraint he was holding cracks apart, splintering into ash. He surges forward—not rough, not angry, but hungry, lips crashing into yours with years of silence and grief behind it. His mouth claims yours like he’s been dying for it, like the taste of you might pull him back from the edge he’s lived on for too damn long.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you tight, flush, his. There’s nothing gentle about it, not after everything. It’s messy. It's flawed.

It's real.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only by a breath, foreheads touching, eyes shut.

“You ruin me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Every damn day.”

He moves his weight forward, free hand pushing down on the bedroom handle. A quick push and it's open, softly guiding you inside.

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, a quiet weight settles between you—backing you into the cool, dim light of the bedroom. His hand still grips your neck, but it’s softer now—more possessive than forceful, as though he’s trying to make sure you’re real, choosing him.

His lips graze your ear, his breath uneven against your skin. The heat from his chest against your back makes it feel like the world outside doesn’t matter—like it’s just the two of you, everything else lost to the storm inside.

His hand slips from your neck, trailing down the curve of your spine, a soft press against the small of your back, urging you closer. And still, he doesn’t speak—only guides you to the bed, each movement slow and deliberate, like the space between you matters.

When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he pauses. He doesn’t push you down. He stands there for a moment, breathing, letting the tension settle like dust between you.

Joel runs a freehand through his hair, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not the man you think I am,” he says, voice low, broken. "I can’t be."

He steps closer again, his presence overwhelming.

“But if you’re here,” he breathes, “if you’re still here… then I guess we both got somethin’ to prove.”

His lips meet yours again, this time gentler, more desperate. As if he’s trying to hold onto something fleeting—something he’s terrified of losing, even as he’s the one pushing you away.

. . .

The morning light slips through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft slivers of gold across the room. The chirping birds outside are a reminder of the world that continues spinning, oblivious to the quiet, intimate war that’s just been fought between you and him.

The ache in your body? It tells its own story—one of tangled sheets, and a bit more aggression than you thought he'd unleash.

You stretch a little, muscles sore but in the best way, the warmth of his body still lingering like an imprint. A soft, lazy yawn escapes your lips as your eyes flutter open, trying to gather the fragments of last night while the day begins to creep in.

The familiar blue comforter. The dark walls. The desk cluttered with wooden shavings, remnants of the life he’s built—a life that always felt like a fortress to keep people out, but last night? Last night, you breached it. You might have even been the main character of it.

You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, his weight is there beside you. The soft, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the faded sheets. You must have rolled over at some point in the night, tangled yourself up in him without even realizing it. His arm is draped lazily over your hip, like it belongs there—like you belong there.

The faint marks on his collarbones—darker now in the pale morning light—are yours. A trace of the night’s heated exchanges.

That was you.

It feels almost surreal, the contrast between the man he’s always been—gruff, distant—and the one you just saw, the one you touched, held. The one who let his guard down and let you in.

You can still feel him on you, in you. His weight, his warmth, the echoes of his lips against your skin.

The stillness of this moment is almost too much, too peaceful for the chaos you both carry inside. But for now, you don’t think about it. You don’t think about what happens after—about where this goes, what he really means when he says he doesn’t deserve you, or what the hell happens when everything falls apart again.

Instead, you focus on the weight of his hand against your skin, the feel of his chest rising and falling beneath your fingertips, the soft rasp of his breath so close it makes your pulse quicken. You close your eyes again, breathing him in, and for once, the world outside feels just far enough away.

You lift your hand slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile quiet around you. One fingertip escapes the safety of the blanket and drifts toward him—toward that single curl that’s fallen stubborn across his brows. You brush it back, gentle, and it coils around your finger like it knows you. Like it wants to stay there.

He doesn’t stir.

You stare at him—really stare—and something settles in your chest. Heavy. Bitter. Tender.

It's cruel, you think. Unforgivably cruel, that the world has been so merciless to a man like this. A man who carries so much weight in his shoulders, in the lines carved deep around his mouth and eyes. A man who’s learned to bury softness just to survive.

Because the man before you now? Lying there half-wrapped in sheets and sleep, his hand resting against your hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he's nothing like the monster he thinks he is. He feels sweet.

Sweet in the way his fingers twitch in his sleep, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Sweet in the quiet tension of his jaw, even now—like he’s still fighting demons. Sweet in the memory of his mouth on yours, rough, desperate, demanding.

It’s almost unbearable. It feels like something holy.

Your fingers drift lower, slow and reverent, tracing the hardened edge of his jaw—rough with stubble, sharp from years of clenched teeth. It’s not a perfect jawline, not clean or pretty, but it’s his.

Your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, then down, brushing gently over his bottom lip. He stirs just slightly, not fully waking, but reacting. His breath hitches faintly, and you pause, holding your touch steady.

You wonder if he’s dreaming. If, in that dark, quiet place behind his eyes, he still sees fire. Blood. Regret. So, you touch him like you can rewrite it.

"Handsome," you murmur, more to the moment than to him.

Because he is. Handsome in a way the world would never see. In the way he loves, fiercely and silently. In the way he breaks apart at night and still holds people together by day. Always a protector. Never protected.

You lean forward just enough to press a barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, chaste, real.

And when you pull back, his eyes are open. Heavy-lidded. Watching you. He heard you.

His eyes don’t move at first—just stay fixed on you, heavy and unreadable, like he’s still trying to wake up from something deeper than sleep. You feel the weight of that stare settle into your ribs, slow and silent.

Then, finally, he blinks. A breath. A shift in the sheets.

"Good morning," you whisper, a little softer this time—as if saying it too loud might break the spell of him staying.

You try to lighten it, teasing to fill the silence. "I can’t promise I wasn’t doing anything weird while you were sleeping,” you murmur, your voice playful, lips curling as you roll onto your stomach. Elbows press into the plush give of the mattress, propping yourself up just enough to face him.

Only then does the flick of your gaze drop—chest bare, collarbone exposed. The comforter barely modest where it rests along the dip of your spine. He’s just as bare. Both naked. Still.

Joel exhales through his nose—soft. His hand flexes slightly where it’s still tangled in the sheet between you, then reaches, slow and unsure, to tuck the corner of the comforter back across your back. His knuckles drag against your skin. Not by accident.

“You always talk this much in the mornin’?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and gravel.

You watch the way his eyes settle on you again, less guarded now, like whatever armor he wears hasn’t quite returned to him yet. He sees you—not just in his bed, but here. Still here.

“Only when I wake up next to someone handsome,” you murmur, "…which doesn't happen often."

Joel huffs a breath—something between a scoff and a laugh—and drags a hand down his face. He doesn't say anything right away. But then his fingers drift toward you again, rough palm finding your hip under the covers.

You move closer—slowly, deliberately—testing the weight of the morning, the strength of what last night left behind. The sheet shifts with you, sliding down your back just enough to expose more skin to the chill of the room, but you don’t care. He’s warm.

Your hand drifts upward, fingers threading into his curls—messy from sleep, soft in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him. You let your nails scrape gently against his scalp. Soothing and affectionate.

He leans into it. Barely. But he does.

"Regret your decision yet?" you whisper, voice teasing at the edge, daring him to pull back. To throw up walls. But there’s tenderness laced in the words, too—a crack in your own armor.

Joel’s eyes flicker open wider, finding yours in that hazy glow of morning. His jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing over every version of no that he doesn’t know how to say right. Then, his hand slips from your hip to your waist, palm warm and grounding.

“No,” he says, low and solid.

Then quieter—more broken: “Just scared you’re gonna wake up and regret yours.”

And there it is—laid bare between you. Not lust, not anger, not even love.

Fear.

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to. The silence after his words says everything: he’s afraid he’ll ruin this. Ruin you. That whatever passed between you last night was a kindness he’s not meant to keep.

But his hand stays. And his eyes stay. And so do you.

You study him in silence, eyes drifting across the lines etched into his face—Every scar, every shadow, you take in as if remembering them.

Then, softer, a little teasing: "What's your favorite thing to eat for breakfast?" Your smile curves as you lean deeper into the sheets, the warmth between you still lingering in the air.

He grunts—barely more than a sound, but it’s a start.

“You ask a lotta damn questions,” he mutters.

The bed shifts as he moves, sitting halfway up with the sheet tangled around his waist. His back’s to you now—broad, scarred, tense. Like he’s already regretting last night, or maybe just the part where it meant something.

He runs a hand through his hair, rough. “Don’t got a favorite,” he says, after a beat. “Food’s food.”

But it’s a lie, and you both know it.

Another beat.

“… Pancakes,” he adds gruffly. “With butter. None o’ that syrup crap.”

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t let you see the look on his face. Keeps his voice flat like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t just break something open in him he’s been holding shut for years.

"So, I'll make pancakes." You stir, sitting up against the sheets. Softly—you lean over and embrace him in warmth. Hugging him from behind. Bare chest pressed against scarred and ripped skin, hands softly tracing against his hips.

Joel stiffens under your touch like he's not used to it—like the idea of someone holding him just to hold him sets off alarms he can’t quite silence. Your cheek rests between his shoulder blades, skin against scar, breath against memory.

He doesn't move at first.

Then his hand lifts—hesitates—and finally lands on yours, resting where it’s wrapped around his hips Not gripping, not pulling you closer. Just there.

“I didn’t ask you to,” he says. Gruff.

You can feel his heartbeat—strong, steady. Alive.

“Pancakes,” he repeats, quieter this time. And you catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough.

“Don’t burn ‘em.”

His voice is softer now. Still rough, still Joel.

You slide from the bed in a hush, the sheets whispering behind you. Before distance can settle in, you lean in close and press a kiss to his temple—fleeting. Like it might ward off the ghosts for just a moment.

Your bare feet tap gently across the worn hardwood, and the air bites a little colder when you aren't caged against the warmth of him. The room is dim and quiet, dust caught in slivers of early morning light. It smells like old wood, whiskey, faint cedar. Him.

You scan everything—the way he lives, the wooden spooled mess he doesn’t clean up. Everything here is stitched with the weight of a life survived, not lived.

Your hand finds his flannel slung over the back of a chair, worn soft from time and habit. You slip it on — oversized and heavy with warmth—and spin once as you finish buttoning it up, grinning through a small exhale.

“Feelin’ like Joel Miller already,” you say, half to yourself, half to him.

From the bed, he lets out a small scoff. Doesn’t sound amused. Doesn’t sound angry either.

“Careful,” he mutters, voice raspy with the morning. “That ain’t somethin’ you wanna catch.”

You glance back at him — the way he’s still sitting there, one arm draped over his knee, body cut from shadow and silence. He watches you like you're some dream that he doesn't know how to comprehend.

“I dunno,” you say, quieter now. “Might be worth it.”

He looks away, jaw tight. Like he wants to believe you but doesn’t trust belief.

You round the corner, still in his flannel, steps light, almost playful—until the smell of coffee hits first. Familiar, grounding. But something else follows, quick on its heels. A shift. Presence.

“Joel? Did you make coff—” You stop.

She’s already there. Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, eyes too sharp for someone her age.

Ellie.

Your breath hitches half a beat, and you straighten instinctively. She somehow still manages to fill the room like she owns it — like she’s been here longer than time itself.

She nods toward the two mugs on the counter, smug as anything. “Made you coffee,” she says. Then, with a shit-eating grin and a wiggle of her eyebrows: “I guess the talk went well… last night.”

It’s not even a question. You blink, caught between embarrassment and a laugh. “Jesus… Ellie.”

“Not quite,” she shrugs, sipping from her mug. “But thanks.”

You lean against the frame of the doorway, tugging the flannel a little tighter around you. She catches the motion—notices it’s Joel’s—and her eyes glint with mischief.

“What time did you… get back last night?” you ask, trying to recover.

She shrugs again. “Early enough to hear him snore like a dying bear. Which, by the way, you might wanna get checked out. I thought something was in the walls.”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, shaking your head.

There’s a pause — just enough time for the teasing to fade. She looks at you for real now. Not cruel. Not guarded. Just watching.

Ellie nods, satisfied enough for now. Then she pushes the second mug toward you.

“Drink up, Flannel Thief,” she says. “You’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Your eyes practically roll in your head. "Listen… I can't be teased about this forever… Can't you just say… ew gross old people, and get on with it?" You lean against the countertop, fingers reaching for pancake things. Measuring cup… bowl… something to mix with…

Ellie snorts, clearly delighted, and sips her orange juice with exaggerated smugness.

“Oh no, no no. See, you wish that’s how this worked,” she grins, watching you pull out a mixing bowl like it’s part of a comedy routine. “But unfortunately for you, I’m a mature and emotionally evolved young woman who believes in holding adults accountable… for being disgustingly affectionate in my presence.”

You groan, grabbing the nearly empty pancake mix box and shaking it, “You're 15.”

“Old people sex,” Ellie says flatly, grinning into her mug. “Right in the next room over. You should be ashamed. Honestly.”

You shoot her a look, but there’s no heat in it. “Alright, alright, Jesus. I’m already dying inside.”

She shrugs. “Then my work here is done.”

You start pouring contents into the bowl. She watches, but it’s not really about the pancakes. There’s a lull. Not awkward, just quiet—and when she speaks again, her tone’s softer. But still unmistakably Ellie.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, “I’ve never seen him sleep past dawn unless he was half-dead or actually happy.”

You stop whisking for a second, glance over. Her eyes are downcast, but not sad. More cautious and hope. Like she’s letting herself believe in something for once.

You offer a small smile. “Well… he’s still in bed, so either he’s dead, and I murdered him�� or you’re stuck with me a little while longer.”

She doesn’t smile back right away, but her voice comes light:

“I guess I’ll deal.”

Behind you, you hear the floor creak — heavy, slow steps — and you know it’s Joel before you even turn. You don't look right away. You just pour the batter onto the skillet and ask over your shoulder:

“You want one pancake or two, old man?”

Joel stands in the doorway like he’s been there a minute, just listening. His hair’s a mess — that soft, grizzled kind of disheveled that only makes him look more like himself. The blue robe hangs open over a threadbare white T-shirt and those familiar flannel pants, one tie dragging against the floor. He scratches the back of his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

You turn to face him fully, spatula in one hand, the smell of browning batter filling the quiet between you.

“Or none at all,” you add, eyebrow raised, “since you think my cooking is sooo bad.”

His eyes flick between you and Ellie — who’s already pretending not to watch while sipping from her mug like it’s the most dramatic scene in a movie.

Joel exhales through his nose, like it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to be dragged into the teasing.

“You burn toast,” he says simply.

You gasp. “It was one time.”

Ellie raises a hand. “It was two. That I know of.”

Joel just walks to the table and sits down with a grunt, clearly satisfied with himself. “I’ll take two. Since you’re wearin’ my damn shirt, might as well feed me too.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Cute."

Joel grumbles something under his breath, but there’s a warmth in his eyes when he looks at you. Tired, guarded, but not closed off like before. Not entirely.

Ellie leans back in her chair, hands behind her head, eyes gleaming.

“This is so weird,” she mutters. “But also… kinda nice.”

Joel gives her a side-eye. “You don’t like it, you can go live with Tommy.”

She snorts. “Please. Free food and emotional bonding? I’m thriving.”

You plate up the pancakes and slide a stack in front of each of them, sitting across from Joel, your knee brushing his under the table. For the first time, the room feels full. Not just lived in—but alive.

You sit quietly, trying to act like it’s nothing—just breakfast, just fuckin' pancakes—but your fingers twist together in your lap beneath the table. It’s stupid. How nervous you are. Not just for him to like it, but for her to like it. Like somehow their approval means this whole fragile, reckless thing has weight.

Joel eats like a man who doesn’t want to admit he’s enjoying it. No theatrics, no compliments—just steady bites and the occasional small nod, like his silence is the only permission he knows how to give.

Ellie? She’s less subtle. She drowns hers in syrup and makes dramatic noises of satisfaction with every bite, clearly enjoying the chance to be chaotic.

“Not bad, Flannel Thief,” she says through a mouthful. “A solid seven-point-five. Could be higher with chocolate chips.”

You chuckle lightly, the knot in your chest loosening by a thread. “Next time, then.”

Joel’s fork slows, just for a second.

You catch it. You always do.

Next time.

You glance up at him again, eyes following the shape of his arms, those worn-in muscles that always carry more than just weight. They carry history. Guilt. Survival. Safety. Everything you never thought you'd find again.

Then your gaze reaches his face, and he’s already watching you.

