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capslocked · 1 year ago

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run.

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you.

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst.

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth:

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?"

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven.

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks.

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music.

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart.

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

#wooah smut #nana smut #kwon nayeon smut #el7z up smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember #woo ah smut #woo ah nana smut

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cumironi · 1 month ago

Text

HEART SPIKES AND HEATENS

(✽) summary. it was supposed to be your date with the boyfriends, but it’s raining and none of you want to spend time being cold and wet. . . so, you three decided to spend the day at the apartment, drawings doodles on sukuna’s tattoos and gojo’s arm, getting all high and stupid.

featuring. gojo satoru, ryomen sukuna (college au)

warning. established relationship, poly! suku-go, fluff, crack, lots and lots of name-calling, petname(s), suggestive words/conversation(s), smoke jōint(s), high/drunk,

it’s 3 pm, and the rain hasn’t let up for hours, falling harshly against the windows of the apartment and turning the sky a dull, heavy gray. the soft patter of the downpour fills the living room, mixing with the faint sound of lo-fi music playing through the speakers. the three of you had planned a date today—something special—but the rain decided otherwise. still, none of you seem to mind too much. instead of heading out, you’ve all settled into a quiet, lazy afternoon together.

you’re still dressed in your intended date outfit: a crisp white cropped shirt that hugs your shoulders and arms perfectly, paired with a pleated black pinstripe skirt that sits snugly on your waist. your hair falls naturally, slightly tousled now, framing your face as you lay on your stomach across the soft carpet in the living room. your bare legs stretch out behind you, toes curling occasionally as you focus on your task.

in front of you lies sukuna, sprawled lazily on his back like he owns the place. his dark green oversized jeans hang low on his hips, the fabric bunched at his ankles where his bare feet peek out. he wears a black sleeveless shirt that clings to his toned torso, showing off the intricate black ink of his tattoos that trail up his arm and over his shoulder. one arm rests in front of you, muscles relaxed, his hand stretched open to give you full access to his skin. his other hand, however, holds a joint lazily between two fingers, the faint wisps of smoke curling toward the ceiling. sukuna looks half-lidded, eyes fluttering closed now and then as he exhales with a content sigh, clearly enjoying the stillness of the day.

gojo is lying nearby, parallel to sukuna, with his arms tucked lazily behind his head. he’s dressed comfortably too—black baggy jeans with a loose black t-shirt layered under a dark brown jacket that lay boneless on the floor not far away. the soft fabric is slightly crumpled, evidence that he’s been lounging for a while. gojo’s white hair flops over his forehead, a contrast to the dark palette of his outfit. he’s watching you, an easy grin tugging at his lips every time you focus just a little too hard on coloring sukuna’s tattoos.

“what are you even doing?” gojo finally asks, the teasing lilt in his voice breaking the calm. he cranes his neck up slightly, his bright blue eyes twinkling as they settle on the small pile of colored markers scattered around you.

you don’t look up, chewing on your bottom lip as you carefully drag a bright pink marker across one of the roses etched into sukuna’s forearm. “i’m fixing him.”

sukuna lazily opens one eye, shifting his arm ever-so-slightly to keep his muscles relaxed for you. “fixin’ me, huh?” he repeats, voice low and rough. he takes a deep inhale of the joint, his chest rising and falling with the exhale, before he turns his gaze to gojo.

gojo grins wider in response, clearly amused by your antics. “you don’t think i’m pretty enough already?” sukuna teases, his eyes narrowing mischievously. sukuna watches idly as you continue to add color to his skin, your concentration unwavering. “i thought you loved my ink, doll,” he adds, his expression turning slightly smug. he takes another draw of the joint before holding it out to you lazily.

gojo chuckles at his remark, his gaze flickering between you and sukuna before his eyes are fixed on you, watching every small movement you make in fascination. “you’re both plenty pretty,” you say with a small huff, not looking up from your task. sukuna chuckles, a deep rumble from his chest, while gojo lets out a soft snort of amusement.

you continue coloring, your fingers wrapping around sukuna’s arm to steady it. you can feel his muscles under the skin, tense but at ease, and you take silent pride in the fact that he’s allowing you to do this. sukuna hums low in his throat, the vibrations running through his chest and into your fingertips. “yeah, baby?” he asks, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. despite the playful tones, his muscles are relaxed under your hands, allowing you to continue your work without any resistance from him.

gojo, ever observant, watches the small interaction with a hint of an amused smile, his blue eyes tracking the way your fingertips move across sukuna’s skin. he keeps his mouth shut, letting you two have your moment. you pause for just a second, sukuna’s words rolling through the air with that deep, teasing hum of his, and the corners of your lips twitch up. your hand stills, fingertips resting lightly against the inked designs on his forearm. then, without missing a beat, you tilt your head, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes and a perfectly exaggerated mockery of his tone.

“yeah, baby?” you mimic, dragging out the words with as much sarcasm as you can muster, your voice high and mocking as you flutter your lashes dramatically. the look you shoot him is equal parts playful and smug, daring him to say something else.

sukuna’s lip curls into an amused smirk, the vibrations of his chuckle reverberating under your fingertips. “watch it,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words—just that lazy, teasing drawl he always uses when you push back.

without missing a beat, you pull the cap off a bright yellow marker with a quiet pop and switch focus, a devious glint in your eyes. “you know what? you don’t have enough stars.” you lean closer to his arm, the tip of the pen pressing carefully against the space between his intricate tattoos. little bursts of yellow start to appear—stars scattered randomly, as if you’re adding your own personal constellation to his skin.

“seriously?” sukuna mutters, his brow arching as he tilts his head just enough to watch what you’re doing. “this is what we’re doing now?”

“oh, absolutely,” you shoot back, grinning as you carefully dot a smaller star next to a skull. “it’s called enhancing the art, baby. i’m making you look heavenly.”

gojo, who’s been silently watching this exchange like a spectator at a comedy show, finally snorts, the sound breaking through the rain and the low music. “heavenly? yeah, right. sukuna’s more like the villain who got glitter bombed by accident.”

you don’t even pause, your focus still on the yellow stars you’re meticulously adding to sukuna’s tattoos. the marker glides across his skin as you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that borders on mock innocence. without looking up—without even missing a beat—you deliver your response, deadpan and smooth as ever.