Those brown eyes—soft in the morning light, a little wary, a little tired—but still warm. Still him.

You try to hide how much you’re looking. How much you want this to be something real.

“Y’know,” you murmur, voice just for him, “you don’t have to eat it out of guilt. I can handle the truth.”

Joel snorts softly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t guilt. Just quiet. You oughta try it sometime… maybe next time.”

But there’s the smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth. The ghost of a smile, buried under years of practiced gruffness.

And for a moment, it feels like maybe. Just maybe. You're not the only one hoping this sticks.

masterlist

[milkis-deepspace]

sylus x reader - period pains

a/n: this is very self-indulgent^^ features established relationship and just fluffy goodness

being on your period is never fun. for around a week you have insane cravings, unbearable cramps and some major mood swings. truly horrible in all honesty. but the most embarrassing part was how needy you were especially now since you were in a relationship.

sylus is prepared for anything when it comes to you. ever since you've stayed over at onychinus' head quarters - he has made sure that anything you would ever want or need, would be at your disposal.

heating blanket? bought already.

pads and tampons? they’re placed in the cabinet under the sink, right besides sylus' skincare.

medicine? you knew where they were.

a massage? that... that was unexplored territory. while you and sylus were in a relationship and were quite touchy-touchy, asking for a massage seemed intimate. but then again, this might be the hormones talking. but would he think you were weird for requesting that? probably not, sylus would without a shadow of a doubt accept (almost) any of your requests. but would you really ask the mr. sylus qin - the already extremely busy leader of onychinus who had mephisto track your every move? speaking of the damn bird...

“i got a call from a little birdie saying a certain person has been in pain all day and didn't want to quote unquote bother me,” sylus enters the bedroom and takes off his jacket.

tsk, of course mephisto had tattled on you! that damn crow, someday you would make the crow heed under your command but today was not that day…

“sometimes it isn’t this bad, so i thought it would be okay,” you mumbled, curled up on sylus’ bed. it seemed as if the cramps intensified and sylus went over to sit beside you, his eyes filled with worry.

"tell me, how can i be of help to you?”

you glanced at him and shyly considered your answer. “well, uhmm, do you mind if- uh could you maybe give me a little massage…?”

sylus chuckels and easily complies to your request.

with a heating blanket placed under you to relieve the stomach cramps and sylus' warm hand massaging your back, you couldn’t help but to feel so immensely content. his big hands were perfect to warm you and his soothing voice was an anchor to keep you sane.

“you tell me if it’s too hard alright? i don’t want to unintentionally hurt you,” his thumbs pressed into your lower back, making sure to focus his strength on the tip of his fingers. his thumbs worked in circles, hands moving up and down, getting every tense spot.

his fingers worked like magic on your back. every touch, every caress made you fall into a state of heavenly bliss. just how did he learn to massage that well?

"do you want me to go harder? or softer? you need to remember to tell me, sweetie,"

"mngh, it's good. keep going," you replied with your eyes closed. you didn't want to break this moment - and you almost felt tempted to stay in sylus' bed forever - as long as every worry you had dissappeared.

"shh, just relax. i got you,"

his hands move up to your upper back and massages between your shoulder blades. a couple of days ago, you had remarked about how sore you were - it was meant as a fleeting comment - but it was something sylus was determined to remember. who was he if not the person to take away your pain? just mention whatever you want and sylus would make sure it would happen.

your pain eased away and pleasure replaced it. he noticed how much more relaxed you were now, and proceeded to lie down besides you. while you had fallen asleep, sylus gently played with your hair. it was still a wonder to him that you were here, in his bed, just making yourself at home.

after what felt like 9 hours were merely half an hour and you were still cuddled up with him and as the pain subsided you noticed how tired you truly were. a yawn escaped from you - and sylus' chuckle almost brought you back to reality.

“you’re welcome to fall asleep again sweetie,”

sylus saw the pure look of exhaustion and adorned your face with kisses and gentle touches. from your forehead to your jawline, sylus adorned your every feature with careful, loving pecks.

you fell victim to the lullaby that was sylus' heartbeat and when your breathing turned even, sylus too decided to join you in dreamland.

[moondustbaby]

Somewhere Between the Pines

Bsf!Rafe Cameron x Bsf!Reader

Summary: On a family camping trip filled with summer sun and old traditions, You and your best friend Rafe fall into your usual rhythm—shared snacks, shared hoodies, and a tent that suddenly feels too small for all the feelings between them. What used to be normal starts to blur into something more, and neither of them seems ready to pull away.

⸻

There’s something about camping with both our families that always makes me feel twelve again—probably because nothing ever really changes. Same lakeside spot, same plastic tubs of snacks, same old tents that smell like dirt and sunscreen.

And same Rafe, stealing my food and acting like he doesn’t do it on purpose.

“Seriously?” I look over just in time to catch him grabbing a marshmallow off my stick.

He shrugs, popping it into his mouth without shame. “You burned it.”

“I like them burned.”

“Exactly,” he says around a mouthful of sugar. “I’m helping.”

I roll my eyes, but when he starts tugging absently on the edge of the hoodie I’m wearing—his hoodie, which he handed me earlier when I got cold—I don’t stop him. He always does stuff like that. Little things. Like brushing my hair out of my face, or fiddling with the drawstrings when I wear his sweatshirts, or tracing circles on the inside of my wrist when we’re sitting close like this.

Sometimes I wonder if he even realizes he does it.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows I notice.

Later, we walk back from the lake, damp towels slung over our shoulders, my bikini top still clinging to me beneath his hoodie. The sun’s dipping low and the sand’s still warm beneath our feet, and when I start to veer off toward the campsite path, he hooks his pinky through the belt loop of my denim shorts.

I glance at him. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t get lost,” he says casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m not a damn toddler, Rafe.”

He grins. “You’re small. You might wander off.”

I elbow him, but I don’t pull away.

As night falls, the campsite gets louder again—music playing off someone’s speaker, our parents dancing like it’s a wedding, kids running around with flashlights like they’re on some great forest adventure. I settle into the bench near the fire, legs curled beside me, and Rafe takes the spot next to me like he always does.

He doesn’t say anything, just puts his hand on my thigh like it belongs there. It’s not weird—not to us. But when one of the older guys from the group walks by and gives a look, I feel Rafe’s hand flex just slightly against my skin.

Possessive. Protective.

And for a second, I don’t breathe.

“You okay?” I murmur, low enough for only him to hear.

He doesn’t even look at me. “Yeah. Just… tired of people looking at you like you’re not already mine.”

My heart stumbles. “Rafe—”

He leans in, brushing the ends of my hair behind my ear like he’s smoothing away the silence. “Come on, let’s claim our tent before my dad makes me share with my uncle again.”

I laugh, but my stomach flips.

We’ve always shared a tent—always. Since we were kids. Two sleeping bags zipped together, his socks tossed in a corner, my flashlight and book near the side pocket. But this year, as we unzip the flap and climb inside, it doesn’t feel quite the same.

He tosses me a hoodie. “In case it gets cold.”

“I’m wearing your hoodie already.”

He shrugs. “I know. Just take it.”

I do.

We settle in side by side, the zipper half open to let in the breeze, the hum of the forest filling the space between us. He’s on his back, arms behind his head, staring up like he can see the stars through the nylon.

“You ever think about how weird it is that we’ve done this every year?” I ask quietly.

He turns his head to look at me. “No. I think it’d be weird if we didn’t.”

I smile, heart thudding too loud in my chest. “It’s different now.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But it’s a good different.”

And when I close my eyes, I feel him reach over, his fingers brushing against mine beneath the sleeping bag, warm and sure and steady.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t have to.

A/N: cute little camping blurb i have so many ideas so expect some more postings soon 😊 Also thank you so much for all the love on my other posts!! ♥️

[chsopnk]

「 ✦ DADDY’S HOME ✦ 」

☆. # SHIP — gojo satoru, nanami kento, toji fushiguro x gn!reader

☆. # AUTHOR’S NOTE — the guys as the father of ur kids.

☆. # WARNINGS — mentions of puke

GOJO .

i could see him as a boy or girl dad. or both

tries to give his daughter cute hairstyles and fails miserably. crooked pigtails where half of her hair is still hanging down is the best he can do. but hey, he tries

definitely hangs his kids upside down by their feet. probably shakes them too.

the kids are definitely small gojo’s. sorry not sorry

every single day is chaos.

when he goes out with the two on his own, he loses one of them about 80% of the time (he always finds them again, don’t worry 😭)

let’s them have snacks before dinner and tells them not to tell you. they always do.

despite all of that, he’s a fun father

gojo has a lot of energy so he runs around with them all day and plays with them <33

(then he complains about how tired he is when they’re in bed :/)

lots of fun trips. to the playground, amusement parks, places in japan, different countries. the beach.

if his kids have hobbies, he’s always ALWAYS!! the loudest and most embarrassing parent there. he says it builds character and he needs to support his babies ‼️‼️

NANAMI .

girl dad. twin girls.

he definitely does their hair!! and he’s good at it too <3 nanami has done their hair since they had hair.

he spoils them TO DEATH.

the girls only want to eat the food he cooks 😒 they say it tastes better

he dances with them in the living room when no one’s home. ugh he’s so CUTE 🥴🥴

nanami’s a very very loving father but he’s also strict when it comes to certain things

example a: the girls will never not do their homework. he makes sure of it 💯

just imagine nanami sitting at a table with his two little girls while explaining math to them 🥹 he’s so so gentle and understanding but he will not let them give up

imo he really loves it when they wear cute dresses and look all pretty. he’s a girlie girl dad.

he will play with them no matter what they want to do. play dress-up? he will wear the tutu. want to play house? of course he’ll be the baby. the girls wanna do his hair + make-up? he’ll be the test subject no problem ‼️

he’s also never ever going to miss any special day his girls have. their first day of school, bring your father to school day, their dance shows — whatever their hobbies are, he’ll be there to support them <33333

also: a REAL father. never had a problem with changing diapers or cleaning up baby puke.

TOJI .

not the best father, but he’s damn sure trying

the child was definitely unexpected and not exactly wanted but once he came to terms with it, he tries his best to be there as best as he can

he doesn’t have the money needed to take care of a child, neither do you (not really)

but whatever his kid wants, his kid gets.

mostly, that includes fast food and cheap toys from the dollar store

but hey!! the kid doesn’t care where the toys are from (/gen)

definitely the type of dad to get one of those leashes for kids. he’s not risking losing his kid somewhere 💀 and he knows damn well what kind of menace that child is

he can and will bribe his son with candy to get him to stop crying or throwing a tantrum

toji cannot deal with his kid screaming or crying. honestly mostly leaves you to deal with those situations because he’s unsure how to handle them

will change diapers but not without complaining and almost throwing up 💀 it’s not his fault !!! it stinks okay?!!

acts like he doesn’t care about the kid but then shows up after a mission with a bag of candy. or pulls out some toy the kid’s wanted

cannot, will not & should not help with homework.

[shanastoryteller]

Thirteen Magpies

Dean’s pissed and trying to act like he isn’t. Sam’s head is throbbing and aching, there’s still blood crusted in the corner of his eyes, and he doesn’t have the energy to try and fix this right now.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Dean. He’s thought of telling him ever since his brother pulled him from the fire, since he opened his eyes and realized he was living in his nightmare. But he can’t, the risk versus the reward is too great.

There’s no point, anyway. Jessica’s dead. Whatever freaky dreams he had, whatever he should have done to prevent it – none of it matters.

Letting his brother know that he’s a freak, that he might be something like the things they hunt, won’t get him anything. Dean thinks he’s mad now? If he knew Sam’s secret, mad wouldn’t begin to even cover it.

So he lets Dean make jokes he doesn’t mean, ignores the twitch in his jaw, and falls asleep fully clothed, boots still on right there on the covers. He really is that exhausted, but mostly it’s to gauge how angry his brother really is.

If he wakes up with his boots still on, no blanket thrown over him, he’ll know to tread lightly for the next few days.

~

“We got a live one.”

Dean flicks his eyes up from the map to Risa is leaning against the doorway. When she doesn’t say anything further, he raises an eyebrow. She knows better than to waste his time.

She shrugs. “He’s pretty freaked, it’s weird. He doesn’t seem to have any idea what’s going on, but he’s not infected from what we can tell.”

Well, she usually knows better than to waste his time.

“Probably better to gank him just in case,” he says, already focusing back on the map. There’s nothing around here but the infected, the military, and them. Soon there won’t even be that.

She hesitates. “He’s pretty young. And scared.”

So what? Aren’t they all? Hell, he’s thirty five. He’s still young, although he hasn’t felt it in years.

There’s a crash, and then Chuck is pushing Risa aside, eyes wide and panicked. Tension coils in Dean’s gut, even before Chuck says, “You need to see this.”

Fuck, fine. Whatever.

He’s so tired. Of this, of them, of everything. His only solace is that he won’t have to deal with it much longer.

He tucks a gun in the back of his waistband, giving them both a dark look as he stalks past. Does he really have to do everything around here? With his luck they’ve brought a crote right into camp who’s about to feral and start bleeding on people any second and they’re going to have to deal with a damn outbreak right in the middle of the base –

What the hell.

His chest is tight. He should be doing something, shooting him, giving orders, something, but just then all the air leaves his lungs.  

“Dean!” Sam shouts, relief breaking out over his face.

This isn’t the Sam of a couple years ago, or even five years ago when he saw him last – really saw him, saw Sam. This is how Sam looked when he picked him up at Stanford, broad and tall but still gangly and young, the strength of his muscles long instead of bulging. There’s a sweetness to his face that hunting had carved away within the first year, or maybe that was visions or the demon or whatever else Dean failed to protect him from. Sam breaks away from the hands gripping his elbows to the shock of James, who probably thought he’d had a good grip on the kid, and hurries towards him, which is when he sees that Sam is in dirty socks and a pair of slides that look to be a couple sizes too small. What the hell? Dean should stop him. It’s not really Sam. It can’t be.

“Thank god, I woke up alone and I thought, uh, never mind. What the hell is going on…” He trails off as he gets closer, squinting. He looks Dean up and down then reaches out and pokes him in the corner of his eye by his temple.  

Several people gasp. He can’t make himself look away, even as all the ways this is impossible, all the tricks it could be, run through his mind. It looks real. Is this a trick from Lucifer? But the base is warded against angels and demons and anything in between. No one but a human could walk in here. A witch? If there are any witches left, they’re hiding somewhere nowhere can find them. What would they gain by looking like his little brother at twenty two?

“You’re old,” Sam says, half delight and half incredulity. It makes him think of when he fell into that swamp when they were kids and Sam laughed himself sick after he helped him out. “Dude, did you piss off a witch or something? Were you trying to sleep with her? You really have to learn when to love them and when to leave them.” His gaze rises a little higher. “Got any grey hairs?”

He sounds like Sam.

“Okay, buddy, that’s enough,” James says, stepping forward gun first.

Sam reacts automatically, no longer hunched next to Dean, but straightening to his full height of nearly six and half feet and as he steps in front of him. He knocks Dean an extra inch behind him even though he doesn’t have a weapon or shoes or any clue what’s going on.

Something inside of him that he thought was long dead breaks and resets.

Yeah, that’s Sammy.

People always got it wrong. If this were someone’s idea of a trick, they would have had Sam looking to him for protection and asking for his help. Dean was notorious for being over protective, after all, always taking the hit, always making himself a target. That’s what people remembered.

Sam tolerated it at best.

He let Dean take the lead when he was comfortable. When he felt safe. He didn’t argue about Dean going in first or playing bait only because it wasn’t worth the effort, only because it meant that Sam was at his back and could cover him if something went wrong. He put up with Dean’s control freak tendencies until he didn’t, until he got stressed or pissed or scared, and then all bets were off and good fucking luck to anyone that got in his way.

But the Sam in front of him looks like shit, he clearly doesn’t know what’s going on, and he apparently woke up in apocalypse alone and somehow managed to get here. He’s probably a great combination of stressed, pissed, and scared right now and Dean may looks older, but he’s still him, the only familiar thing in this unfamiliar world.

Of course Sam sees a gun pointed in their direction and steps in front of him. Of course he doesn’t bother playing small like usually does, using ever scrap of intimidation he has even though he’s weaponless.

His brother at the end of his rope wouldn’t do anything else.

He’s not going to be an idiot about this, he’s still going to check, but every instinct he has is telling him that this is Sam.

How the fuck is it Sam?

He's drowning, he's suffocating, he wants to get his hands on Sam, wants to shake him, wants to bruise him just so he knows he's real.

He's practiced at not getting what he wants.

“Down,” he says to James, his voice coming out even and steady despite everything. He points the gun to the ground almost before Dean’s finished speaking. “Everyone, as you were. Sam, with me.”

“Who died and put you in charge?” Sam bitches, still glaring at James. He sticks close, looking around the camp curiously, eyes catching on all the symbols that he doesn’t recognize.

You did, he thinks, and almost laughs, except for the way it’s not funny at all. They head to his cabin and he pointedly ignores all the looks they’re getting. Little hard to bring a giant back without anyone noticing. He points the table. “Sit.”

“Do I look like a dog to you?” Sam asks, crossing his arms and not sitting. “Dean, what the hell is going on! What is this place? Where is everyone? What’s wrong with the people out there? Why are you old?”

“Just,” he lets out a harsh breath. For fuck’s sake. “Can you not argue with me and do what you’re told for one minute?”

Sam glares at him, but must see something in Dean’s face that sways him because he huffs and nods. Then he ruins it by literally setting his watch and saying, “One minute.”

He still doesn’t sit down.

Christ. He’d forgotten how much of a little shit Sam used to be. He should probably restrain him for this, just in case, probably shouldn’t have brought him back alone, it’s just.

He thinks it might actually be Sam. A Sam, anyway. He goes through salt, holy water, iron, and silver. It takes longer than a minute, but Sam seems intrigued enough to go with it. Some of these tests are brand new to him. In the end, all it gets him is an irritated eye roll. “If you’re really Sam,” he says, “tell me something only the real Sam would know.”

“If?” he repeats, rolling back around from intrigued to irritated. It’s the same little brother annoyed face that Dean knows so well, lips pursed and eyebrows pushed together.

He’s missed Sam so much.

“If it’s occurring to you that you should have been concerned about me being me, don’t worry about it,” he says tiredly. “You can test me too.”

Sam’s nose scrunches. “Don’t be stupid. You’re you. Just old and sort of bitchy.”

His lip almost twitches at that.

Sam looks around again, chewing on his bottom lip. “Dean, what year is it?”

He thinks a lot of things in his life would have been easier if he’d had a dumber brother. “What year is it for you?”

Sam glares. For a moment Dean thinks he’s going to refuse to answer until Dean tells him what’s going on, but he says, “2005. We just finished dealing with Bloody Mary.”

Fuck. That’s barely a month after Jessica.

It could still be a trap. He doesn’t believe it, hasn’t believed it from the moment he saw him. “Tell me something only Sam would know.”

He throws up his hands. “How would I know that? I’m clearly in the future, somehow, or crazy, and either way I don’t know what you or other people don’t know. Ask me something only I would know. You’d know better than me.”

Dean thinks that makes sense. Maybe. But he’s drawing a blank, trying to go back ten years in his memories to remember what secrets they’d shared then, and if any of them are still a secret now, and nothing’s coming to mind.

Sam softens, holding his hands open. “Come on, Dean, it’s me. I know that you’re you. Can’t you tell that I’m me?”

Yes. But Sam had always been better at that than he was. He'd known within three seconds that the skinwalker hadn’t been him, even though they’d only been back on the road together a few months at this point. Sam had never been able to explain to him how he’d clocked it so quickly, only that it had been obvious.

No one else knows him that well. Never have, never will.

It’s obvious to him that this is Sam. But it’s stupid to rely on his gut. It’s betrayed him before.

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand over his face. This Sam hasn’t even faced a skinwalker yet. “Okay, fine, Jesus.”

Sam grins, smug in his victory in a way that makes Dean want to go over there and give him a noogie like they’re kids again. He wants to pretend for one second that not everything is misery and shit.

Christ, Sam basically is a kid right now. He’s only twenty two. Dean’s hit just then with the enormity of what Sam doesn’t know. They haven’t even met Missouri yet. He doesn’t know about Azazel, about the other psychic kids, about his powers, about what the demon did to him. He doesn’t know about angels, doesn’t know about Lucifer, or all the terrible fucked up things waiting for him.

“How did you get here?” he asks quietly, can feel the panic clawing at his throat. It’s too much. Sam is here. He was never supposed to see Sam again. His brother is long gone.

His brother is right in front of him.

Even if it’s not a trick, it is a trap. The day before he’s set to finally retrieve the Colt and kill Lucifer for good, a kid version of his brother appears? He doesn’t know the angle just yet, but he knows that there is one.

It was supposed to be over. He was going to finally be free.

But he can’t leave Sam in this piece of shit world alone. Not again.

“Beats me,” Sam shrugs. “I went to bed next to you and woke up in a different motel and met some rabid people and ran and ended up here and then I saw you. Nothing was weird or different before, or at least nothing I noticed. Will you tell me when I am now?”

“2015,” he says finally, watching Sam’s face, bracing for a freak out but also unsurprised when it doesn’t happen.

When the chips are down, Sam’s never been anything but steel.

“Huh,” he says finally, eyes downcast. He nods, more to himself than to Dean, than lifts his head to look him in the eye. “Where’s Dad?”

Will the thought of his father ever stop hurting? Probably not. Especially not now. He’s looking the baby brother he was supposed to save in the eye and he failed. He failed to save him and now he has to go and kill him.

If there were any mercy left on earth, Dean would have died the moment Sam said yes in Detroit.

He shakes his head.

Sam’s face crumples briefly before he rallies, swallowing down the grief that’s all too clear to Dean. “Yeah, probably should have figured that out as soon as I saw you barking orders. Okay. Where am I? Future me?”

Dean tries to control his face, to keep it impassive and empty, but by the way Sam jerks back like he’s been hit, he knows that he failed. He’s good at this normally. Really good, in fact. Maybe he still is, he’s just forgotten how well Sam used to be able to read him.

“Oh, man,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

He jerks his eyes to Sam’s, searching his expression. Does he know? Has the same thing that brought him here also told him something of what they were throwing him into?

“How did I – no, don’t tell me,” he decides. “Are you okay? I didn’t even like the idea of you hunting alone, never mind this.”

Sam thinks he’s dead.

It’s almost a relief.

“Fine,” he says.

Sam gives him a look. “Yeah, your whole family’s dead and the world's gone to shit, you’re clearly doing great. I don’t know why I even asked.”

Dean smiles. It’s been a long time. The muscles feel unused.

He still wants to touch him. But he can't. Once he starts, he doesn't think he'll be able to stop.

Sam stares at him for a long moment, eyebrows raised. “Are you crazy?”

“Probably, yeah,” he says, feeling the urge to laugh in his chest, another forgotten sensation. He’d forgotten how much Sam used to backtalk. The demon, Dad’s death, his deal, what Sam had gone through when he’d been gone, fucking Ruby. It had all worked to stomp out his brother’s attitude, to grind down Sam in a way that John Winchester had tried and fail to achieve for nineteen years.

In some ways it feels like he lost Sam long before he released Lilith. He’d feel guilty about it, but Sam probably feels the same way about him.

Felt the same way. Sam’s not feeling much of anything right now, with Lucifer walking around in his skin.

[postredevainilla]

YOU'RE SO PRETTY :3 p1 of the ":3 with benefits" series

pairing: college aged loser yuuta x college aged lesser loser freader

summary: yuuta :3s his way into some pussy

cw: unprotected sex, objectification, mild degradation, dubious enthusiasm, hentai references, loss of virginity, the tags make it sound a lot worse than it rlly is

you’re one more “mommy pls sit on my face” away from setting your phone on fire.

every time you open hinge, it’s the same photo getting all the attention: the cosplay pic. it was meant to be pg-13, sure—but between the school uniform blazer fighting for its life and your very intentional push-up bra, you’re not exactly shocked by the thirst. just exhausted.

“let me see em 😍”

“damn ur tits could cure my depression fr”

“mommy?”

“pls ruin me 🧎🧎🧎”

you sigh, aggressively pressing the little “x” next to every like. the app is one second away from being deleted, until a single comment stops you:

“you’re so pretty :3”

…what the fuck?

you blink. then blink again. is this bait?

you click his profile, expecting the worst, and are met with a guy who looks like he just rolled out of bed after crying over a studio ghibli film. his hair’s messy in a kind of hot way, dark bangs falling over his eyes. his profile pic is just him awkwardly holding up a peace sign, next to a cropped-out friend with green hair. you clock the dark circles under his eyes immediately. he looks like he hasn't slept in 36 hours. he’s kind of cute.

prompt: "two truths and a lie?"

“i’ve been to africa. i have a cat back home named rika. i’ve never cried during an anime.”

you match and reply.

“thank you :)”

you shift in bed, suddenly very aware of how dry your texting game is. you’ve never dated, never been in a relationship. technically, you’ve never even had sex. unless fingering yourself to doujinshi counts. probably not.

still, you send:

“you’re pretty too :)”

instant reply.

“oh my gosh thank you :3”

“i would be so honored if i got to kiss you :3”

oh god.

somewhere, your best friend is cursing herself for not warning you about men who use emoticons like “:3”. because three days later, you’re in his twin xl dorm bed, and everything is spiraling.

...

yuuta's panting like he just ran a marathon, eyes wide and locked on your tits as he jackhammers into you like he’s trying to win a prize.

“fuck, your pussy’s so warm—so pretty—oh my god—feels so good—”

the bed is creaking. you’re folded like laundry. there’s an unopened cup ramen on his desk vibrating with each thrust. he’s got your legs hooked over his shoulders and your brain is doing olympic-level gymnastics trying to process how this soft-spoken guy who said “:3” just days ago is currently rearranging your guts like it’s his life's mission.

and yet—he looks so tired. his bangs are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and those dark circles? even darker now. like he hasn’t slept since you two matched. and despite looking like he could collapse at any moment, he's somehow still going. and talking.

“your tits are unreal i’m gonna die—fuck—can you feel how good this is for me?”

you groan. not from pleasure, but because your eye just caught the anime poster on the ceiling. a busty anime girl in a microscopic bikini is bending over, ass out, cheeks flushed, pussy print visible. you don’t know if you want to laugh or cry.

he moans. you flinch. he misreads the whole situation and starts palming your boobs like they’re stress balls, pinching a nipple with such confidence you wonder if he’s actually done this before or if he just watched a lot of hentai and decided that was enough.

your phone buzzes from his desk. it’s your best friend.

how’s your hinge date?

you close your eyes.

you really should’ve deleted that stupid app.

taglist: @isagistar sttaejoon-blog

a/n i absolutely did not write this from personal experience.

[seoll3miwrites]

Chocolate Brownies | GN!Y/N x Josh Washington

Masterlist

After Y/N accidentally consumes some of Chris' *special* brownies, Josh is a sweetie and takes care of them through their first high. (WC: 3400)

Warnings: Weed usage, Accidently eating an edible, Alcohol, Horror movie, minor overstimulation A/N: I'm not super familiar with weed, apologies if it's not realistic.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Damn, I didn’t know Chris could bake.” Y/N spoke as they licked their fingers, finishing their second chocolate brownie. Sam half-listened as she was busy looking for a bottle opener in the lodge’s huge kitchen. “You should probably take a brownie before I eat them all.”

Sam froze as she realised what Y/N was talking about: “Are you eating the brownies Chris made?”

“Uh huh.” Y/N replied nonchalantly, reaching for another one, and stopped when Sam slapped their hand away. “Hey! What’s your problem?”

"Sweetie, those are Chris’ *special* brownies.”

Pause.

“You mean that these have-“ “Weed in them yes.” Sam interrupted them, reaching a hand out to feel her friend’s temperature. “You feel okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah… I think so... Is two brownies a lot?”

“For someone like you, probably.” Sam was right. Y/N hadn’t taken edibles before; they’d smoked it once, but that was a year ago, and they’d coughed it up immediately before stopping. “But it shouldn’t hit for another thirty minutes or so.”

"Okay,” they trailed off, “could I stay with you while you get sorted?”

“Of course.” Sam replied sweetly; she was like the big sister Y/N never had. They sat and watched as Sam finally found a bottle opener, laughing as their friend victoriously opened her bottle of beer. The two chilled in the kitchen for a while, until Y/N's head became fuzzy, but they didn’t mind; in fact, it felt nice.

Sam turned as her friend began quietly humming to themselves, “Has it hit it, you?” Her friend could only tilt their head and smile smugly, “I understand why you guys like this now.”

"Aww, sweetie, let me get you some water.” She stroked her friend's cheek before turning away to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“I think Josh would like these...” they spoke absentmindedly, swinging their legs as they sat on the kitchen counter. Y/N found it weird how their voice sounded; it had gotten slightly deeper as much as they tried, but it remained at a slow pace. “Where’s Josh?”

“He’s where we left him, Y/N, remember?” Her voice muffled as she reached into the fridge. “Do you want me to get him for you?”

"Oh, I don’t want to bother him.” Y/N felt a blush creep onto their cheeks. They’d always had a crush on Josh ever since Sam had introduced them to each other; that was only four years ago.

The blonde simply shakes her head before leaving the kitchen for a moment before returning, Josh following behind her. “What’s up?”

Sam simply pointed at Y/N, who was busy staring into space. He approached them, standing in front of their eye line, “Y/N? You okay?”

“Joshuaaa” Y/N smiled brightly as he came into their view. “You should try Chris’ brownies; they’re really good.”

His brows furrowed for a second in thought, reaching out to their chin and lifted their face to him. He assessed them for a moment before a smirk spread across his face. “Are you high?”

“Yep,” they answered, “Although I didn’t mean to be.”

He looked between them and the brownie tray before asking, “How many did you eat?”

Instead of speaking, Y/N shyly held up two fingers as an indication, “Jesus, you’ve barely touched the stuff, and you decided to eat two weed brownies?”

“I didn’t know they had weed in them.” They shrugged, ignoring Sam as she tried to hand them the bottle of water she’d gotten for them moments before.

“You didn’t know?” A laugh escaped him, and he crossed his arms. “How do you not know they’re weed brownies? What, you thought Chris was just that good of a baker?”

Sam tired to pass Y/N the water again but was waved away as they continued to defend themselves to Josh. “I thought it was one of his grandma’s recipes, like that cake he made for my birthday.”

“I doubt his grandma was the one that taught him how to make these.” He shook his head fondly before taking the drink from Sam’s hand and shoving it towards them. “Here, drink. It’ll help with that dry mouth.”

“Not thirsty.” They stated while pushing his hand away.

“Don’t care, drink the goddam water; you’ll thank me later.” His voice was stern, and he shoved the water back towards them. For as long as Y/N and Josh knew each other, everyone knew how protective he was over his younger friend.

Y/N knew they couldn’t argue with him, so they chugged the water and then quickly hopped off the counter, causing them to stumble a little bit.

Josh’s hands shot out and wrapped around their waist to keep them steady. “Woah, take it easy. You’re gonna fall on your ass, Y/N.”

"Well, you caught me,” they replied before tapping his nose. “So I’m perfectly fine.”

He smirked and kept a hold on them still. It was almost second nature to just keep their body close to his. “Just keep your feet on the ground next time, yeah?”

“‘Kay.” They replied simply, “Where’s Chris?”

“I’m sure he’s around; want us to go look for him?” He pulled away from them, taking a step back so they could move.

"I wanna thank him for his magic brownies."

“You really wanna thank him, or are you just wanting more brownies?” He asked with a raised eyebrow and crossed his arms. Y/N just shrugged in reply, earning a fond chuckle from Josh, “C’mon then, let’s go find Chris so you can thank him for the brownies.”

He carefully guided from the kitchen, walking to the living room, where Chris was sitting awkwardly making conversation with Ashley and Jess. Once Y/N eyes focused on Chris, they suddenly shot from Josh’s side. Nearly pouncing on him as they hug him from behind.

"BONJOUR MY MAGIC BROWNIE MAN!" They yelled in his ear as they kissed him on both cheeks.

Chris was clearly shocked, his eyes widening as he jumped from the couch and turned to face them. “Y/N, Jesus, you scared me.”

Without Chris sitting down, Y/N was now sprawled over the back of the couch, looking rather uncomfortable. He opted to ignore Josh’s mumble of “pussy” and turned to face his friend, “The fuck is wrong with you.”

"I'm high," Y/N replied simply, as if it explained everything.