“yeah. a hot one.”

sukuna’s smirk widens at your words, his sharp gaze flickering to your face as you remain focused, completely unbothered. there’s a beat of silence, filled only by the steady scratch of the marker and the quiet patter of rain outside. then, without warning, he shifts—just enough to lean closer, his movement lazy and fluid, like a predator that doesn’t need to rush.

before you can react, he presses a kiss against your cheek, the warmth of it brief but deliberate, his lips lingering just long enough to catch you off guard. “cute,” he murmurs, the word low and teasing as it rumbles against your skin. there’s no mockery in his tone now—just something undeniably smug and pleased, as if he’s won a game you didn’t even realize you were playing.

gojo lets out another amused snort from his position nearby, watching the two of you interact. “yeah, cute,” he mutters, his voice filled with an affectionate annoyance that borders on fond. he sits up slightly, leaning back on one elbow as he takes a hit from the joint after he steal from sukuna’s fingers. the smoke curls from his lips as he exhales, his gaze wandering over your form, still laying on the carpet, the colorful markers surrounding you.

you don’t look up, the soft hum escaping your lips acting as both acknowledgment and dismissal—a subtle, wordless response that says you’ve heard them but refuse to give them the satisfaction of a full reaction.

yet despite your calm facade, a small, barely-there smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. it’s the kind of smile that lingers, slow and unintentional, betraying the fact that sukuna’s kiss and gojo’s teasing have amused you more than you’d care to admit.

your focus remains on sukuna’s arm, the yellow stars you’re carefully adding between his tattoos growing brighter under your meticulous work. the soft patter of rain fills the space again, the atmosphere warm and still as if the three of you exist in your own little world.

sukuna’s eyes narrowed slightly as he caught the faint curve of your lips forming a small smile. though he didn’t comment, his sharp gaze lingered on you with quiet intensity. beneath your fingers, his muscles remained loose and unbothered, but the subtle shift in his posture betrayed a certain vigilance—as if he was waiting for something unseen.

gojo, on the other hand, let out a low scoff, clearly amused by your expression. his smirk grew as he tilted his head back lazily, taking a slow drag from the joint between his fingers. even as the smoke curled upward, his sharp blue eyes stayed trained on you, brimming with mischief. meanwhile, sukuna’s focus didn’t waver, though his eyelids grew heavier, the warm glow of the room and the haze of the joint casting a languid spell over him. the faintest hint of a grin tugged at his lips, though it was difficult to tell if it was from amusement or pure contentment.

gojo stretched out with an exaggerated groan, sprawling across the carpet floor with his arms spread wide. “mmm,” he sighed, his voice low and drawling as he stared at the ceiling. the soft scratching of the marker against sukuna’s arm was the only sound filling the cozy quiet, accompanied by the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows.

sukuna let you continue your work on his skin, utterly unbothered, while gojo suddenly broke the tranquility. “hey,” he muttered, lets out a soft sigh, his eyes still glued to the ceiling as he mutters in a mock-whine, “can i be next?”

you hum softly, the sound nonchalant yet sweet, as you give a small nod of your head without glancing up from sukuna’s arm. “don’t worry,” you say, your tone light but teasing as your marker continues its gentle path over his skin, adding the finishing touches to another star before changing color for another tattoo. “you’re next.”

an exaggerated grin spreading across gojo’s lips at your words, head tilted towards you. “yeah? what are you thinking for me? something cool, right?” looking up for a second, you meet gojo’s expectant gaze with a deadpan expression that doesn’t match the devious glint in your eyes before drowning in a task in hand. “how about pink hearts?”

sukuna lets out a snort, his arm trembling with suppressed laughter as your words register. his amusement is subtle but unmistakable, his crimson eyes gleaming with unspoken humor. gojo, on the other hand, roll his eyes. “pink hearts?” he echoes, his tone teetering between mock outrage and barely concealed amusement. “you’d decorate me like a damn valentine’s day card?”

your laughter spills out in response, soft and warm, resonating through the cozy atmosphere of the room. your gaze finally lifts to meet gojo’s fully, a playful sparkle dancing in your eyes. “it’s cool,” you quip, dragging the word out with exaggerated teasing as you snap the yellow marker’s cap back into place with a satisfying click. “it’s edgy. you’ll look like everyone’s valentine at the same time.”

gojo props himself up on his elbows, his brows furrowing in mock indignation as he glares between the two of you. “edgy? hearts aren’t edgy—they’re soft and cute. i’m cool and edgy.”

you roll your eyes, grinning as you grab a pink marker and hold it up like a trophy. “oh, don’t worry. i’ll make them edgy. spiky hearts with little sparkles. super intimidating.”

gojo lets out another groan, collapsing back onto the carpet dramatically as he throws one arm over his face. “this is emotional sabotage,” he mutters, though the smile tugging at the corner of his lips betrays him. “i trusted you, and you’re turning me into a walking valentine’s day ad.”

“you’ll love it,” you shoot back, uncapping the pink marker with a flourish and holding it up like it’s some kind of divine weapon. your grin is wicked, your tone dripping with smug confidence as you add, “you always do.”

gojo peeks at you from under his arm, his lips twitching like he’s trying to fight back a smile. “i do not.”

“oh, but you do,” you counter smoothly, already leaning toward him with the marker poised. “you’ll look so cool.” you exaggerate the word, drawing it out as if you’re promising him something legendary. “spiky hearts, sparkles, and a little blue? the edgiest valentine alive.”

sukuna hums low in his throat, clearly enjoying the exchange as his head turns just enough to watch. “gojo, just give up already. she’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

“i do not—” gojo starts to protest, but his words are cut off as you swipe the marker across his arm in one smooth motion, the first spiky heart taking shape before he can move. he stares at it, stunned for half a second, before groaning dramatically. “oh, great. this is how my legacy ends.”

“a masterpiece,” you declare proudly, biting back a laugh as you start to add sparkles around the heart. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

sukuna watches, his expression still lazy and content as he lets out an amused huff. he’s enjoying the spectacle, his eyes flickering between gojo's dramatic reactions and your smug expression.

gojo, meanwhile, continues to lament his apparent downfall. “my reputation,” he moans, dramatically flinging his free arm across his face. “ruined. all because of some pink hearts.” he glances up at you, a mixture of mock irritation and genuine affection in his gaze. “i am not wrapped around your finger,” he protests, his tone still half-hearted as he watches you work.

you chuckle softly, shaking your head as you lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to gojo’s arm—right above one of the freshly drawn spiky hearts. “i know,” you murmur, the corners of your lips curling into a warm smile as you meet his gaze. despite the teasing, there’s a flicker of affection in your voice, soft enough to ease his dramatic pout.

gojo blinks at you, stunned for just a beat, before the faintest dusting of pink colors his cheeks. he clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure as he mutters, “well, good. as long as you know.”

without missing a beat, you pick up a blue marker, uncapping it with an exaggerated flourish as you lean back to examine your “canvas.” “come on, stop pouting,” you tease, nudging his side lightly with your elbow. “i used another color too. balance, baby. artistic integrity.”