“High? How can you be high? You don’t even smoke—oh, OH!” Chris’ eyes became wide with realisation, and he quickly lifted Y/N’s head up to look into their eyes. “How many did you take?”

"Only two," Y/N answered truthfully, their voice still slow and a hint deeper than it usually was. "Why? Is that a lot?"

Josh chuckled again at their confusion, while Chris looked even more shocked if that was possible. "Two? You're a lightweight; you're gonna be on your ass for three hours minimum!"

"Well, I didn’t mean to!” Y/N yelled back, “I didn’t even know they had weed in them.”

"That's your own fault, moron," Chris responded bluntly, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. Then he turned to Josh, with eyebrows slightly furrowed in suspicion as he asked, "And where were you when our dear friend was getting high off their ass?”

Josh laughed quietly. "Relax, Coachie, I had nothing to do with this."

Y/N spoke up determinedly, "Hey, don’t be mean; Josh said he'd look after me.”

Chris rolled his eyes and let Y/N go, letting their head fall back down. "Of course he did. He's practically your knight in shining armour," he remarked sarcastically.

He turned back to a still-clueless Y/N. "Seriously though, how did you not realise they were weed brownies? They smell stronger than the skunk's den near my place."

By this point, Y/N was slowly sliding off the back of the couch and onto the floor. To the point their face was now in the sofa’s pillows, which muffled their voice as they responded.

"Alright, come on, let's get you somewhere more comfortable," Josh suggested as he walked over to Y/N, pulling them upright with ease as if they were a ragdoll. However, in this case, the ragdoll in question had a tendency to giggle at nearly everything and was finding the whole situation rather amusing.

“Chris is right, you’re my own personal hero.” Y/N said in between giggles, leaning their back into his, allowing him to drag them around the couch.

Josh simply hummed to himself, then he dragged them around the couch and made his way towards the stairs. "C'mon, you lightweight, let's get you to your room, yeah?"

Instead, Y/N fought against him by suddenly going limp in his arms. "Nooo, I'm not tired yet.”

“Shit!” Josh exclaimed as he struggled to hold Y/N up at the sudden added weight. “Jesus, stop doing that!”

“Can we watch a movie instead?”

Josh tried his best to hold the limp figure up. "Alright, alright, fine." He agreed, "We'll watch a movie."

As he spoke, he effortlessly scooped them up, with one arm under their legs and the other behind their back. He had never had a problem carrying them before, and it was the quickest way to ensure they didn’t fall.

He carried them to the couch and gently placed them down so they were sitting before heading to the DVD player and opening the cupboard with all the movies inside. “So what do you wanna watch?”

“Wait, I’m gonna text everyone and ask them to come." Y/N explained as they pulled out their phone and sent a quick text in the group chat, “We should decide together.”

Josh just raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing as he watched them quickly type out a message. Eventually the other’s made their way into the living room from wherever they were before.

“So Y/N,” Mike began with an amused smile as he read of his phone, “Mind telling us what ‘has gus come to live rom’ means?”

Emily stifled a giggle while Sam covered her mouth to hide a smirk. Mike was clearly the only one brave enough to ask the question.

Y/N furrowed their eyebrows in confusion. “I didn’t write that.” They said as they looked at their phone once more, “I wrote, Hey guys, come to the living room.”

“Are you fucking high or something?” Emily asked harshly, although she meant it affectionately, “You basically wrote in gibberish.”

"Yeah, I am..." Y/N answered honestly, a dopey smile on their face. "And Chris's brownies were really good."

Chris's face went bright red as everyone turned to stare at him. "You gave them weed brownies?!" Ashley gasped, slightly horrified. "How many did they eat?"

"Two," Chris admitted sheepishly, "I didn't think they'd actually eat them!"

"You ate what?" Matt asked, clearly shocked but more concerned about how Y/N would feel. He knew that a few of his friends smoked, but Y/N never did, meaning they had a low tolerance for that sort of thing. "Are they okay?"

Josh rolled his eyes and went to sit in the chair next to Y/N. "They're fine, Matt. Don't stress."

Y/N nodded fondly before grabbing Josh’s arm. “Josh’s taking care of me tonight!”

"Of course he is," Mike said with an amused smirk. "Josh always takes care of Y/N."

"I'm just looking out for my younger friend," Josh said with a shrug. "Anyway, what movie are we watching?"

"What if we watch a horror movie?" Matt suggested with a mischievous grin. "It'll be fun to see how Y/N reacts when they're high."

"No way, Matt," Josh said firmly. "We're not giving Y/N a panic attack."

At the same time as Josh’s words, Y/N also spoke up, “Great idea, Matt, we could watch The Conjuring!”

Josh frowned at Y/N. "You don't like scary movies," he reminded them. "I'm not letting you watch The Conjuring."

"I don't see why we can't watch it," Emily spoke up. "It'll be funny."

"It's not funny, Emily," Josh said, his tone bordering on annoyed. "Y/N doesn't like to be scared, and we don't want to take advantage of them when they're not in their right mind."

“Jesus Josh, no need to be so dramatic,” Jess spoke up from next to Emily with a smirk. “Y/N is a grown up; they can handle themselves.”

"That's not the point, Jess," Josh replied, his frustration evident in his voice. "They're not in their right mind, and I'm not letting you take advantage of that."

"Oh, come on, dude, lighten up,” Mike said as he patted Josh on the back. “We’re supposed to be letting go this weekend, remember?”

“Seriously Mike.” Josh muttered in reply as his eyes narrowed, ready to lay into his friend.

"Okay, okay, enough," Ashley interjected before the situation could escalate further. "How about we watch something light-hearted instead? Comedy maybe?"

Josh let out a sigh of relief, glad that the conversation had shifted to a more reasonable suggestion. "Yeah, that sounds better," he said, looking around at the group for their approval. "Y'all good with that?”

Unbeknownst to them, while they were all arguing over what movie to watch, Y/N had slipped from Josh’s grip and had approached the DVD cupboard. After finding the movie they wanted to watch, Y/N had simply placed it in the DVD player and pressed play. It wasn’t until the opening scene of a man loudly screaming in pain loudly echoed through the room did the others notice what had just happened.

"What the- Y/N! I told you we weren't watching a horror movie!" Josh exclaimed, his irritation clear.

Instead of answering, their eyes were fixated on the screen. They were completely silent for a while, until they finally spoke up when the movie versions of the Warrens appeared on screen. “Fuck. They’re so hot.”

Josh groaned in frustration, "Y/N. You’re way too high for this.”

"Come on, Josh," Sam said teasingly. "You can't blame Y/N for having a thing for Vera Farmiga."

“Shut up, Sam.”

“Oh Josh, that hurt’s my feelings.” Sam replied in mock hurt.

Meanwhile, Y/N had finally moved away from the TV and back towards the couch. Except instead of sitting back in the spot they were in, Y/N decided a better option would be to sit right in the centre of Josh’s lap.

"What are you doing?" Josh asked, slightly taken aback by Y/N's sudden intimacy. However, he didn't push them away, merely adjusting his position to accommodate them. He put his hands on their waist, holding them steady as they nestled into his lap.

“You’re comfy,” Was all Y/N said as the other’s simply smirked at each other before, taking their own seat to watch the movie; Sam now sitting in the spot Y/N used to be in.

As the movie continued, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a little shiver up their back and turned towards Chris, “Could you pass a blanket, please, Chris?”

“Sure,” he tossed them a large black fluffy throw, which Y/N happily placed on themselves and, as a result, Josh as well.

Josh was glad Y/N was comfortable, and he couldn't help but chuckle at the situation. "You're lucky I like you," he muttered under his breath as he tightened his arms around Y/N.

“Mhmm, I like you too.” They said as they shuffled further into his chest and rested their head on Josh’s shoulder. “Maybe I like you a bit more.”

“Shut up and watch the movie.” He responded fondly as he wrapped his arm around Y/N and pulled them closer.

The group continued to watch the movie in mostly silence, except for the occasional screams at the several jump scares. At some point throughout the movie, Y/N had adjusted in Josh’s lap and was sitting sideways with their head resting against his neck.

During the climax of the film, Y/N felt a bit dizzy and nauseous, so with a groan, they hid their face in Josh's neck. Yet despite not being able to see the film, the sound effects and voices were making them feel very overstimulated.

Noticing their distress, Josh reached his hand up and began to stroke her hair softly as he whispered over the movie, "Hey, you doing okay?”

Y/N couldn’t speak suddenly; their mind felt like mush; all they could do was mumble and shake their head against his neck.

Josh's concern deepens as he feels Y/N shake their head against his neck. He turns his head a bit to get a better look at their face, but all he can see is the disoriented look in their eyes.

"Hey," he says gently, "can you look at me for a second?"

Y/N tried to lift their head up but was struggling; they felt like it weighed nearly a tonne and couldn’t move. Their breathing grew heavy with panic, and tears weld in their eyes.

Josh noticed the tears welling up in Y/N's eyes and the panic setting in. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he said in a soothing tone. "Just take some deep breaths, okay? I'm right here with you."

Swallowing harshly, Y/N found their voice long enough to whisper into his neck, “I don’t wanna be here.” Before letting out a small sob.

"Shh, it's okay," he reassured, gently stroking their hair and using his own body to try and shield Y/N from the outside world. "We can leave, okay? We can go to your room if you want."

“Please…” Their voice was small now but still loud enough for Josh to hear.

Josh quickly gathered Y/N in his arms and stood; the others looked away from the movie at his movements. Watching as he began to carry them away from the room.

“Is Y/N okay, Josh?” Sam asked with a furrowed brow as motherly concern spread across her face.

He paused and turned back to the group. “They’re not feeling too good, so I think I should just take them to bed.”

"Alright, man," Mike spoke up. "Be sure to take care of them, yeah? And let us know if you need any help."

Josh nodded in agreement. "Don't worry, I've got it," he replied, his grip on Y/N tightening slightly.

With that, Josh turned back around and made his way up the stairs and into Y/N’s room. After a little struggle, he was able to push the door open and gently lay them down on the bed. He tucked them gently before moving around the room to make sure they had everything they needed: a glass of water, some painkillers, and a bucket, just in case.

He gently stroked their cheek before quietly moving to the door. “Wait!” A voice called back to Josh, caring for him to turn around, "Stay, please.”

"You sure you want me to stay?" he asked quietly.

“At least until I fall asleep.”

Josh nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Of course," he replied softly. "I'll stay."

He sat down above the covers next to Y/N and took their hand in his. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Y/N answered, “sorry for freaking you out.”

"No need to apologise," he replied, shaking his head softly. "You were in quite a state. I'm just glad you're feeling better now."

He continued to stroke Y/N's hair, his fingers weaving through the soft strands. "You'll be okay, I promise," he said reassuringly. "Just get some rest, okay?

“Mmhmm,” Was all Y/N said in reply; their eyes were closed and their breathing was growing softer as they drifted to sleep. “Thanks for looking after me.”

"No need to thank me," he said quietly. "I'm just happy to be here. Now, go to sleep, alright?"

He stayed sat beside them for a few more moments, watching as they entered a full state of sleep. Once he was sure they were deep asleep, he carefully brushed a stray lock of hair from their face and sighed softly.

In their deep sleep, Y/N breathy felt a soft touch on their forehead. Sighing contently, they fell deeper in sleep, not realising that Josh had placed a kiss on their head.

“Sleep tight, Y/N.” He whispered into the quiet, “I’ll be here to take care of you, always.”

[bookie-bookdust]

Secret For One ✒️

One should always carefully examine the labels of the items they are, ahem, borrowing. -or- In which using some anti-cheating ink accidentally reveals to the entire seventh year class what you and Seb were up to before your Herbology exam (kissing – the answer is kissing).

(This was my first ever HL one shot when I forced my introverted ass to actually post something. I can't believe how much time has passed - this was 11/2023. I didn't know a single person in the fandom and had been lurking since the game released. And now I'm here, more insane than ever😊) Pairings: Sebastian Sallow x You/Reader Word Count: ~4400 Rating: Teen Read it below the cut, or at ao3/wp: (MASTERLIST)

It wasn’t uncommon to use the Undercroft for studying especially after curfew.

You had a nasty Herbology exam bright and early tomorrow. It was meant to be a mere pathetic taste of the N.E.W.T at the end of the school year, and your notes were beginning to look like runes.

You rubbed your eyes until little lights danced in your vision. “Ominis had the right idea going to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“Don’t let him hear that,” Seb murmured, peering up at you from his textbook.

“What? You think all the other times we’ve forced him into premature graying wasn’t proof enough he’s usually right?”

“No. I don’t think so.” He grinned.

Ominis had excused himself hours ago, in a sour mood after receiving a letter from everyone’s favorite dark aristocratic family, the Gaunts. It’d left you and Seb to the candles as they slowly dripped down to nubs. They at least helped with the coldness of the space, and you always managed to sneak in one spiced candle so the Undercroft smelled of cinnamon. Ominis had given one hard warning not to set the place in flames before storming out.

“These Mandrake illustrations are beginning to look like caricatures of Prewett.” You sighed, slamming your textbook shut. “What time is it?”

“Late enough to hallucinate Leander Prewett.” Seb tipped back in his chair, smirking at you with tired eyes.

In the candlelight, the hazel glowed almost black. His brown curls were ruffled, his collar askew, and tie undone. The smallest sliver of chest showed as he absentmindedly fiddled with his top button. You swear you spotted the same freckles there that splattered his cheeks.

Merlin, how did he always look so good? You’d been asking that question for the last two years, and you still hadn’t found an answer.

You poked at the fraying edge of your textbook, biting your lip. “We should probably head to bed. Last time we pulled an all-nighter we almost went to the wrong classroom.”

“Sharp loved that,” he scoffed. “Do you know after class he casted a sobriety spell on me?”

“No,” you gasped, sitting up. “You never told me that.”

“He really thought I’d be drinking fire whiskey at 8 in the morning. It still baffles me. I would love to know if he had the instinct to check me because of a prior experience.”

“Do you think Sharp used to be a bad boy?” You cackled at the thought.

“Trying to sneak a look at feminine ankles dangling from their stools in potions? Of course.”

“Ankles.” You snorted, remembering Weasley’s lecture she’d prepared earlier in the year on the proper rules for society witches now that they were seventh years. The ordeal had left you fending off fantasies of a certain freckled Slytherin with a penchant for dark magic. You’d avoided him for two whole days before you could calm your blushing cheeks.

“How many times have you seen my ankles?” you asked.

Sebastian flashed you a hilarious face, half amusement, half absurdity. “Why, I believe they’re burned into my retinas. Though so is you blasting some witch who only knew the levitation charm off a cliff.”

“I wonder what would make Weasley faint first.”

“Ankles,” he said matter of factly, nudging yours gently from under the table.

You kicked him back, and he caught your leg, squeezing your skin with his burning hand before letting it drop.

Damn, damn, damn. Your ankle tingled all the way up. Why did he have to go around doing things like that and expect you not to fall right out of your seat?

“Alright. Enough about ankles. Let’s get going.” You forced yourself to focus on stacking your notes and books and not on that little sliver of his shirt that seemed to open more each second.

You grabbed your quill, hesitating on the ink you’d “borrowed” from one of the supply closets in the DADA tower. You should probably return it. Tomorrow after the exam. Then you’d take another trip to Hogsmeade to update your ink stores.

Maybe you could make a trip out of it. Invite Poppy along with Seb and Ominis. It’d been your own personal project trying to get Ominis and Poppy to speak more after you’d caught them blushing in Muggle Studies about Muggle matrimony traditions. Maybe Seb would help. He enjoyed torturing Ominis.

“Have you noticed how—”

Seb yelped, a crash making you spill your notes on the floor. You nearly dropped the ink pot, saving it in seconds.

He’d tipped too far back in his chair and now lay flat on his back. Eyes wide in surprise, he started laughing.

“Are you okay?” You rushed over to him.

“Maybe you’re right. We need to get to bed.”

You offered a hand, and he awkwardly unfolded his legs from beneath the chair. “Thank—”

You stepped forward—right on your notes. The floor disappeared beneath you. You toppled over him, the ink spilling across both of you.

“Dammit, I am so sorry,” you cursed.

Merlin, Seb radiated heat like a furnace, and your arm was somehow caught behind his back and…Get off him! You forced yourself up on your knees.

“It’s alright. No major injuries.” He insisted. “Just some ink.”

 “Let me…” You scrubbed at his shirt, smearing it worse. “There’s surely some stain removal spell. Do you have another school shirt in the meantime?”

He grabbed your wrists, stilling your panicking hands you just now realized you’d been rubbing all over his chest and stomach. “I own more than one shirt.” He laughed. “It’s alright.”

You straightened. “Right. Of course you do.” Your attention fixed on your hands, stained black. “Well, let’s get this cleaned up before Ominis has a conniption.”

You moved to stand when his fingers tightened on your wrists.

“What—” Your mouth snapped shut.

You two were close. Very close. Mere inches apart, one of his legs at your side caging you in, his other tucked under him. You leaned forward on your knees so you naturally tipped forward.

Seb stared at you, and you stared back. The freckles dotting his cheeks and nose seemed darker, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. You fixated on the small scar at his upper full lip from fifth year. He’d earned that one from one of the Ashwinder camps.

The last time you’d been this close, he’d fallen asleep, head plopping in your lap when you’d been rained out in a cave last year. You’d been forced to sit on your hands to stop from stroking his stupid hair.

But this time he was awake, and his eyes studied you in that way he studied everything. As if you were a dark book he still hadn’t cracked. A forbidden spell he needed to cast. A secret he wanted all the power himself to wield. Had he always looked at you like that? Surely not. You couldn’t remember. You couldn’t think at all right now as the heat of his body rolled over you.

He tugged you closer, and your chest thudded against his, your heart screaming in your chest.

“I, uh,” you stuttered, licking your lips, and it made his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“You have ink on your chin,” he murmured.

You blinked, barely processing his words before his lips met yours. You sat motionless at first, two different sections of your brain warring; one in denial that this wasn’t another one of your embarrassing dreams, the other, screaming to kiss him back.

He released your wrists, moving to your hair. The sensation spread goosebumps down your arms, and your eyes drifted shut.

You responded instantly, mouth opening to him, hands prying at that stupid little crevice of skin between his buttons.

He jumped. “Your hands are cold,” he murmured against your lips.

“Sorry.” You pulled away.

“Come back,” he frowned. He grabbed your hands, pulling them deeper into his shirt as he fumbled with the buttons.

You gasped at his smooth warm skin, leaning forward before you could stop yourself, planting a kiss at the base of his neck. You’d never been so obsessed with freckles. The constellations of them running along his chest. You’d trace them if you hadn’t dumped the rest of the ink already.

“Fuck,” he groaned, digging into your hair again to pull your face back up to his. His fingers teased the hem of your shirt, and you pressed closer, your legs going to either side as you straddled him.

He slipped under your shirt, his hands burning as they traced up your back. You moaned into his mouth, shivering even if the Undercroft was suddenly scalding.

More. In the dreams this kept going, and you found your hands working automatically to yank his shirt over his head.

Merlin, forgive me. He kissed down your neck, teeth meeting the corner of your jaw and—

A slam of metal made you jump apart. The high squeals of Peeves laughing from somewhere above you in the DADA tower echoed through the Undercroft.

Your breaths calmed, and the two of you locked eyes for a long, silent moment.

“You have ink on your chin now.” You cleared your throat, smoothing your hair down. It’d been pulled straight from its pins, and you could not care less for the first time in your life. You were sitting in Sebastian Sallow’s lap, a mess, in the middle of the night. His mouth was looking well-loved, his skin unbearably soft, and you did everything not to tackle him to the ground.

You kissed. Kissed. More than kissed, really. After pining for years, you’d somehow ended up snogging half asleep in the Undercroft. What did this mean for the two of you now?

Seb wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “All that ankle talk really got to me.”

You shoved his face away, laughing. He grabbed you by the waist, yanking you down with him so you pressed against him. You brushed his curls from his eyes, and Merlin they truly were as soft as they looked. What conditioner was he using?

“I have nothing clever to say for once,” he murmured, studying your face. His eyes were calm, reverent in the candle glow. How a devil looked angelic was beyond you. For once you could openly gawk at him, and it wasn’t considered ill-mannered.

“Nothing at all?” you gasped. “I’m shocked.”

“Alert the Prophet, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “I always thought this would happen in the Undercroft, but for a while there I was banking on a damp old cave in the highlands.”

You sat up. “Wait. You’ve wanted this?”

He leaned on his elbows, eyebrow raised. “Is that so hard to believe? I didn’t do that for scientific discovery just now.”

You swallowed hard, unable to look at him suddenly as you thought of Weasley’s lecture. A witch should seek a courtship. Any premarital acts are frowned upon even in wizarding society. While they’re not as strict as Muggle tradition, there are certain rules that should be followed.

Woops. That was out the window.

But what would your classmates think if you strolled into class holding hands? Could you deal with the teasing? The watchful eyes?

“Let’s not tell anyone about this,” you blurted out.

He blinked, contemplating for a moment before nodding in agreement. “Sure. That would be for the best. Wouldn’t be able to sneak around the castle anymore with people paying closer attention.”

He had a point.

“Let’s clean up the mess. Ominis will faint if we leave inky fingerprints all over the place.”

A quick cleaning charm did the trick as if this had never happened. Seb’s steady kiss was the only proof convincing you this wasn’t another one of your horny dreams.

Would you have to tell him about those? Absolutely not.

You sat, tucked against each other, talking well into the night.

***

You shifted, and your neck protested with a sharp ache.

“Ugh,” you grumbled, rubbing your eyes.

Where were you, and why did it feel like you’d been sleeping in the corridor?

You surveyed your surroundings, taking in rows of melted candles, pillars, and the triptych.

The Undercroft.

Something shifted beside you, tickling your cheek. Sebastian Sallow nuzzled into your shoulder, his shirt still askew.

You squinted at the clock.

The herbology exam.

“Wake up!” you shouted, stumbling to your feet as Seb jolted awake with a yelp.

“The exam! We fell asleep.” You fought on your boots, your tie, tossing Seb his uniform robe. “Hurry!”

He blinked, dazedly, following your instructions without question before the last of his sleepy fog left his brain.

“Oh shit.” He flung a stream of curses, fixing your tie and smoothing your hair as you tripped out of the Undercroft and into the DADA tower.

The two of you rushed to class, nearly taking out a Hufflepuff Prefect who threatened detention behind you. You would have laughed if it were different circumstances.

“Go!” You shoved Seb. He grabbed your hand, dragging you behind him as you stumbled down the steps to the atrium and through the greenhouse.

You caught yourself as you entered the classroom, straightening your robes and sweater, and taking a moment to calm your heavy breathing. Your classmates glanced at you with brief interest before returning to quizzing each other.

Gone were your typical pots and supplies, and each stool held a roll of parchment and a feathered quill and ink pot.

“Good luck,” Sebastian murmured. His hand grazed yours for mere seconds, but you might as well had misfired an incendio spell how it licked your body in heat. You itched at your cheek, hoping no one noticed you blushing.

“Good morning, my lovely pupils.” Professor Garlick swooped in from behind you, pinching your cheek before ruffling Garreth’s hair. She floated across the greenhouse to her podium.

It was too much energy for this time of morning, and it made you think once again of the constant whisperings of what plants Professor Garlick sampled to make her so pleasant all the time. Whoever cracked that secret would make a fortune.

“You will find twenty questions before you, and you will have the remainder of the class to complete the exam. Please answer in complete sentences; at least two paragraphs for each section. Once you are finished, you may exit the greenhouse. Do not wait for your friends in the atrium. The plants will tell me. You may begin.”

She snapped her fingers, and the scrolls unfurled.

It was a grueling hour.  You swore half of the content hadn’t even been addressed in your readings, and you felt your heart sink with each question you left a strike beside to go back and review. This would not end well.

You were in the fictional portion of your exam—which meant completely pulling nonsense out of thin air and acting as if it made sense. Some students had finished—Ominis of course with a haughty smirk—but not many even with little time left in class.

“Excuse me,” Garlick’s voice rang through the quiet. “Why do you keep looking at your sleeve, Mr. Prewett?”

The scratching of quills stilled.

“I’m sorry, Professor.” Prewett tugged his sleeves down over his wrists. “There was a…beetle. It was distracting me moving about on the table.”

“Hmm.” Garlick tapped her chin. “I’d love to give the benefit of the doubt, but revelio.” She swished her wand, and you felt a zap along your hands. It wasn’t like ancient magic, no. Not at all. This was worse. Much worse.

“I’m sorry, Leander. The ink doesn’t lie. You have notes written on your arm.”

But Leander’s pleading was drowned out by a fit of gasps and giggles.

You gaped at the ink staining your fingers and palms, your clothes. Obvious handprints molded at your waist and chest, and you tugged your robes closed. They were the same marks from last night you’d spelled away. Your gaze snapped to Sebastian. He wore the matching stains on his own hands, up his neck, his chin, even at the corner of his mouth.

Oh Merlin. Oh no oh no oh no.

You stood abruptly, your chair crashing behind you as you desperately scrubbed at the ink. You grabbed the ink pot, the same you’d taken from the supply closet, reading the label as an anti-cheating variety.

How could you be so stupid?

There was no mistaking the stains. Anyone daft could guess you’d…

“Partaking in some extracurriculars, you two?” Garreth giggled, and you would have hexed him if you weren’t busy shielding yourself.

You’d been through harrowing, life threatening events. Ranrok, dark wizards, a goblin war, inferi, abduction, even death, but none had ever made you feel like this. As if you’d forgotten to put pants on this morning and stood at the head of the Great Hall singing off key.

Seb let his head dip toward the ceiling as he sighed, scrubbing his face. It gave a better view of all the marks on his neck. “By Salazar…”

“Class dismissed. We will deal with your essays later.” Professor Garlick raised her voice over the chatter, casting another spell as the parchments snapped closed, the chairs dumping the students from their seats.

“Mr. Prewett, I will detail your punishment in my office in one hour. You two, with me.”

Seb met your eyes, fighting his sheepish grin that you refused to return (and failed) as the corners of your mouth twisted upward.

And you’d been giggling over ankles. This? This would be the scandal of the year.

Garlick magicked two chairs beside each other and directed the two of you to have a seat. Seb sat closer than expected, his knee brushing your leg. He nudged your ankle with his boot, and you resisted the urge to kick him.

“Well, you weren’t cheating. I suppose that’s a positive.” Professor Garlick glanced over the ink splotches before casting a different spell to clean them. You’d have to remember that one. “Anti-cheating ink. Very helpful for tests. Especially big ones like the N.E.W.T.s. Professor Sharp warned me about your sticky fingers.” She cast you a sharply raised eyebrow with a smile. “But I thought Aesop was just being Aesop.”

Seb shot you a knowing look, and this time you did kick him. You’d had this conversation many times before. You’d developed the—hobby, as you liked to call it—of taking loose items. Even if they were loose behind locked doors and chests. If no one was going to claim them, why let it all go to waste? You’d only been caught a handful of times, but it saved you supplies, galleons, wardrobe items…it wasn’t hurting anyone. Except your own reputation now, it seemed.

“You’re lucky it was me and not Professor Weasley. She would have dragged you both to the Ministry for a marriage certificate.”

Seb choked, and you sank in your chair.

Why? Whyyy? You wished you could kick her too. Instead, you blushed, mortified, unable to even stomach sneaking a peak at Seb’s face.

“Oh, look at you two!” She clapped her hands together. “You both light up as red as tomatoes when you blush. Can you imagine the squishy bright cheeks your children would have?”

“Professor!” you hissed, sinking further in your seat. At this point you’d be under the table soon.

“Yes, yes, I suppose that’s enough, isn’t it? You’ll be dealing with the teasing enough from your peers. I will have to deduct ten points from your houses for theft and disruption of class. Now off you go. A whole exam scrapped.”

You stormed ahead, but Seb kept up with you easily. He looked rather cheerful for being caught, and you groaned.

“I am so sorry.”

He laughed. “Was all of this a ruse to take me off the market?” He smirked, eyes glittering as he tugged at your tie. You tugged his back harder, and he banged into you, having to catch you both from smacking into a Venomous Tentacula.

“No! I lost my last pot of ink, and I’d spotted some in a supply closet and thought I’d borrow it until I could get to Hogsmeade.” You sighed. “I didn’t think to read the label.”

“A kleptomaniac, if I’ve ever seen one.” He winked. Why was he being so calm about this? Were all boys the same? One good snog, and you could hex them and they’d still be grinning like fools.

You exited the greenhouse, and a crowd waited in the atrium. You nearly turned on your heel back into the classroom when the onslaught of howls and whistles greeted you.

“About time! When’s the Save the Date being sent out?” Garreth called, and Natty shooshed him.

“I better be invited.” Natty nudged you as you passed, and you shot her a withering stare. She shrugged with a grin.

“We will never hear the end of this.” You squeezed through the crowd.

“Not unless Hobhouse does something stupid again,” Seb murmured too close to your ear, and you jumped when his hand found yours. Did he like this attention? You’d thought it was a mutual agreement to keep this quiet, yet he basked in the teasing, playing along as you stared red faced and dumbfounded with no witty comebacks. So much for being clever.

Ominis appeared at the back of the crowd, the tip of his wand a red beacon, the guiding grace out of the masses.

“Thank goodness, Ominis.”

“Undercroft. Now,” he whispered, and you and Seb followed helplessly behind him.

***

“I’m speechless.” Ominis paced, and Seb caught your eye with a smirk. You heard those same words almost weekly, yet Ominis always found something to say regardless.

“Ominis—” Seb began.

“Shush!” Ominis pointed his wand at the two of you. His face was twisted in a scowl, striking against his carved features. “Traceable ink! Snogging when gossip of courting is at an all-time high. And in the Undercroft of all places!” He sniffed. “Desecrating a place like this. The audacity. This is a safe place. Are you two mad? Do you know what you’ve done to her reputation, Sebastian?”

“The Hero of Hogwarts? Troll hunter? War ender? That reputation?” He pinched your side.

You shoved him aside. “We were going to keep it a secret.”

“Oh please. The two of you would have been caught snogging in a broom closet by the end of the week. You’re about as subtle as Peeves.”

You chucked a pillow at him, which wasn’t fair as it hit him square in the face. Ominis cast a hex in the wrong direction. It bounced off a vase, and you dodged the rebound.

“He’s not wrong,” Seb murmured.

“Honestly, the two of you,” you huffed, exasperated. “I am an adult. I can make my own decisions, thank you very much.”

“What are you two going to decide now then, hm? The entire castle will know by noon that the two of you had your actual fingerprints all over each other.”

“Keep up appearances, I suppose.” Seb slung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and planting a kiss on your cheek. Your heart nearly leapt through your throat.

“You’re being very calm about all of this, Sebastian. Are you sure you didn’t plan this?” Ominis asked.

“How could I?” He shot you a charming smile. “You think I’d really dump her remaining ink, knowing her klepto tendencies that she’d carelessly steal an anti-cheating ink pot without reading the label? Distracting her so she’d spill it over the two of us and then make my move so we’d be revealed to the class?”

You blinked back at him, dumbfounded. “When you word it like that…”

“I’ve had enough of you two.” Ominis grimaced. “I’m leaving. Do not expect any damage control from me on this one. You two can solve it for yourselves. Professor Weasley will be on you faster than a starving hound. Hope you’re prepared with an excuse.”

“Love you too, Omi,” Seb called after him.

Ominis waved his hand dismissively, muttering under his breath.

You said nothing else until you heard the gate closed.

“So how long would you like to wait before we make appearances again?” Seb asked. “Skip classes for the day? We can go to Hogsmeade. Or the Forbidden Forest. Your choice.”

You ripped from his hold, searching the Undercroft.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for my last ink pot.” You shoved some books out of the way, checking beneath cushions, behind the triptych, but there was no sign of it. “That speech of yours was a little too detailed.”

“You really think I spent all that time setting this up?” he laughed, drifting to your side.

When you ignored him, he stopped you in your tracks, turning you to face him. “Not even a revealing charm? I’m insulted.”

“Good idea.” You cast revelio, but no ink pots appeared.

“You’re delightful when you’re delusional.” He took your face in his hands, thumbs tracing your cheeks. “Is it really so bad the whole school knows I like you?”

You paused, a silly smile spreading across your face. “You like me?”

He tilted his head, grinning. “I thought that was obvious at this point, Love.”