“artistic integrity, my ass,” he grumbles, though his lips twitch into a grin as he peeks down at his arm, now adorned with spiky pink hearts and tiny blue accents. “you’re lucky i’m this handsome—i can pull anything off.”

from his spot, sukuna snorts, the sound deep and full of amusement. “keep telling yourself that, pretty boy.”

gojo shoots him a glare, half-serious but softened by the lingering pink on his cheeks. you just shake your head, smiling as you add another finishing touch to the design—because if nothing else, you’re thorough with your work.

you frown dramatically, a playful pout forming on your lips as you glance at sukuna. “so rudeee,” you draw out the words, the mock hurt in your tone exaggerated as you giggle. “’m over here, pouring my artistic soul into you two, and this is the thanks i get?”

sukuna chuckles, clearly amused by your exaggerated protest. he tilts his head, the movement lazy and slow, his eyes fixed on yours as he smirks. “my apologies,” he says, the words rumbling deep in his chest. “your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, doll.” gojo rolls his eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he watches the exchange. he props himself up on one elbow, his gaze flickering between the two of you. “i take it back. your art sucksss.”

you let out a dramatic sigh, exaggerating the weight of it, though you keep working with focus. your playful pout is still in place, but you don’t say anything further. you just continue adding tiny details, not letting their teasing faze you.

the room falls quiet for a moment, but you can feel both of their eyes on you while they busy passing the joint to each other, their gazes softened, watching every movement with something akin to admiration. your hair falls across your face and shoulder, the stray strands brushing against your cheek, and one of the markers put a home in your ear, leaves a faint pink smudge on your ear and cheek, both that you are unaware of. you continue your work with the cap of the marker wedged between your teeth, your focus purely on the task at hand.

sukuna watches silently, his eyes tracking every move you make, his expression softer than before. from his angle, he can see every detail—the way your hair falls across your face, the smudged marker on your cheek, the concentrated expression on your face as you work. his muscles are relaxed, but there’s a hint of tension there too, as if he’s holding back from reaching out.

gojo, meanwhile, just grins, his eyes flickering between your face and the masterpiece taking shape on his arm. “cute,” he murmurs, the word more affectionate than mocking.

sukuna’s eye flick to gojo for a moment, silently watching the affectionate look on his face, before looking back at you. there’s another moment of quiet, the only sound being your steady breathing and the soft sound of the marker on skin. gojo, apparently feeling sukuna’s gaze, turns his head, their eyes meeting for a moment. there’s a brief, unspoken exchange there, a silent understanding.

sukuna’s lips curl into a small smirk, his eyes flickering back to you, his expression still oddly soft. the pink-haired man tears a scoff, rolling his eyes away from you and a halo of smoke swirls out of his lips, “brat,” a mutter could be heard for you.

your eyes flicker briefly to him at the sound of his mutter, your concentration breaking for a moment. “i heard that,” you say, the corner of your lips curling up in a slight smile.

gojo, meanwhile, chuckles softly at the exchange, clearly enjoying the banter. he raises his arm, examining the now complete design you had worked on, his gaze flickering back to you. “i gotta hand it to you, doll—spiky hearts look even better than i imagined.”

you don’t even look up, still absorbed in your task, your hand moving with precision as you add a few final touches. the pink marker glides smoothly over the skin, and you carefully add a few little blue stars, scattering them around the design like tiny accents.

“i know you’ll appreciate it eventually,” you say nonchalantly, the teasing tone in your voice clear, though you don't let your focus waver for a second. with the last stroke of your marker, you pull his arm away, leaning back slightly to examine your work. you give a small nod to yourself, satisfied. “done,” you say, your smile a mixture of smugness and quiet pride.

you glance up at gojo then, finally meeting his gaze. “not bad, right baby? spiky hearts and all.”

gojo grins as he looks down at his arm, admiring the final results. “not bad? doll, these are art masterpieces. i feel like i should frame my arm and put it in a damn museum or something.” he raises his arm, letting out a dramatic gasp, “oh, the sacrifices i make for beauty. i bet even paris of troy would shed a tear at this sight.”

sukuna, despite his lazy exterior, actually lets out a low chuckle at gojo’s exaggerated reaction, his lip curling up in a sly smirk. you let out a squeal of excitement, your voice high-pitched and bubbly as you mirror gojo’s over-the-top enthusiasm. “i know, right?!” your excitement is contagious, practically bouncing with energy as you grab sukuna’s arm and drape it over gojo’s, positioning them side by side like they’re two precious pieces of art.

sitting on your legs, with your calves resting comfortably on the back of your thighs, you expertly slide your hand into gojo’s pocket, pulling out his phone with practiced ease. the mischievous glint in your eyes intensifies as you quickly open the camera app, positioning the two arms just right to capture the perfect shot.

“this is going to be legendary,” you announce, snapping the picture with dramatic flair. you pause for a moment, inspecting the shot with a critical eye, before giving a nod of approval. “yup, this is museum-quality stuff right here.”

you can feel their eyes on you as you settle between them, your body nestled between sukuna and gojo on the carpet. with the phone in hand, you zoom in on the picture, your focus drawn to the vibrant pink hearts and tiny blue stars scattered across their arms. you can’t help but laugh softly at the ridiculousness of it all.

“you two look so silly,” you comment, your playful grin widening as you swipe through the photo to get a better view. “seriously, this is peak art... but also kind of ridiculous.”

gojo, ever the charismatic showman, shoots you an exaggerated pout, his tone dripping with mock betrayal. “silly? ridiculous? you wound me, doll. we look badass!” sukuna’s quiet chuckle rumbles in response to gojo’s theatrics, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint amusement. yet, beneath his sharp smirk lies a flicker of something softer, almost imperceptible—a rare glimpse of tenderness he doesn’t often show.

you, however, are entirely engrossed in the photo, oblivious to the dynamic between the two men. your fingers pinch and spread the screen, zooming in on the pink hearts and smudges adorning their arms. gojo takes the opportunity to lean in, his chin resting on your shoulder as his eyes follow your movements, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

humming softly, you finally lower the phone, a playful grin spreading across your face as you lift your hands to inspect them in the air. your skin is streaked with colorful smudges—bright pink, soft blue, and a few haphazard lines of purple—and the sight makes you smile. “looks like i got in on the action too,” you muse, your voice light with amusement.

your small chuckle fills the room as you continue to admire your handiwork, completely unaware of the way gojo’s gaze softens as he watches you. his eyes follow the movements of your hands, his smile widening at the colorful chaos you’ve created. even sukuna, in his understated way, glances at you with a rare sense of contentment.

gojo’s eyes slide from the photo to your hands, zeroing in on the rainbow of smudges decorating your skin like some kind of art experiment gone wrong. his lips twitch upward into a mischievous grin as he chuckles. “look at you, doll,” he starts, his tone laced with teasing affection. “you look like you’re about to host a daycare finger-painting for toddlers 101.”

sukuna, lounging nearby, rolls his eyes and lets out a derisive scoff. “daycare?” he mutters, his voice dry and just loud enough for you to hear. “more like an after-school program for disasters.”

your gaze shifts from your mess-covered hands to sukuna’s long, relaxed fingers, honing in on the joint he’s casually holding like it’s calling your name. without even a hint of warning, you dart forward like a caffeine-fueled gremlin, snatching it straight from his grasp with a swipe so quick it could’ve been a magic trick.

sukuna’s brows shoot up in surprise before settling into an amused arch, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “bold move,” he remarks, clearly entertained by your antics.

ignoring him entirely, you bring the joint to your lips, taking the slowest, most dramatic drag in the history of bad decisions. exhaling a plume of smoke like you’re starring in a rebellious indie film, you lean back with a smug grin. “i’mma good teacher, y’know,” you declare, your voice tinged with mock self-importance.