You searched his face for some sort of joke or trick, but at his earnest eyes you relented. “Damn you, Sallow.” He laughed at that, pressing his lips to yours. “I guess it isn’t the worst thing that everyone knows. I just wish it wasn’t in such an embarrassing way. At least all these witches know now if I catch them ogling you again, I’ll hex them into an early graduation.”

“Ogling me? Who?” He raised an eyebrow with a wicked glint in his eye.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, now I have to know.”

“Absolutely not!”

You broke away from him, and he chased after you between the pillars until you tripped over the victimized pillow you’d hurled at Ominis. Seb met you halfway, and you found yourself pressed against him, kissing him as if you’d been doing this for the last two years.

What you didn’t know was behind the tallest stacked crates near the Undercroft entrance, some splattered ink stained the inside of a dusty old vase.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Office hours.

Pairing: modern!Javier Peña x f!reader Words count: 3059 Rating: +18, NSFW, MDNI

Summary: You should concentrate on work. But you can't do that with the charming bastard you share the office with in front of you. Why not find a more fun way to spend your office hours? Tags: porn with very little plot, modern setting (they have computers and chats), POV second person, reader is described wearing a skirt, blouse and heels & having pussy and breasts, no other description of her is given, Javier is an unhinged menace and has a filthy mouth but so is reader, dirty talk, teasing, improper use of office chat, cockwarming, masturbation (f!receiving), pet names, slurs, pussy pronouns, mention of a sex toy, no Spanish because I don't really want to butcher another language since I am doing this extensively with English 💀, squirting, sexual activities in a public place, no age gap, age unspecified so it’s up to you (they’re both in their 30s in my head), the work they do is not specified so you can imagine what you want. I think it’s all? If I realized that I forgot something I’ll add it right away.

A/N: This is the second time I've tried to write Javi P and I'm terrified but because it came out on its own in a frenzy: here we gooo. I'm ovulating and I'm horny af. LOL It probably doesn't make sense, I don't have a beta reader, I reread it myself but my eyes are tired, English is not my first language so I ask your forgiveness if you find mistakes. I hope you like the dirty talk of this thing, I feel like it came out particularly well…fingers crossed.

You should really focus on your work, you have a deadline to meet tomorrow and you're still behind. And you certainly can't focus with a certain coworker in front of you. When they decided that you had to share a big office you secretly decided that your boss was an idiot. How productive could you have been with Javier Peña sitting at the desk in front of you? Obviously your boss expected you both to be adults, capable of controlling your own instincts. What you thought instead was that it would be the hell that it actually is. Because Javier is a charming bastard and you have had a crush on him since day one and he's definitely the type to flirt with all the women in the office.

You hate his guts and you fight practically all the time over any little inconvenience, but the creeping attraction between you, that feeling of always being on the edge of a cliff, that constant urge to provoke him to see which one of you would crack first never left. 

And today, when he showed up in yet another shirt that left his chest partially exposed-because the bastard in question wasn't the least bit interested in buttoning the last few buttons-and those damn skinny jeans straight from the ‘70 that on anyone would have looked silly and anachronistic but on him did nothing but send you into a frenzy of desire, you felt it might be the last straw.

Appropriate office attire does not exist for him, he only wears a tie for meetings with your boss but the rest of the time he dresses as he wants and apparently no one says anything to him. Fucking great, just what you need, seeing his chest displayed right in front of your eyes all the damn time.

You never even liked mustaches but now you couldn't help thinking how much you wished they would rub against your folds as he lapped at your cunt. You dreamed of him carrying your scent on him for the rest of the day, dreamed of kissing him and tasting you on his tongue.

You dreamed of getting up and going to sit on his lap as you continued to type the report you promised your boss and his cock rubbed against your thighs, your panties, and even better your bare pussy. You thought about it practically all morning and got so wet that you risked wetting your office chair, so much so that on your lunch break you had to hide in one of the bathroom stalls and take them off, to store them in a bag inside your purse. 

But now you are naked under your skirt. Which is even worse and makes things even harder for you. You jotted down in your mind that it was time to think about bringing a change of underwear with you. Now the fact that Javi was on the other side of the room was even more unbearable than before, setting you on fire. The temptation to do something stupid and make yourself a needy fool was eating you up. 

Javi looks up for a moment from the documents he is working on, casting one of his typical glances at you, big brown captivating eyes that stare at you many times during the day, only for a few seconds at a time. Minutes of each day flow so slowly when he is in front of you. You really shouldn't think about him; you're here to work. In theory. And you need this damn salary if you don't want to live without electricity or run out of food. The selfish asshole in front of you however doesn't seem to care that you will probably be fired soon and end up under a bridge, because he continues to tease you in any way he can. One day it's a quip about your nail polish, the next about your overly revealing blouse, the next about the length of your skirt. And then there are those glances, sometimes accompanied by a wink, mischievous smirks, a tilt of his head, little things that no one ever notices but you. He never pushes the envelope, but oh, by now you know he wants to. A week ago he asked you if you wanted to have a drink after work, and you said no, absolutely not, never mix business and pleasure, it was a very strict policy in your department. 

You regretted it right away, but what else could you have done? He's not someone you can trust.

He didn't push further, of course, which made you even more impatient, nervous, incredibly horny.

It's a challenge now, you have to have him. And you have to have him before your female colleagues, at least the ones on your floor. You always notice how they look at him, languid and sweet eyes, lip licks and lower lip nibbled, hair moved behind their ear, every time he walks down the hallway of your floor, there is no lady who doesn’t stop working at least for a moment to marvel at him.

It’s late now, the sun has long since gone down, almost everyone around you has been gone for at least 30 minutes, but you have been distracted all morning and now you have to catch up. You hoped he would leave with the others but he stayed here. You’re doomed at this point, you can’t even think straight anymore. You know there’s some other colleagues three offices ahead, down the hall, whom you saw five minutes ago when you got up to get a cup of coffee. As you reread what you wrote, with your eyes fixed on the computer screen, you can't get him out of your mind, feeling his eyes on you, heat blazing under your skin. You turn toward the door in a clumsy attempt to avoid his gaze, realizing that you have closed it.

And well, after all, you've been working hours, maybe you can take a little break. Just five minutes. And what better to do in those five minutes than tease Javi? 

You don't mind playing and playing with him seems almost natural and physiological given his constant attempts to sabotage your self-control; perhaps you could try to sabotage his a little without risking too much.

So you open your legs. Just a little bit, just enough to show him that you're not wearing panties. 

And you look at him, without saying anything. Javi licks his lips, you know his eyes have caught in full what you wanted him to see. His jaw tenses, his hand clenches into a fist over the papers he is examining. Little imperceptible reactions that you crave like water in the middle of a desert. 

Until the chat banner you use to communicate with colleagues lights up on your desktop. 

“I can smell you from here.” it says. The sender is obviously that bastard you share an office with. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” you quietly type. 

After a few seconds another message appears.

"Your delicious pussy, of course, you tempting little slut." You turn to look at him who is totally deadpan.  

You click your tongue and type, “You should be thinking about your work, not my pussy, you know? Highly unprofessional. I should go straight to someone in HR and report you”

“Oh yeah? And so you want everyone to know that you come to work without underwear. Typical greedy slut behavior." 

You lean against the desk, pretending to be shocked at first, looking at him with disappointment. A small smile creases the corners of his mouth, a hint of teeth between his lips, his eyes fiercely twinkling, he is convinced he has made you uncomfortable. 

Smiling in turn, savoring the taste of victory, you lower a hand between your legs, grazing your now totally soaked folds.

His eyebrows rises slightly, his eyes fixed on your fingers moving slowly over your outer lips. 

You type “I think you like what you see” With your other hand. 

He swallows, lowering a hand to his jeans in turn. You lean against the back of the chair to get a better look and clearly catch the tent that is growing under the crotch. He bites his lower lip, one hand moving up and down over his bulge and the other typing on the computer keyboard. 

“I bet you don't have the guts to come over here and make my cock feel that tight pussy of yours.”

Okay, you think, if you want to play dirty that's what you're going to get. 

You look around, listening to every little noise from the other rooms, the office seems empty and quiet. 

You close your eyes, just a moment, before grabbing some papers from your desk, getting up and walking toward him, swaying on your heels. 

What you've been dreaming of doing all morning is about to happen, you feel yourself floating like in a bubble.

He unbuckles his belt and pulls down the zipper of his jeans, freeing his huge shaft as he stares at you.

He turns his wheeled office chair toward you and you straddle him. 

He grabs your hips gently pushing you down on his cock, the tip grazing at your folds “such a slut” 

“If anyone here is a whore it's you. Do you think I don't know that you're getting off with half the accounting department?”

“Mh, maybe you should inform your pussy, she seems to have lost the memo judging by how much she's dripping on me.”

He holds his cock with one hand as you lower yourself onto him, looking down to where your pussy and his cock are coming into conjunction.

“Oh please shut up, I don't give a shit about your office banter.” 

You drag this out for months, days upon days of longing and teasing and nights spent in bed imagining that he was the one sucking you off instead of your toy.

You lean down holding his shoulders and whisper in his ear, “Stuff it all in.’” and you start rubbing yourself against him, feeling his huge dripping cock all inside your cunt. He stays still. 

You moan lightly and he shushes you "you have to be quiet honey, do you want us to be caught? Do you want them to notice that you are cockwarming me instead of working?”He places one of his hands on your mouth, your stifled moans vibrating on his fingers as you grind until your cream is leaking down his balls, his jeans, making a mess on his chair.

“Christ, you’re so fucking wet” he murmurs thrusting a little and starting to hump his whole dick inside, he reaches your clit with two fingers and starts moving them slowly in circles over it “she’s squeezing me so right, baby, I can go on for hours just like that, stuffing you full with my cock” His other hand is resting on your hip, just above the waistband your skirt and he holds you close to him. 

He pulls out a little and pounds it back in, making you writhe and moan “Fuck yeah, you hear it? Your noisy sticky little cunt gushing for me? It’s like a fucking symphony” he whispers 

Your whines vibrate on his fingers “oh baby, you really have to learn your manners. I said keep quiet.” He removes his hand from in front of your lips and sticks two fingers in your mouth “suck these. Maybe you'll learn to be quiet with your mouth full. Or should I fill that one with my cock too?”

You suck them greedily, feeling the taste of your pussy spread over your tongue. “That’s right, baby, just like that”

You hear the main floor door slam, the last people have also left, you are now alone and his cock is buried inside you.

“Jesus, look at the mess you’ve made on me, sucking my cock in like the desperate little slut you are… you wanna come, huh?” 

You nod, as your tongue swirls on his digits, licking and sucking enraptured by your taste and his gaze locked on yours. 

“Yeah, I bet you want this cock to pound you senseless, am I right?” 

You nod again, feeling your heart raging behind your ribcage. 

You never felt so desperate for anyone, the way he’s torturing you, his cock deep down inside you without moving an inch, your pussy drenched, his precum smearing all over your walls mixing with your fluids. 

You feel delirious. 

“I know baby but not here.” He whispers mischievously and your eyes are almost on the verge of tears “you can come tho, let me help but you have to be very quiet for me, okay?” 

You think the office is empty, but you can't be sure, there are so many rooms and someone could still be inside.

He slides his fingers out of your mouth and puts them back on your clit, starting to rub it gently. They are coated in your saliva and slide pleasantly over it, sending you almost over the edge. 

“Look how swollen she is, poor little cunt, she wants to come so badly, isn’t she?” his low hoarse voice gravels in your ears as he pinches your clit and begins to jerk it off faster. 

You writhe trying to stand up a little to ease your numbed legs but he pins you down on his cock digging his fingers in your hip “nah, you stay where you are, honey, gonna come full of me and at the pace of my fingers” 

You bite your lower lip hiding your face in the crook of his neck “no, look me in the eyes, I want to see that pretty face while you come like a whore for me”

One of your hands wraps around the back of his neck as you force yourself to look in his eyes. They are black with lust and desire, pupils dilated and fixed on yours in a frenzy.

His fingers move faster and faster, his cock throbs inside you.

“Come apart for me, babe, let me feel your greedy cunt squirting for me, come on” 

His words are enough to send you over the edge, you come copiously squirting on top of him as he doesn't stop rubbing your clit.

“Yeah, baby, just like that, you’re so fucking beautiful right now” 

You strive to keep your eyes on him but eventually throw your head back overwhelmed by the heat spreading inside you, enveloping every cell in your body and pulsing uncontrollably in your veins. 

It’s too much, it’s all too much and he didn’t even fuck you properly yet. 

You collapse onto his shoulder, holding onto his neck, panting against his skin “Fuck” 

“Yeah, baby, I know, that’s what you wanted huh? Coming full of me like a bitch in heat?” 

You look into his eyes and whisper, “Oh, no, I want so much more.” 

“Oh yeah? What else do you want?” He grins.

“Take me home. Now.” 

“Ask nicely, baby” 

You huff “Take me home, Javi, please” 

He chuckles “Hungry little thing, what do you want me to do for you once we get home?” 

You sigh and then looking into his eyes defiantly whisper “I want you to fuck me, I want you to fuck me so hard that I scream, I want the whole neighborhood to hear me. I want your cock pounding inside me all night”

He clicks his tongue and replies, “So cheeky asking me to take you home and fuck you while my cock is still inside you.”

“That’s what I want, do you think you can do that for me?” You ask, raising your eyebrow. 

“Of course. You chose the right man for the job.” 

He slaps your ass before you stand up and fix your clothes as best you can. His jeans are completely covered in your juices and his cock still rock hard, you hope that no one is really there or they will notice what you have done.

“Here, put this around your waist,” you say, handing him your black cardigan. 

He looks down at his jeans, laughing. “Damn, you made a real mess. I think I’ll have to get rid of that chair, too.”

He wraps your cardigan around his waist so that the sleeves hang down the front, almost completely covering the dark, wet stain.

“Let’s get out of here” 

You take a deep breath, turning the doorknob down and looking out into the hallway, you look left and right and there doesn’t seem to be anyone “come on, let’s hurry” you say waving and he chuckles behind you. You walk out the door in silence, walking down the hallway to the front door.

You press the elevator button while he pinches your ass “stop it” you hiss. 

You enter the elevator, side by side, and as the doors are about to close, a hand reaches between them, stopping them. 

Your boss enters and looks at you in surprise. “Oh, you’re still here?” 

You’re screaming internally as you struggle to keep a poker face and reply calmly “Yes, of course. I had to work on that report and Javier offered to help me out.” 

Your boss nods, completely unaware. “Good, I expect it to be on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

You nod, lying, “yeah sure, definitely, it's practically over.” as you hear Javier stifle a laugh. 

You turn to give him a disapproving look as he covers his mouth and looks down to quell his giggles.

You arrive at the lobby in the longest elevator ride of your life.

“See you tomorrow then, have a good evening” Your boss says as soon as you three come out. 

“Good evening” you babble thanking God he didn't notice anything.

“Oh shit, that was a close call!” Javier laughs as soon as your boss gets in the car.

You slap him on his shoulder “does that sound funny to you? Come on, take me home and make me forget that I just risked losing my job”

“I can’t wait, honey,” he puts his arm around your waist as he walks you to his car. 

Sure, you don’t know what’s going to happen and you don’t know if it’s worth it but you can’t wait to ride him on a bed and forget your name too.

general tag list: @aurorawritestoescape @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @thundermartini @harriedandharassed @almostempty @lovely-vamp-princess @pedrostories 🌹

[sophiesbf]

Travis Martinez NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

it depends on his mood. he can take a bath with you, then watch a movie and cuddle, but if for some reason he is in a bad mood, he will just turn over and sleep.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

he loves your neck. he likes to leave marks on your neck so everyone knows you're not single. he loves his own hands, because it is with them that he can touches you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

he likes to cum on your face or tits, or to watch you swallow his cum. he wouldn't want to have your cum — or anyone else's — in his body, at most he would probably let you cum on his face, but he loves to swallow all your cum.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he likes to be pegged. Natalie used to peg him.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

we all know that Nat was his first experience, well, after that, you guys started dating, nobody but Nat before you, so he's not that experienced.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

cowgirl !!! this man loves to look at you and run his hands all over your body while you fuck.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he's a little insecure, you try to be serious so as not to make the situation worse. he really is serious. maybe he'll only laugh if you say something funny during sex.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

his balls are hairy, but not that much, he tries not to make them too hairy.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he tries to be cute and romantic with you. after a while, he just does anything that turns you on, he wants your approval.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

he masturbates whenever he is alone and ends up thinking about you. he has a polaroid picture of you that he uses to masturbate.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

praise kink. he loves being praised by you. are you calling him a good boy? well, that made his day.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

he likes to do it in the bedroom. but since you masturbated him at the theater, he likes to do it in public places, but hidden.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

when you sit on his lap and you both kiss. when you start praising him more than usual. “good boy”, “you are doing great.”