gojo, who’s been silently observing this entire circus, finally loses it. he bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach as he leans back. “oh, yeah, top-tier educator right here!” he chokes out between wheezes. “if the subject is how to steal people’s vices and look ridiculously proud of it, you’re a genius!”

sukuna’s lips curl into a crooked smirk, his sharp eyes fixed on you with a mix of intrigue and bemusement. he lets out a low, gravelly chuckle, the sound rich with amusement. “oh yeah?” he drawls, his voice dripping with lazy confidence. “think you’ve got what it takes to teach me something?”

gojo, on the other hand, is already grinning like a kid watching chaos unfold. his gaze flickers between you and sukuna, fully aware of the game you’re playing and absolutely loving every moment of it. leaning back with a casual air, he watches you take another slow drag, the smoke curling lazily in the air as a mischievous smirk spreads across your lips. the sheer audacity of the scene only fuels his entertainment, his eyes twinkling with delight.

you exhale the smoke with a slow, deliberate grin, your gaze locking on sukuna as you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “well, for starters,” you say smoothly, “you can stop being such a greedy ass and learn to share the good stuff with your partners.”

sukuna’s smirk widens, his sharp gaze narrowing in mock offense as he tilts his head, clearly unbothered. “greedy? me? nah, doll,” he drawls, voice dripping with sarcastic charm. “i’m just a connoisseur of life’s finer pleasures. no crime in appreciating quality.”

gojo snorts so hard he nearly chokes, his laughter spilling out like he’s just heard the joke of the century. “finer pleasures? you mean hogging everything good like a dragon on a pile of gold?” he quips, his grin so wide it looks borderline painful.

sukuna rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of his head. he is glaring at gojo with an expression that screams try me, clown. “oh, shut up,” he fires back, feigning annoyance as he snatches the joint from you, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement. “i’ll share when i feel like it—maybe.”

gojo leans back, sprawling like he owns the entire room, his smirk practically radiating smugness. “sure, sukuna. we all know your idea of sharing is letting us watch you enjoy it. greedy bastard.”

you can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous exchange, shaking your head as you hand the joint back to sukuna. “seriously, you’re both like kids fighting over the last slice of pizza,” you deadpan, a grin tugging at your lips. “greedy asses, the both of you.”

sukuna snatches the joint back with that signature smirk, his tone dripping with fake irritation. “hey, don’t lump me in with him,” he grumbles, flicking his wrist toward gojo like he’s flicking off a fly. gojo’s jaw drops, and he presses a hand to his chest as though sukuna just insulted his entire bloodline. “hey, what’s that supposed to mean? i’m a saint compared to you, jackass.”

sukuna rolls his eyes so hard they might fall out of his head, his voice dry as sandpaper. “yeah, sure, you’re a saint. and i’m mother theresa, motherfucker.”

gojo practically cackles, leaning back like he’s heard the greatest joke of the century. “oh, please. i have far more angelic behavior than you do. i’m practically a saint compared to mr. grouchy over here.”

you glance between the two of them, raising an eyebrow as you hold back a snicker. “wow,” you interject, voice dripping with sarcasm. “what a holy duo we’ve got here. should i start calling you ‘saint gojo’ and ‘pope sukuna’ or just skip straight to planning your canonization?”

gojo lights up like it’s christmas morning. “saint gojo does have a nice ring to it!” sukuna groans, dragging a hand down his face. “great. now he’s never gonna shut up about it.” you roll your eyes at their bickering, a playful sigh escaping your lips. “idiot,” you mutter, shifting your position with ease. you rest your head on sukuna’s stomach, your hair spilling over him, while your legs casually drape over gojo’s waist, trapping him in place.

“comfy?” sukuna drawls, his smirk lingering as he glances down at you, though he makes no move to push you off. he passes the joint to gojo with an almost lazy flick of his fingers.

gojo takes it with a dramatic flourish, holding it like it’s a prized treasure. “oh, look at that,” he says, his voice dripping with mock reverence. “sukuna finally shares. truly a miracle for the ages.” you chuckle softly, a little smirk makes its way to your lips, tugging the edge softly. “don’t let it get to your head, baby. one good deed doesn’t make him a saint.”

sukuna lets out a low scoff, his expression feigning offense. “oh, please,” he says, “i’m plenty saintly, doll,” he replies, his tone filled with mock irritation. “and i don’t need a single good deed to prove my sainthood. you’re both just jealous of my undeniable benevolence.”

gojo takes a slow drag, his eyes flickering down to you sprawled across his lap. a smirk dances on his lips as he watches you get comfortable. “oh, please,” he quips, ’you’re the least saintly person i know. you’re the devil incarnate, you know that?”

you roll your eyes, the sarcasm practically dripping from your voice as you retort, “oh, absolutely. sukuna’s a shining beacon of morality and grace. i mean, saints everywhere must be quaking in their halos knowing he’s out here setting the standard.”

sukuna snorts, his lips twitching into a smirk as he lazily tilts his head to look at you. “glad you finally see the truth, doll.” without missing a beat, you glance at gojo, pointing a finger at him as you continue, “and you’re no better, satoru. calling someone the devil while sitting there with that smug, ‘holier-than-thou’ face? talk about irony.”

sukuna let out a low chuckle, clearly amused by your banter. “yeah, doll, glad you finally get it.”

gojo, meanwhile, feigns a look of mock offense, his hand moving in the air in dramatic fashion. “me, smug? holier-than-thou? i’m just stating facts, doll. it’s not my fault that i’m so damn perfect. and clearly, it’s not my fault you’re both a pair of heathens.” he takes a slow drag of the joint, his eyes trained on you as he blows out a stream of smoke. “and you’re one to talk, doll. you’re no saint yourself.”

you scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you look at gojo, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “what the fuck do you mean, ‘i’m no saint’?” you throw your hands up in mock frustration. “i’m a perfect picture of a saint compared to you two. i’m sure as hell a better person than the two of you combined.”

you reach for the joint in gojo’s hand, taking a slow drag before blowing the smoke out with a satisfied grin. “the only bad thing about me,” you add, the words laced with playful mockery, “is because of you two bad influence. so, really, you should be thanking me for not being worse.” your fingers that holding the joint swing around as you pointing at your two boyfriends.

sukuna and gojo’s reactions to your sarcastic outburst were priceless. their faces twisted in mock outrage, and it was clear they were both enjoying the show. sukuna’s lip curled into a sly, almost mischievous grin as he chimed in, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “oh, doll, you’re a saint alright. a saintly brat.”

meanwhile, gojo put on his best dramatic scoff like he’d just been hit with the most devastating betrayal. “thank you? thank you?! as if you’re not just as bad as us. in fact, you’re damn worse than us.”

before you could even react, gojo snatched the joint back from your hand with a smug smirk. his eyes locked onto yours with that signature playful intensity, narrowing in that way that always made you feel like he was about to pull some ridiculous stunt. “we influence you? yeah, right. you’re just as bad, if not worse. you don’t need our influence to be a little hellion. you’re naturally devilish, doll.” his voice oozed with mock teasing, every word dripping with exaggerated amusement.

you can’t help but roll your eyes at their simultaneous reactions. gojo, with his exaggerated expressions, and sukuna, with his sly grin. it’s almost comical how they both manage to be so different, yet so irritating at the same time.