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

scat, piss and vomit. he probably wouldn't do ageplay as a daddy either.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

he likes giving and he's pretty good at it, but he literally LOVES to receive.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

slow and rough. he's trying his best !!

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

he loves every bit of you. any opportunity he has to touch you or fuck you, he will take.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he would try anything you asked (except for his limits), he would do anything for you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

two or three rounds. if the day has been tiring he will just sleep after one round.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he hides an 15cm transparent dildo, you found out, but you just didn't say anything so as not to embarrass him.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

he's very fair. he only teases you if he's really horny.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

he moans softly. it's cute and nice to hear.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he's a voyeur. he loves watching you showering and changing clothes without you knowing.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

he's a little muscular. and damn, his dick is good. is 22cm good for you guys? because that's what our boy has.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

he fucked Natalie every weekend. now you decide when you're going to fuck.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

as I mentioned, he falls asleep quickly if he is in a bad mood or has had a tiring day.

I'm sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language, but I hope y'all enjoy it.

[thehmn]

It might simply be that I don’t frequent ADHD forums enough but I haven’t seen a whole lot of talk about learned social withdrawal.

As a child I made friends left and right but as we all turned into self-conscious teenagers it slowly became more and more difficult for me. Plain and simple, other people thought I was weird. For some reason I never got bullied which I think is related to something my teachers kept telling my parents “She’s such a sweet, bright child and we can tell she’s not malicious or trying to be disruptive on purpose but we can’t teach her anything”

Basically people couldn’t figure me out. I had good social skills with both children and adults, I had a good moral compass, i felt compassion and empathy for others and was willing to go against my friends if I felt they were being bullies, I taught myself English and my drawings showed good observation skills. Because of all that it was decided I should start school a year sooner than most kids and my parents were very proud. Unfortunately that’s probably one of the main reasons why I was never diagnosed with raging ADHD as a child. People soon realized I didn’t do well in a school setting but assumed it was because I “wasn’t done playing” and my ADHD symptoms were interpreted as childishness.

So as I got older my classmates started to distance themselves from me. They were always kind and friendly but they didn’t know how to deal with me and ever since then people have always been worryingly comfortable with calling me weird to my face. I get the impression it’s because they think it’s a choice on my part. To them I’m clearly of “normal intelligence” so I must be acting like this on purpose and my parents would repeatedly tell me to “just act normal” as a child when I told them I was struggling to make friends. I tried so damn hard but kept failing. I knew something had to be different about me and when I first heard about ADHD I thought “That’s me! That’s how I feel!” but my parents said that was impossible because I wasn’t hyperactive.

Because nobody wanted to help me I eventually learned to just stop trying to make friends and keep to myself. I was so tired of being told by friendly, well-meaning people that I was so weird and quirky and unique only for them to distance themselves once they realized it was permanent and not something I could turn on and off for parties. I always enjoyed being alone so it wasn’t a huge loss but it did feel incredibly lonely at times.

Things got a lot better when I became an adult, mostly because adults are generally more chill than teens so my ADHD behavior isn’t as embarrassing to them and ironically they’re often surprised to learn I don’t make friends easily. Unfortunately I learned to be withdrawn in my formative years so new friends are still a rarity. Before I really sat down and put my past into context I even started to wonder if I had autism despite not connecting with anything autistic people said about their experiences. I went as far as to be tested but wasn’t surprised when the diagnosis was negative because of course it was, I kinda already knew that. I was just looking for an explanation.

So while there can be overlap between ADHD and autism (I have just such a friend) my experience is also that oftentimes people with ADHD simply learn to stay away from social situations and entertain ourselves which ends up looking like autism to outsiders.

[007reid]

sub spence returning from prison :( hasn’t been inside for way too long and he’s extra whiny and sensitive </3 and reader is usually more teasing but after being so long she’s just soft and giving to everything he desires

FERAAALLLL!!! enjoy hun🤍

dreams. spencer reid (18+)

spencer reid x fem!reader, 3k (it got a bit out of control...)

summary: exactly what the prompt says😻 tiny bit of angst cuz it’s post prison spencer, cmon

warnings: sub spencer x dom fem!reader, masturbating (fem), unprotected sex, p in v, handjob, fingering, riding, creampie, cum play kinda. just spencer being a pathetic lil boy. tell me if i missed anything!

spencer’s been more closed off, and you get it. you do. you had expected more excitement, more of the banter and things to go back like normal like it was before it happened but you know it’s all wishful thinking. it hurts, to accept that your spencer isn’t really your spencer anymore, it’s that damned prison’s spencer; not your sweet spencer who wears scarves and has christmas lights in his eyes all year long but the prison’s spencer who looks half dead and trudging through everyday miserable.

you know he’s trying his best too, and that part hurts the most. he tries to smile for you, tries to replace all the pieces and put it back but no piece fits. you keep reassuring yourself. baby steps. you’ll make it work. you’ll have to.

today has been your favorite day yet, and the day has barely even started. instead of being on the other side of the bed, curling up into himself and staying as far away from you as possible, you wake up to find his head buried in your neck with his arm thrown over your stomach, curls tickling your jaw.

“im afraid to touch you, y/n,” spencer had admitted, his first week back. he looked guilty and ashamed. “you’re too clean for me to touch. my hands are dirty. they’re always dirty.”

still sleepy, you reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers, tracing the skin of his wrist. at the touch, spencer immediately jolts awake and backs himself up before the sleepiness even clears from his face. your boy used to be able to sleep through turbulence on the plane and your heart breaks at the anxiety in his eyes.

his breathing is rushed as he settles down, unconsciously scooting further away from you as you try latching onto the sleeve of his shirt. "sorry, i'm sorry," you whisper over and over. "i'm sorry honey, i didn't mean to--"

"i know you didn't," spencer snaps and you backtrack. his face crumbles and he hides his head in his hands. the table turns and sorry's falls out his mouth like rain drops during a storm. "i don't mean to snap, i just got scared, in the cell i..." he trails off, frowning at himself. ever since he's got back he refuses to tell you about anything that's happened in there, stopping and cutting himself off whenever he accidentally does and you guess it's for the better. "'m sorry." he brush away the sheets and gets off the bed. "i'll be right back."

you know better than to follow as he heads to the bathroom, door closing shut and locked behind him. you stare at the dent in the mattress that's finally there after sleeping alone for three months and hops off the bed yourself, going to make coffee.

***

spencer starts relaxing as the day goes on, not by much but you notice it. he probably feels bad for what happened in the morning and just wants to make it up to you by being what you want him to be; soft and affectionate like he used to and finally letting himself to touch you, linger his fingers over your arm as he passes you while you make breakfast and sitting close enough to where you both touch.

it's night, and you're in a simple tank, ready for bed. spencer's head is in your lap and the tv plays a random show but your attention is on smoothing out the spencer's curls, tugging and pulling until you get a purring spencer reid in your lap, eyes closed and humming contently to himself.

"you tired yet?" you ask, eyes on the tv. spencer nuzzles his head closer to your stomach.

"mhm. no."

"kay," you dip your head down, sparing a kiss on the pouting boy's lips, aiming for a light, sweet peck because spencer's not really ready for anything else otherwise but you're surprised when he starts to deepen it, teeth nagging at your bottom lip, asking. out of breath, you pull back and he sits up from your lap, crashing into you again and he's insistent, needy as little pants fall from his lips as you press him against the couch, climbing on top of him.

"missed you so much," spencer breathe, hands closing around your hips and tugging you closer. legs positioned outwards from either side of his torso, he moans into your mouth when the heat of your clothed pussy rub gently against his hardening cock and you miss this almost as much as you miss him, spending all three months either too depressed to do anything or cumming from your fingers and then hugging his pillow later.

you run your thumb over the spit on his lip, crooning. "look so pretty," you whisper, rutting against his hips. spencer whines, soft and desperate, a hand hesitantly coming up to grope at your breast, sandwiching your hardening nipple between his fingers. "been so long, spence, you forgot how to touch me?" you tease at the unsureness and awkwardness in the way he moves to touch you. spencer shakes his head frantically.

"dreamt about you," he says eagerly, pressing his lips on the side of your mouth and then all over your face. "every night. missed you so so bad. fuck, y/n," he gasps as you start grinding on him, impatient.

you kiss him hard, pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing as you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, just having him like this, pliant and here and not away. "what," you say, between kisses, each one messier and rushed than the last. "what did you dream about?" spencer whines. "hm?"

he falters, face getting visibly red under the dim lighting. he mumbles something under his breath, and you sneak a hand between your pressed bodies, palming him through his navy owl pajamas. "speak up, honey," you say, and spencer squirms, bucking his hips forward into your palm.

"i dreamed a lot of dreams," he says in a rush, breathing heavily, cheeks rosy. it's not the answer you're looking for. you tut.

"you know that's not what i asked, spence," you say, hand on his jaw as you push his face up to look at you. his eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated and lips red and parted, looking the spitting image of what you've been fingerfucking yourself to for months.

he whimpers, words stuck to his throat, embarrassed. you press your hand harder against his dick and his head knocks into your shoulder, burying his face in your neck, too humiliated to look at you in the eyes. "i dreamed you touched yourself and rode me and said i couldn't touch and couldn't cum but i did anyway 'cause i'm fucking pathetic," he confesses against your skin. "woke up and couldn't even touch myself cause of my cellmates and i--" your hands slip under his shirt and spencer does a full body shiver, your fingers hot against his skin.

"does that mean you haven't cum since you've been in there baby?" spencer ignores you, too distracted as you sway your hips against his rock hard cock. "spencer,"

he whines, and that's enough of an answer for you. "my poor baby," you coo, digging your fingers into his hair. "so wind up."

"need you," he whimpers, hands frantically clawing at your side, trying to touch as much of you as possible. "needa be in you, please. please,"

"in bed baby," you kiss him sweetly, wrapping your legs around his waist as he stands, supporting you with only one arm. you leave hickies on his neck while you wait for him to reach the bedroom, running your tongue over his skin to soothe them.

he lays you on the bed gently, tall frame towering over you as he sets you down but spencer still cowers under you despite it all. you remove your shirt and shorts as he settles down and when you turn around, he's staring, unabashedly, cock making an obvious dent in his thin pajamas, and the opportunity basically presented itself.

you start to slowly spread your legs, propping yourself up with your elbows and trailing a hand between your legs to rest at your lace panties. a devilish smirk on your face as spencer’s adam’s apple bobs visibly, brown eyes hungry and waiting as you press slight pressure on your clothed clit, knocking your head back.

spencer scrambles up to a sitting position, anxiously looking at you. “y/n,” he says, voice unusually high, flustered. “don’t—“ his voice breaks off as you start moving your fingers in circle-eights, sighing to yourself. “don’t—come here.”

you shoot him a warning look when he starts coming closer. spencer freezes. “thought this was what you wanted, pretty boy,” you purr. there is already a patch of wetness in your panties, and you linger your fingers at the waistband.

“not now,” spencer whines, insistent. “i’m so hard, wanna be in you so bad, please,” and despite how much prison had hardened him up, turned him into an entirely different person, spencer is still luckily the same in bed; easy to wind up and begs to get what he wants. too often it doesn’t work in his favor. tonight it might.

“you know what to do, baby boy,” you tell him, nudging your underwear off and tossing it somewhere in the room. spencer backs off, curling up into himself as his eyes remain pasted on you, watching. staring. you’re soaked, rubbing slowly at your clit, the air cool against your pussy. you keep an eye open, watching spencer for his ticks and reactions and it turns you on even more, seeing how desperate and needy he is, trying to rut against the sheets as you dip a finger inside yourself.

“none of that spence,” you tut. “you know that’s not the rules.”

he sighs frustratedly, stopping in his tracks, ever the good and obedient boy for you. you continue to play with yourself, slowly working up to two fingers and pressing down on your clit with your thumb, hearing spencer’s indiscreet panting from the other side of the bed as he watches, puppy eyes in full effect as he silently begs to have you closer. you whine as you curl your fingers inside yourself, and spencer’s just about had it.

“y/n,” he pleas, sounding like he’s about to cry. “i—it’s hurts, i wanna…”

you take pity on him. you’re all stripped naked and he’s still fully clothed, down to the halloween themed socks. “what do you want honey?”

“i—“ spencer gasps, squirming on the sheets. “uuhhgg…gonna cum i—“

“you gonna cum just from watching me touch myself?” you ask, amused. fair enough, he hasn’t cum in three months and you’re surprised he’s not permanently hard at this point. “gonna cum in your pants like a teenager spence? how pathetic are you?”

“y/n!” his voice trembles and he sounds so sweet, so needy for you and you give in. it’s hard not to, and you keep up at the act but at the end of the day spencer always gets what he wants. the begging strategy does do him some good.

you crawl over to him, placing yourself on his lap and he’s extremely hard beneath you, cock curving up from the thinness of his pajamas, getting a real good look at him. his eyes are rimmed red and tears are threatening to spill out and you lift his shirt over his head. “god youre so fucking beautiful,” you throw his shirt off the bed, tilting his head up to look at you. spencer groans at your words, hands immediately going to touch you, roaming your bare skin and nails digging into your waist.

“missed you,” he whimpers, lips at your neck as you get his bottoms off. “want this everyday, think of you everyday, fuck—“

“so hard for me honey,” you coo, stroking him through his underwear and then getting that off too. his cock, finally naked presses against his stomach, is a raging red, beads of precum leaking at the tip. “prettiest boy,” you whisper in his ear, taking his cock in your hand, smearing the precum over his cock as soft whimpers falls out of his mouth, inching closer to your touch.

“y/n,” he says, and it seems like it’s the only thing he can say. “y/n, y/n—“ you start to grind on him, sliding your pussy against his cock and spencer turns delirious, squeezing at your hips and wanton sounds coming out of his mouth, begging and cursing for nothing at all. the head of his cock rubs against the entrance of your pussy and the both of you moan, hips collapsing into each other.

his fingers finds their way to your entrance and begins prodding, and you whine as his middle finger slides in, thick and just right and it’s the feeling you’ve been trying to replicate but can’t get. “you’re so tight yn, fuck,”

“add another finger, spence,” you demand. spencer does, and the stretch burns only temporarily and you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck and reeling yourself in so you can be as close to him as possible. lifting your hips, you start to fuck yourself on his fingers, impatient and horny and spencer is looking at you with fucking stars in his eyes, awed.

you never get too emotional or whiny during sex, that’s mostly all spencer but you can’t help bury your face in the dip of his shoulder blades and muffle your high moans against his skin, just glad that your spencer is back and this isn’t a cruel dream. spencer pulls his fingers out and you let out a displeased sigh. reaching down, you take spencer’s cock in your hands, smeared all over the tip with his precum and your wetness and spencer’s breath hitches in this throat, nearly jumping away at your touch.

you slowly guide his dick to your entrance, lifting your hips and all spencer does is watch, getting special treatment as you do all the work, slapping his dick against your pussy, eliciting a filthy sound from the both of you before rubbing the head of his cock against your open pussy. before he’s even in, spencer is already making these ridiculous noises, begging and panting and whimpering, hair falling into his eyes and sweat beading on his nose.

you quickly swoop down in a brave motion, bottoming out and it hurts, only temporarily before the stretch eases into pleasure and you miss it, miss him, so damn much and spencer’s already in another fucking world, nails digging at your hips.

“fuck, fuck, y/n—“ he whimpers weakly, chanting your name like a mantra as you start to move your hips, riding yourself on his cock. you know he can’t last any longer and you’re surprised he’s even managed to last this long so far, pulling out until your pussy is clenching at the tip of his cock and slamming yourself into his hips, and everytime time you do this spencer makes the prettiest noises, coughing up the moans struggling to come out of his mouth and tear tracks staining his cheeks, begging to cum.