“please,” you scoff, a hint of challenge in your eyes as you respond. “i’m only this bad because of you two. i mean, look at yourselves. you’re not exactly paradigms of virtue."

gojo’s eyes widened in mock horror, his posture exaggerated as if you had just delivered the ultimate, unbelievable audacity. “oh, doll, you wound me!” he exclaimed dramatically, his voice rising with faux indignation. “are you saying we’re not the picture of innocence? how could you?” his expression was a mix of feigned hurt and playful sarcasm, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

sukuna, however, didn’t even bother with such theatrics. he just let out a low, amused snort, the corner of his lips curling up into a smirk. “yeah, we’re practically angels compared to you.” his tone was effortless, as though he were used to this kind of banter by now, and nothing could rattle him.

with a languid stretch of his arm, sukuna reached over, his fingers brushing lightly against gojo’s as he nonchalantly snatched the joint from his hand, not even sparing a glance at him. he brought it to his lips with an almost bored expression, taking a long, lazy drag as though the whole situation was beneath him. after a moment, he exhaled the smoke slowly, his eyes gleaming with that characteristic wickedness. “but you’re right. we’re far from virtuous. guess you’re just stuck with a pair of heathens for boyfriends, huh?” he said with a raised brow, his voice dripping with amusement.

you hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider his words with exaggerated seriousness. then, with a sly grin curling at the edges of your lips, you reached out, your fingers grazing sukuna’s wrist with purpose. you gently guided his hand, bringing the joint to your lips with a delicate movement, taking a slow, deliberate drag. you let the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling it lazily, watching the tendrils of smoke swirl in the air like a fleeting, ephemeral thing.

“sadly.” you let the word hang in the air, your voice soft but tinged with mock sorrow. with a playful tilt of your head, you added, “nobody wants you two heathens... so i guess i had to pick you up, huh?” your tone was laced with teasing, and you gave them both a look that was part challenge, part amusement, knowing full well how much you enjoyed throwing their own words back at them.

gojo’s handsome face contorting with mock devastation, as if your words had pierced him to the core. his fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his semi-wrinkled shirt, pulling it as though he were trying to keep his very soul from escaping. “oh, the pain! the absolute betrayal!” he gasped, his voice carrying a note of exaggerated agony, the air around him charged with over-the-top theatrics.

sukuna, however, simply chuckled darkly, his lips curling into a smug smile that only heightened his arrogance. “oh yeah, doll? you had to pick us up? you think you did us a favor? we’re the best damn thing that’s happened to you.” his voice was rich with self-assurance, the words dripping with his usual brand of ruthless confidence, as though he were the undeniable prize in this game.

you couldn’t help it—your snort of laughter slipped out before you could even contain it. it was a sound that surprised you, but you quickly smothered it with an amused glance at sukuna, your gaze lingering just long enough to catch the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. then, you shifted your attention to gojo, your toes lightly grazing over his stomach, tracing the fabric of his shirt in a soft, teasing motion as you allowed a chuckle to escape your lips. “glad to know delusion is free, huh?”

you leaned back slightly, lifting your leg with deliberate care, letting your smirk speak volumes. “but hey, keep thinking you’re the best thing that’s happened to me. you’re both good for entertainment, at least.” your voice had the right amount of mock affection, as though you were toying with them, enjoying the very idea of their inflated egos.

gojo raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk that matched the mischief in his eyes. “delusion is free?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery, his expression a mixture of challenge and amusement. “please, doll, don’t be so quick to dismiss our greatness.”

sukuna scoffed lowly, the sound rich with feigned irritation. his expression flickered for a moment with mock annoyance, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “entertainment, huh? is that all we are to you? just a couple of jesters here to amuse your highness?” the words were laced with sarcasm, a subtle challenge hanging in the air as he regarded you with an air of exaggerated exasperation.

you can’t help but smile at their reactions, clearly enjoying the banter. “oh, don’t be so dramatic,” you say with a feigned innocence. “you’re not just jesters. you’re my favorite jesters.”

you take another pull on the joint, your gaze flickering between your two boyfriends as you blow out a stream of smoke. “and i appreciate the entertainment, don’t get me wrong, but really, you’re lucky i’ve decided to put up with your obnoxiousness.” you look down to gojo, poking his side with your toes before added, “especially you.”

gojo’s breath hitched in a dramatized gasp, his hand flying to clutch his chest with such intensity that it seemed as if he had just been struck by an invisible arrow— apparently, that’s his go-to expression, dramatic ass. “lucky? lucky that you’ve decided to put up with us? please, doll, we’re the ones who should be thanking our lucky stars that we found you,” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with exaggerated reverence, as though your very presence was some rare gift bestowed upon them.

sukuna, on the other hand, barely spared him a glance. his eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and mild annoyance as he rolled them at gojo’s theatrics. “oh, calm down, dumbass,” he muttered, his voice low but sharp, laced with a touch of irritation. “you’re giving me a headache with all that whining.”

gojo, not one to back down easily, pouted dramatically, his lower lip jutted out in a perfect display of mock hurt. “i’m not whining. i’m just expressing how lucky we are to have the privilege of your presence.” his tone dripped with sarcasm, and his eyes flickered back to you, his smirk playing at the edges of his lips, daring you to challenge him.

sukuna scoffed once more, his expression now tinged with a faint but unmistakable irritation. “you’re lucky you’re cute, satoru, or else i’d be tempted to smack that look off your face. you’re insufferable.” the words were delivered with an edge of genuine annoyance, though his eyes softened slightly at the sight of gojo’s pout.

you snort, unable to hold back your amusement as you watch the back-and-forth between the two. you take another slow drag from the joint before casually passing it back to sukuna, your eyes never leaving gojo’s exaggerated pout.

“lucky you’re cute, huh?” you repeat with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at gojo’s dramatic expression. “that’s the only thing saving you right now, huh? pretty boy gets away with everything.” you roll your eyes but can’t help the playful grin spreading across your face as you lean back, resting your head against sukuna’s side.

the hours slip by as the three of you remain sprawled out on the floor, the conversation flowing between playful teasing and lazy banter. the sky outside slowly deepens into twilight, casting the room in soft shadows. the air grows thicker with the lingering scent of weed, the haze hanging in the air as sukuna’s joints grow fewer and fewer.

you lay between gojo and sukuna, your head still resting against sukuna’s chest while you lazily pass the joint between the three of you before sukuna take the last hit without either you nor gojo realized. the warmth of the room and the heavy, calming buzz settle over you, your body relaxed and content despite the chaos of the banter. every so often, gojo lets out a loud, exaggerated laugh, while sukuna just shakes his head, taking another drag as he passes the joint back to you.

the room is quiet for a moment, save for the sound of slow exhalations and the occasional chuckle. you lean your head back to look at the two of them, eyes half-lidded, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips. “y’know,” you say lazily, “this isn’t so bad. could get used to it.”

gojo, sprawled out lazily on the other side of you, lets out a soft, knowing chuckle, his eyes locking with yours in a way that sends a little thrill through the air. “oh, getting used to it, are we? finally admitting that we’re not so bad?” he teased, his voice dripping with a sense of mock triumph, as if he’d just scored a small but satisfying victory over you.

sukuna, on the other hand, let out a slow, almost theatrical sigh, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. his fingers, restless, began to stroke your hair in a tender motion, the simple gesture feeling strangely intimate amidst the teasing. “careful now, doll,” he warned, his tone rich with a playful edge. “too much time with us and you might start liking us a little too much.” his words were a mixture of amusement and dark amusement, as though he were both cautioning and daring you to embrace whatever was growing between the three of you.

you let out a lazy, indifferent “meh” sound, rolling your eyes playfully as you surveyed the two of them, caught in their ridiculous back-and-forth. glancing between them, you couldn’t help but tease, your grin wide and full of mischief. “eh, not really my type,” you muttered, your voice dripping with playful sarcasm, clearly enjoying the banter as it unfolded before you.

gojo lets out an exaggerated gasp, his hand flying to his chest in mock disbelief. “not your type? how dare you?” he exclaims with a blend of feigned hurt and over-the-top offense, his voice rising dramatically, as though your words were an unforgivable insult.

sukuna rolls his eyes at gojo’s antics, a trace of amusement flickering in his gaze. “oh, please, satoru,” he drawls, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a sly grin. “don’t take it too personally. she clearly has no taste.” his voice is laced with mockery, every word dripping with playful derision. you smirk, the tip of your finger tracing slow, deliberate patterns across sukuna’s thigh, the action sending a subtle jolt of electricity through the air. “not my fault if your overinflated egos can’t handle the truth,” you reply, your tone dripping with sass and amusement.

gojo pouts dramatically at your response, his lower lip thrusting out in exaggerated mock hurt. “overinflated egos, she says. please, doll, we have every right to be confident. we’re the best damn thing that's happened to you.” his eyes narrow, daring you to challenge him, the playful arrogance hanging in the air between you like an unspoken dare.

sukuna snorts in response, his expression turning even more smug as a sly smile curls onto his lips. “yeah, doll. and you’re just proving our point. you’ve got a thing for cocky, arrogant jerks like us.” his voice carries an edge of amusement, as though he’s reveling in the truth of the statement, not the least bit bothered by the accusation.

you roll your eyes, the movement exaggerated as you continue to trace circles on sukuna’s thigh with a casual, almost bored air. “please,” you scoff, the sarcasm in your voice unmistakable. “i’ve got standards, you know.” you raise an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the playful back-and-forth, but unwilling to give either of them the satisfaction of admitting their point.

gojo scoffs, his eyes narrowing with playful challenge as he leans in slightly, his voice laced with teasing mockery. “oh yeah? standards, huh? and what are those, exactly?” the words are edged with curiosity, like he’s dying to know what could possibly be your “type.”

you grin, the smirk on your face widening as you continue your lazy assault on sukuna’s thigh, your toes nudging at gojo’s side with a teasing prod. “definitely not whitehead and bitch face,” you retort smoothly, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you jab your toes into gojo’s ribs for emphasis, then poke sukuna’s side with a playful flick of your finger. the taunting gesture is accompanied by a light laugh, daring them both to rise to the challenge.

gojo feigns a dramatic gasp, his hand clutching his side as if mortally wounded. “whitehead and bitch face?” he echoes, his voice dripping with exaggerated hurt. “please, doll, you wound me. and here i thought we were friends.” his expression shifts between mock betrayal and playful amusement, eyes wide as if you had committed the gravest of sins.

sukuna, on the other hand, lets out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound rich with amusement as he watches your mock irritation. your finger’s lazy tracing on his thigh seems to soothe him, even as his smug smile never falters. “yeah, doll,” he drawls, his voice laced with a playful challenge. “friends, huh? that’s one way to put it,” he muses, his eyes locked on your hand as it continues its delicate dance across his skin.

you gasp theatrically, your eyes widening in mock horror as if gojo’s words had struck at the very core of your being. “friends? friends?” you echo back, your tone dripping with exaggerated disbelief and mock outrage. “oh, fuck off, you prick,” you snap playfully, your feet pressing against his side with a soft shove, your lips curling into a sly grin.

gojo stumbles back in exaggerated fashion, clutching his side with a mock wince as though your light shove had caused him untold pain. “ouch, doll, that hurt,” he laments dramatically, his face contorted in mock agony, his tone dripping with faux sorrow.

sukuna, clearly entertained by the spectacle, lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand lazily stroking your hair as he watches you both. “oh, woe is you, satoru,” he drawls, his voice rich with sarcasm. “how will you ever recover from that devastating blow?” his lips quirk into a smirk, clearly amused by the banter.

you sit up, pushing gojo away with your feet, and your eyes narrow, suddenly fixating on sukuna’s hands. you tilt your head in mock accusation, raising an eyebrow as you study him intently. “did you finish it?” you ask, your voice dripping with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

sukuna grins unapologetically, a lazy, unbothered look in his eyes as he holds up the now-empty joint between his fingers. “caught red-handed,” he admits with a cocky tilt of his head, clearly unfazed by your gaze.

gojo’s pout deepens as he eyes the empty joint in sukuna’s hand with feigned disappointment. “ugh, really, man? you couldn’t save some for the rest of us?” he grumbles, his expression thoroughly put out as if this betrayal is a grave offense.

you hum indifferently, your gaze flicking between the two of them as if you couldn’t care less about sukuna’s confession. but your eyes tell a different story; they dart around the room, scanning every corner with sharp suspicion. first the table, then the couch cushions, and finally, a brief glance down to sukuna’s lap, where you eye him intently, your features betraying no sign of the suspicion swirling within.

sukuna, noticing your subtle movements, raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your obvious search. “looking for something, doll?” he asks, his smirk deepening, his voice laced with a teasing challenge.

gojo, blissfully unaware of your internal investigation, tilts his head in mock confusion. “yeah, doll,” he adds with a chuckle. “what’s with the scavenger hunt? lost something?”

you ignore their teasing entirely, focusing instead on sukuna, your eyes narrowing with increasing suspicion. without a word, you slide your hand under him, your fingers brushing against the back pocket of his pants. sukuna stiffens slightly, his smirk faltering just enough to reveal his surprise.

“what are you—” he starts, but you cut him off, your hand triumphantly retrieving his cigarette case. you pop it open with a snap, your eyes lighting up as you spot two perfectly rolled joints nestled inside.