“please, please yn don’t do that,” you do it again. “i…i—pull off, i’m gonna cum i’m not gonna last!” he cries, cock pulsing inside you and you know he’s not lying. you can read spencer’s body in the dark or light like it’s your own and you can feel your orgasm steadfastly approaching too, the heat building gradually at the pit of your stomach.

you start going faster, dropping yourself down to his cock and bottoming out at every thrust, his cock finding the tip of your spot every time. “yn,” spencer repeats. “gonna cum, stop please i—hnnnggg—“

“cum in me, sweet boy,” you press a kiss on his jaw, locking your fingers on his curls to pull his head back by his hair, making him look at you in the eye. spencer arguably looks the prettiest when he cums, and you never miss the show.

“i…what?” debaunched and fucked-dumb, it takes a second for spencer to understand what you mean. “you sure?”

“shut the hell up spence,” you groan, bringing him closer, chests flat against each other. you keep going at your thrusts, slipping a hand to rub at your soaked, swollen clit as spencer’s moans get higher and higher until his entire body is trembling, his eyes squeezed shut. “fucking—cum in me, honey.”

you know the exact moment when he cums because you did too, his face scrunching up in what almost looks like pain as you start to feel something warm bleed inside you and it feels like fucking heaven. your walls spasm around his cock, milking him as you orgasm, squeezing your intertwined fingers for dear life.

when you’ve both gained back your breaths, spencer lightly stroking the skin of your stomach where he can press and feel himself beneath of and you pressing more hickies on his chest and neck, you speak. “was that as good as your dream?”

your voice comes out more distorted than you thought, raspy and your throat is slightly sore. spencer laughs quietly.

“a hundred times better,” he’s quick to respond, earnest. “no brainer.” when you pull off of him and collapses by his side, he leaks out of you, wetting and trailing down your inner thighs.

spencer slides a hand there and slowly starts to finger his cum back into you lazily and you open up your legs for him, loose and wet from the orgasm. “you’re so full of me,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. his fingers scissors you open wider, patiently fucking you with them. you hold his other hand as spencer kisses you. “mine. all mine.” he presses down on your clit and you shake, your second orgasm hitting you like a soft wave. he keeps the pressure there despite you trying to close your legs, shivering all over, nipples hard and stomach rising. “all mine.”

[novas-corner]

OH DEAR GODS PEOPLE ACTUALLY LIKED MY WRITING???? I hope y’all know I’m freaking out about this, it will get to my head (my apolocheese)

Anyways, a singular person asked for more… so… more it is!!

Again with all of this I know almost NOTHING about the game, I’ve missed out on a lot of lore since I am simply a card collector… and I’m very biased towards characters 😭‼️

Also this was NOT proofread properly (I’m doing this on no sleep at eight in the morning.)

Anyways, part 1 is here!

Also I’m basing their schedules around THIS post here!! (I think it’s official stuff? Idk)

Thank you for listening to me yap… back to being isekaid!!!! (I still do not know how to spell that)

Oh also there’s angst ish in here? Idk man I’m just writing out my thoughts at this point LOL

OH FUCK AN ISEKAI

Alright well sleeping was… a nightmare. All five of them argued until you eventually gave up and went to the couch. Damn boys, they’re gonna make your life trouble and you know it. But you gotta admit… five guys fawning all over you is kinda nice! The attention? Fantastic. They give you massages? UGH, so nice.

Well… you’ll need one of those mentioned massages tomorrow, you know damn well your back is going to be killing you in the morning.

You’re surprised to see Sylus walk into the living room, sitting next to you.

“You shouldn’t sleep out here sweetie, it’s not good for your body… what if I took you back to the N109 zone with me? You could sleep in a nice comfortable bed there and there would be much more space”

You groan, sitting up

“The only way I will do that is if you bring the other four with us. You need to remember that we are all not technically in our own universes since this ISNT the main storyline of the game. I don’t want them to be stranded here, I’d feel bad about that”

He sighs, but smiles down at you, pulling your head into his lap.

“Always thinking of others before yourself hm sweetie? Be a bit selfish sometimes okay?”

You huff, but relax into his embrace nonetheless.

“Yeah… I’ll try. Why are you up anyways? Couldn’t sleep?”

He’s running his fingers through your hair (or just rubbing your bald head, idk man) and chuckles down at you.

“Oh come on, I thought you knew all about us”

He’s teasing you… cocky mf-

“The N109 zone doesn’t have a day or night technically, so my schedule is a bit off from everyone else”

Oooooooh… riiiight… you had forgotten about that, honestly there’s probably so much you’ve forgotten. You never did read through the events or stories, just let them play in the background to get more pulls for banners… maybe you should get back into the story after all this blows over… or then again… maybe you won’t have to due to being with them all the time now.

“Right… I forgot about that… well I’m… tired. So I’m going to sleep- lemme move-“

You’re trying to shuffle off his lap to not disturb him, but he just rests a hand on the small of your back and tells you to ‘not worry’ and that he can ‘handle you sleeping for a bit’

…that’s sweet…

You’re relaxing into him almost immediately and drifting off, letting your slumber take over you.

What you don’t know however, is that once sylus is sure you’re asleep, he’s analyzing you, trying to see if this was all some ploy to not be caught for cheating… but it’s really a different person. What was once a person he knew was now just someone who knew him. It was a strange feeling, they had the face of the one he loved, they almost sounded like them too— they just spoke differently. It felt so right and yet so wrong to have you there… maybe he should have Zayne give you a physical checkup tomorrow, make sure you’re healthy and all.

Sylus tries to not care for you, after all… you’re not HIS, not the person he knew. But you acted the same in so many ways… hopefully this can all be fixed. For now though, he sits running his fingers through your hair as he reads a book.

~Timeskip~

It’s morning now and you groggily wake up to the smell of bacon. You’re sitting up, rubbing your sleep ridden eyes as a cheerful voice calls out from the kitchen.

“Oh! Sorry pips, did I wake you up?”

You’re standing now, walking over to Caleb with a yawn.

“Nono… I just woke up… whatcha making?”

He’s all smiles, you’re honestly not sure how he has so much energy at six in the morning but whatever.

“Just some bacon and eggs! Want some?”

He says with a grin, pointing to the plate of bacon and eggs. You pause, eyeing the plate.

“Were the eggs made first? I’m allergic and can’t really risk cross contamination… don’t wanna die today, y’know?” (I’m reminding y’all that this is ME written as if it’s YOU. We ain’t having eggs together homies 🫵🥲)

“Oh?? Uh… I think so? Maybe you shouldn’t eat them to be safe… I’ll make you something else!”

He’s saying while already looking for something else to make… at least they know where everything in this apartment is located, I’ve got no clue.

You’re trying to find bread and hear him mumbling something about how his version of you isn’t allergic to anything… guess that’s a difference.

He sees you rifling through literally every drawer and pats you on the head.

“You know you can ask for things… right?”

“Well- maybe I just wanted to see if I could do it myself, this is technically my apartment after all… but uh… where’s the bread?”

He’s laughing at you, pointing to the bread literally in the counter, you blind blind mf. Your shoulders almost slump in defeat as you pop some toast into the toaster and open the fridge. Huh… fully stocked… that’s nice, where’s the butter though…

As if reading your mind, Caleb walks behind you and grabs the butter for you.

“Here, it’s buried in there, you wouldn’t have found it alone”

You’re just kinda looking up at him, he’d got you cages in between him and the door- HE DID THE HOT THING WHERE THEY GRAB SOMETHING FOR YOU GANG. Ugh you forget that this is a game about flirting and they’re gonna be doing that.

“Oh… right, thank you”

You’re quickly scurrying away from him— and as everyone does, you get spooked by the damn toaster. That mf laughs at you AGAIN. Jerk…

Anyways you’re buttering your toast and watching as he plates his food, having made extra for the others… that’s sweet of him.

“I usually ask my version of you to work out in the mornings… so… would you want to join me for a morning workout after breakfast?”

You look up from your toast, a mouthful and crumbs on your face, he just smiles at you as you swallow your food and wipe your face.

“Mm- sure? Im not the strongest though so expect me to not keep up.”

Which gets you thinking… how in the hell are you going to do the job of the MC??? There’s no way you could deal with wanderers… would you being here jeopardize the job the MC has? Oh gods I mean you can technically rely on the guys for money but what if they get sick of you not being their MC. Not only that, is time passing back home? Will people realize you’re gone? Are you going to end up like an unsolved crime case?

“Hey… are you okay?”

His voice snaps you out of the despair trace you were in, you look up at him with wide eyes and see him looking at you concerned.

“Oh… yeah sorry I was just thinking… I’ll join you for the workout, it’ll probably take my mind off things.”

You’re trying to keep smiling, you’ve been obsessed with these men for months and they’re literally all here, you should just enjoy this in case it’s a dream, y’know?

He’d still visibly concerned but decides to drop it, finishing his food and grabbing yours and his empty plates, putting them in the sink to wash later.

“Well let’s go workout then shall we? You can sit on my back while I do pushups? Alright pips?”

OH BOY!!! You’re standing with a smile, nodding along and following him along to the door, pausing and looking down at your clothes.

“Ooooh wait I need to change my clothes first”

You begin to wander back to what you found out is your room, walking in to see Zayne buttoning up his shirt, and Rafayel and Xavier cuddled up in bed… well more like Xavier cuddling up to Rafayel but whatever they look kinda cute, y’know?

You smile at Zayne, he just nods to you, finishing putting his shirt on.

“There’s breakfast there, Caleb made eggs and Bacon, plus bread for toast”

You’re saying as you walk over to the closet, rifling through the clothes there. You know that MC has got to have something for a workout other than this damn hunters uniform… surely right?

Oh thank the gods they do. (I actually could not find one but I’m gonna guess MC has a workout outfit)

“Are you working out? Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

You turn to see Zayne, who is now hovering behind you.

“Oh! Yeah Caleb invited me to workout with him, I guess him and the me you know worked out in the mornings”

He just nods.

“Alright, enjoy that then, I’ll be back later, I’m going to try and stay with you overnight and whatnot to see if I can help figure out what’s going on, the rest of the men have also agreed they want to be around as well.”

You just nod, biting at your lip slightly. It’s sweet that they care about you enough, but you’re sure they’re only caring because they want their old lives back. You can’t really blame them though since you just want your life back too. Again, it’s nice to be here with men you’ve simped over… but you have friends, parents… ugh be positive damnit, we can’t be depressed all the time.

“Right okay…“

You’re trailing off, not really knowing how to proceed.

“The white haired man— Sylus I believe? He mentioned that I should give you a checkup at some point today. Would you rather visit the hospital during my lunch break or wait I til I get back?”

You raise an eyebrow at his words. Oh boy these mfs are in for a TREAT, they’ll never expect the amount of things wrong with me. Huh that begs the question, will my body function differently than theirs? I mean obviously I don’t have the protocore heart and whatever else… but is it different since they’re game characters?

OH MF YOU DIDNT ANSWER-

“Probably just when you get back, I’m not really sure how to get to the hospital after all.”

He just nods, patting you on the head and walking out.

“Sounds good, I’ll expect you to be ready when I get home then. Have a good day.”

HE’S SO STOIC???? I don’t know how to feel bout that but whATEVER YOURE SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING OUT.

You gather your clothes and move over to the bathroom, as you’re getting dressed you can hear Rafayel waking up and causing a ruckus over being cuddled by Xavier. God damn he’s loud…

You’re changed now and walk back to the living room, where Caleb is sat on the couch waiting for you.

“Ah! Finally pips! Felt like I was gonna have to search for you in case you had gotten lost!”

He’s honestly adjusted really well to the fact that I’m not the me he knows. I wonder if it’s a facade, I know damn well he cares a great deal for his version of me. STOP THINKING SO NEGATIVELY. DAMN.

Anyways you’re smiling slightly at his words, listening to him yap about what he’s planning to do for his workout, it’s just going in one ear and right out the other if I’m being real.

You leave the apartment and go to the gym that I guess the apartment has? (I’m making things up as I go at this point, things will just appear as I need them too)

He’s doing weights and stuff, you’re struggling to get through his tough workout (I’m crippled sorry gang, if I gotta struggle so do you 💔)

He notices this of course and slows his pace down, eventually stopping and patting you on the shoulder.

“Hey… you don’t need to do this y’know?”

You just sigh and look up at him defeated.

“Does your version of me do this every day? That bitch is ATHLETIC.”

He laughs at you and offers to just help him with his workout I stead, which you joyfully agree to, watching Caleb workout? YES PLEASE.

So now here you are, sat on his back and counting his pushups for him. Huh, suddenly the angst from earlier is gone as you watch his ARMS??? UGHHHH 🤩

He eventually finished that up though (UNFORTUNATELY) and just looks up at you… still on his back, making it just a lil bit hard to get up.

“Pips… you gotta move y’know?- I will just roll you over, you should know this.”

Oh we gotta know what that means.

“Hm? The ground is talking, how strange…”

You’re looking up at the ceiling with an almost expectant grin on your face, which he does not fail to realize. Well you asked for it.

Suddenly he has managed to roll you off him and have you underneath him. Don’t ask the logistics of it, just go with it.

You’re looking up at him with wide eyes, Christ it was fast— how in the hell did he do that???

He just chuckles and gets off of you, offering a hand out for you to take, which you do and he pulls you up. "l have to say, you don't act all that different, it's easy to forget you're not the same person I've known." OUCH????? OK ANGST IS BACK IG??? He's walking you back up to your apartment, the hand he used to help you up now wrapped around your shoulder "Oh?.. is that... a bad thing?" "I suppose it isn't! It makes you fun to be around!" "Ah okay..." You trail off, you know what you want to ask but... "What happens if you can't get... the other me back?" The words tumble out of your mouth before you can think to stop them, he almost freezes in his tracks but keeps walking, smile faltering slightly. "I'm... not sure..." "Would you stick around knowing I'm not the person you knew? Or are you just here to get them back?"

He doesn't know how to answer you, because of course he wants his version of you back... but would he just.. leave? He doesn't even know himself. "For now lets not worry about that, okay pips? I'm here now and that's all that really matters, we'll figure everything out eventually" You just nod, looking down and mumbling a small apology... well that's... sad. So anyways you finally make it back to the apartment, and head to your room to grab a basic outfit.

Xavier is STILL asleep- does this mf have narcolepsy??? Whatever, you grab your outfit and turn to go to the bathroom, you need a shower to think again, plus you smell like sweat.

The door to the bathroom is closed when you get there, you knock only to hear Rafayel telling you to come in. You walk in and OH MY STARS-

“OH- sorry didn’t realize you would be IN the bath- I can come back later I’m so sorry-“

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No no it’s okay, did you need something?”

He’s asking with a slight tilt to his head. Dear gods man he is sculpted like a god, probably because he literally is one- STOP STARING.

You manage to snap yourself out of it, face absolutely red and looking down at the clothes in your hands.

“Sorry I was just trying to shower and get dressed- I can do so later-“

He’s sitting up in the bathtub, motioning for you to come closer.

“You can come bathe with me if you’d like? I don’t mind sharing.”

SIR?????? You are red as a lobster and I fear he is reveling in this fact— HOW IS HE SO CALM ABOUT THIS????

“No- that’s fine I’ll just… see myself out… thanks for the offer though”

You manage to mumble out, looking anywhere but at him and finally turning yer butt around to walk out. You hear him chuckle behind you and call out to you as you shut the door, playful as ever.

“Your loss Mx bodyguard!!”

TEASING MF. Ok anyways we need to find somewhere else to change it seems. So you opt to just shut yourself in the little closet and get changed. Xavier is still asleep in bed, which is kinda cute, he’s out like a ROCK. Honestly and earthquake could pass through and not much would happen I fear.

You wander around the place, Caleb, Zayne and Sylus are all out somewhere, Rafayel is in the bath and Xavier is asleep. There’s… not much to do.

You’re tired though and you slept on the couch, so you find yourself walking over to your room and climbing into bed opposite to Xavier.

You pass right out.

—————————————

Gang I’ll be honest, you could FEEL it falling apart at the end😭‼️

In my defense, it’s almost eight in the morning and I have not slept.

I wrote myself into a bit of a corner too since there’s like… nothing going on ‼️‼️‼️

I also do not know how to write seggsy time so I had to QUICKLY 180 from that.

Anyways I have ideas for another part, if people don’t burn me at the stake for being a crap writer I might add another part to this disaster LMAO

Okok yap session is over, thank you for reading this !! 🤩

Tag list ?!?! (Ask to be added 🤩)

@lunia-likes-pomegranet