“ahah!” you exclaim with a victorious snort, lifting the case high as if you’ve just uncovered a long-lost treasure. “thought you could hide these from me? think again, prick.”

sukuna groans, an exaggerated sigh escaping his lips as he leans back into the couch, the picture of reluctant surrender. “you’re like a damn bloodhound, doll,” he mutters, though the amusement in his eyes betrays any trace of annoyance. “can’t hide anything from you, can i?”

gojo, on the other hand, bursts into laughter, pointing at you with glee as if you’ve just pulled off some mischievous heist. “look at you,” he laughs, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “beaming like a kid who just found the candy stash!” he shakes his head with a grin that could rival the most devious of smirks. “you’re such an addict, doll. next thing we know, you’ll be rolling your own joints like some wannabe stoner.” his teasing tone fills the room, the light-hearted mockery echoing as the playful banter continues to dance between the three of you.

you shoot gojo a glare, flipping him off without missing a beat. “shut up, satoru. at least i’m not whining over someone else finishing the stash like a little bitch.”

without giving gojo a chance to respond, you shift your attention to sukuna, moving to straddle his waist. he groans in protest, clearly more annoyed by your audacity than your weight, but he doesn’t push you off. instead, he sighs dramatically, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant compliance.

“you’re such a pain in the ass, doll,” he mutters under his breath, though his actions betray his words as he lazily flicks the lighter to life for you. the warm glow of the flame reflects in his crimson eyes, and despite his grumbling, there’s a faint trace of amusement lingering in his smirk as he holds it steady for you before you lean forward and a little halo of smoke sneak past your lips.

gojo leans back, a mock expression of offense painted on his features. gojo’s jaw drops, his hand dramatically flying to his chest. “me? whining? i don’t whine, doll. i express valid concerns like the mature adult i am,” he retorts, though his pout says otherwise.

sukuna, meanwhile, lets out a sigh as you settle yourself in his lap, his hands instinctively moving to rest on your waist. he keeps up his feigned annoyance, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the sliver of exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up. as you lean forward and take the first pull, he watches you the smoke filling your lungs as you exhale slowly, the tension easing from your body, his gaze lingering on your lips, watching the tendrils of smoke curl away.

sukuna watches you from his position, his fingers still tracing light patterns on your waist, but his focus seems to shift to the way you handle the joint. his gaze lingers on your lips as you take the drag, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. as you inhale the smoke, he lets out a low hum.

rolling your eyes at gojo’s dramatics, you stretch your arm out, holding the joint toward him with a smirk. “here, take it and stop whining, satoru,” you say, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “maybe a little smoke will help you with all that ‘mature adult’ energy you’re putting out.”

gojo, still pouting, takes the joint from your hand, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as he brings it to his lips. “oh, ha ha, very funny, doll. just you wait, i’ll show you who’s the mature adult around here,” he mutters, taking a deep drag. he holds the smoke in for a moment before exhaling it in a slow, steady stream.

you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for gojo to hear, “what an idiot,” your tone dripping with sarcasm. gojo lets out a scoff at your muttered comment, his eyes narrowing playfully. “oh, you’re one to talk, doll. calling me an idiot when you’re the one straddling sukuna’s lap like a desperate teenager,” he teases, a smirk playing on his features.

sukuna, meanwhile, remains silent for a moment, his gaze still fixated on you. the intensity of his stare makes you smirk, your fingers running lightly over his chest, teasing the fabric of his shirt. his expression remains neutral, but a flash of desire flickers in his eyes as he feels your fingers trailing across his chest.

rolling your eyes, you glance down, only to find sukuna’s gaze still fixed on you. you tilt your head slightly, raising an eyebrow as you ask with a smirk, “what?” he raises an eyebrow at your question, his voice low and mocking as he responds. with an indifferent shrug, his eyes not leaving yours as he replies, “just admiring the view, that’s all.”

you hum softly, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you glance at gojo for a moment, amusement dancing in your eyes. you then turn your attention back to sukuna, the teasing tone in your voice unmistakable. “i’m no teenager, but i’ll admit... i am desperate,” you say, your voice low and playful.

without giving sukuna a chance to respond, you lean down slightly, your already short skirt riding up further as you move closer to him. you let the space between you both shrink, your lips capturing his in a kiss, slow and deliberate, as if to emphasize your words.

when your lips meet his, sukuna lets out a low sound, his fingers gripping your hips a little tighter as he leans into the kiss. he responds with a quiet hunger, his tongue flickering over your bottom lip as he deepens the kiss. gojo, meanwhile, still leaning back on the floor beside, watches the scene unfolding before him. his eyes flicker between you and sukuna, his own smirk widening as he takes another drag from the joint.

you hum softly against sukuna's lips, the sound reverberates between you two, the tension building. you pull back just enough to bite his lower lip gently, tugging it between your teeth before leaning back in, kissing him again with more intensity. the kiss deepens, each movement a reflection of the growing desire between you both, while gojo watches, amused but clearly enjoying the scene unfolding before him.

sukuna reacts to the sharp bite with a low, rumbling growl, his fingers slipping beneath the loose fabric of your shirt as if claiming you. his touch is deliberate, tracing the soft, exposed skin beneath, sending an electrifying shiver down your spine. he presses you even closer, his body a solid heat against yours, as his tongue dances into your mouth, exploring with teasing precision, tasting every inch of you.

meanwhile, gojo remains sprawled on the floor, his eyes dark and hungry, flicking over every curve of your body. he watches sukuna’s hands move beneath your shirt with a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. the joint in his fingers burns slowly, forgotten for the moment as he becomes absorbed in the raw intensity of the scene playing out before him.

sukuna’s hands continue their exploration with an almost possessive hunger, each stroke sending waves of pleasure and heat spiraling through you, leaving you breathless and acutely aware of his overwhelming desire for you. his lips abandon your mouth, trailing down the line of your jaw and moving lower, planting soft, heated kisses along your neck that send a thrill of anticipation rushing through you.

gojo watches this silent, unspoken dance unfold with a predatory gleam in his eyes. the joint, once a small comfort in his hand, is forgotten, dropped to the side as he becomes completely enraptured by the sight of you and sukuna. a low hum escapes him, his voice thick with both intrigue and unrestrained desire. “god, you two are something else,” he murmurs, his words laced with a dark satisfaction.

you pull away from sukuna, your breath shallow and quick, trying to regain some sense of control. your cheeks are flushed a deep red, whether from the kiss, the lack of oxygen, or the effects of the weed, it's hard to tell. you let out a heavy sigh, your eyes half-lidded as you glance between sukuna and gojo, your voice soft and slightly breathless.

“i think i’m high,” you murmur, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. the effects of the weed mix with the lingering tension in the air, and you feel a little light-headed, but there's no denying the buzz.

sukuna chuckles at your declaration, his thumb brushing against your flushed cheek as he grins, amused by your hazy expression. “you think?” he muses, his voice gruff. “more like you’re gone, doll. you’re practically floating right now. and here i thought you had a higher tolerance than that.”

gojo, meanwhile, lets out a loud bark of laughter, his own eyes fluttering slightly to keep you in focus. “she’s blitzed,” he teases, his lips curling into a smirk.

you roll your eyes at their teasing, your tone sharp yet playful. “shut up, both of you,” you mutter, reaching for the joint in gojo's hand with a quick, determined movement. you take another drag, inhaling deeply, your eyes briefly closing as the smoke fills your lungs. as you exhale slowly, you pass the joint to sukuna, your gaze lingering on him for a moment.

“your turn, asshole,” you say with a smirk, leaning back slightly as you let the haze settle around you.

sukuna takes the joint from your hand with a slow, deliberate motion, his thumb grazing against your fingers as his eyes lock onto yours. a smirk curls at the corner of his lips, his gaze never leaving you as he brings the joint to his mouth. he inhales deeply, savoring the smoke, holding it in for a moment as the weight of the moment stretches between you. then, with a controlled exhale, the smoke billows from his mouth in a steady, thick stream, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

gojo, still chuckling at your earlier comment, watches the exchange between you and sukuna with a sharp, calculating interest. his eyes flick between the two of you, a playful spark igniting behind them, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.

“damn, y/n,” he teases, his voice light but carrying an edge of amusement. “you really can’t hold your weed, can you?” he chuckles, leaning back as his gaze flickers with further delight at your reaction.

you shift on sukuna’s lap, leaning back just enough to let the weight of the moment settle in, your head tilting upwards to the ceiling as the haze of the weed wraps around you. a deep, contented sigh slips from your lips, the foggy warmth in your chest making everything feel just right. slowly, you let out a soft laugh, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. “this is better than going out for a date,” you murmur, a lazy grin spreading across your face.

your mind, cloudy and buzzing, wanders back to the date the three of you had planned earlier, the thought floating through your haze. gojo lets out a laugh, eyes flicking between you and sukuna, his amusement glinting brighter. “damn, doll, you’d rather get high than go on a date with us? who are we, chopped liver?” his voice is thick with mock offense, but the mischief dancing in his eyes is impossible to miss.

sukuna, never one to let a moment of teasing slip away, chuckles darkly, his hands drifting lazily over your thighs, tracing invisible patterns. “nah,” he drawls with a smirk, “she’s just too stoned to appreciate anything else right now.” his grin widens, clearly enjoying every bit of your sluggish reaction.

you let out a low, breathy chuckle, your head swaying slightly as the world around you blurs and ripples like a mirage. the ceiling above seems to stretch and shift, and you blink slowly, trying to focus on the warping edges of your vision. everything feels off-kilter, a delicious spin in your mind, before you lower your gaze and lock eyes with both sukuna and gojo.

“yeah,” you murmur, a lazy grin tugging at your lips, your voice heavy and slow, the words slurring just a little. “i’m definitely too stoned.” the realization hits you in a way that only adds to the dreamlike amusement of the moment, and you let out another soft, dreamy laugh, the sound floating lazily into the air.

gojo lets out a sharp snort, his amusement barely contained as he watches you in your clearly altered state. “doll, you’re not just stoned, you’re practically on the moon right now,” he quips, his voice dripping with playful mockery as he chuckles low in his chest.

sukuna’s gaze, however, sharpens as he watches you intently, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. he takes in the dazed, almost ethereal look in your eyes and the soft, blissful smile on your lips. a flash of something darker, something possessive, flickers across his face. “you look completely out of it, doll,” sukuna murmurs, his voice husky and filled with low amusement, as his eyes lock onto yours. “are you even aware of what you’re saying right now?”

gojo leans forward, eyes glinting with intrigue, clearly enjoying the way you’re unraveling before him. “yeah, you’re totally baked,” he teases, a knowing smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “didn’t know you were such a lightweight.”

you chuckle softly, rolling your eyes at their relentless teasing, your fingers absently toying with the hem of your shirt. “of course, i’m aware,” you mumble, your voice a tad slow, but steady enough to keep their attention. “don’t treat me like i’m completely gone.”

your gaze flicks between sukuna and gojo, lingering on sukuna just a beat longer before flicking to gojo. a sly, playful grin curls on your lips as you lean back just slightly. “but since we’re talking about awareness,” you begin, your voice taking on a teasing, almost mischievous tone. “do either of you know what i’m aware of more than anything right now?”

sukuna raises an eyebrow, his expression a curious mixture of intrigue and caution. he knows you too well to not sense the playful mischief behind your words, but the exact nature of it eludes him for now.

gojo, however, leans in even closer, his interest piqued by the hint of something more beneath your words. “what are you aware of, doll?” he asks, his tone laced with curiosity, eyes flickering between you and sukuna. he silently acknowledges the possibility that you might just drop a bombshell.

sukuna can’t help but let out a surprised laugh, caught off guard by your unexpected shift in tone. gojo, on the other hand, rolls his eyes exaggeratedly before breaking into a chuckle of his own. “oh yeah? we’re dicks, huh?” gojo retorts, his voice dripping with mock offense, but the gleam in his eyes betrays the amusement bubbling beneath his words. “please, elaborate. i’d love to hear why you think we’re such terrible boyfriends.”

sukuna joins in with a chuckle, his face a perfect mix of amusement and exaggerated outrage. “yeah, doll,” he adds, his tone filled with feigned indignation. “don’t be shy now. go ahead and tell us all about our apparent dickishness.”

you hum softly, your amusement lacing the sound as you take another languid drag from the joint. your eyes half-lidded, a dreamy smile spreading across your lips as the high wraps around you. you don’t bother responding to their mock outrage, your laughter bubbling up effortlessly as you lazily pass the joint to sukuna.

sukuna accepts it with a shake of his head, his lips curling into a knowing smirk as he watches you with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “she’s in her own world,” he mutters, clearly entertained, before taking a slow drag from the joint himself.

gojo snorts as he observes you sprawled across sukuna’s lap, completely unbothered, as if the world around you had faded into a background blur. “look at you,” he teases, affection dripping from his words as he gazes at you with playful exasperation. “completely out of it. doll, you’re a walking PSA for why not to share weed with your boyfriends.”

he takes the joint back from sukuna, inhaling deeply, and blows a cloud of smoke into the air before his attention returns to you. “so,” he says, voice mockingly casual as he looks at you with raised eyebrows, “while you’re floating up there in space, any fun observations to share with us mere mortals stuck down here?”

you blink slowly, your gaze drifting lazily between sukuna and gojo before you lean back slightly and flash them a lazy grin. “fun observation?” you repeat, tilting your head in exaggerated thoughtfulness. “yeah, i’ve got one.”

sukuna and gojo exchange a quick glance, their curiosity piqued. sukuna’s smirk widens in anticipation, bracing himself for whatever absurdity you’re about to deliver. gojo leans forward, clearly eager for whatever nonsense you might have to offer. both of them regard you with arched eyebrows, their expressions a mixture of amusement and eager curiosity.

“alright, doll,” gojo encourages with a light, teasing tone. “let’s hear this fun observation of yours.” sukuna’s smirk deepens as he watches you, his arm instinctively curling around your waist to steady you, as if he knows you might topple over from the sheer weight of the haze surrounding you.

you shift slightly on sukuna’s lap, adjusting your position as his arm instinctively tightens around your waist to steady you. a lazy grin spreads across your lips as you gesture dramatically with your hands, drawing a large, exaggerated circle in the air.

“up here,” you say, your voice light and airy, “there’s this stupid orbit.” you pause, a mischievous glint in your eyes, and glance between sukuna and gojo. gojo leans forward, intrigued. “oh? and what’s in this ‘orbit,’ doll?” his tone is playful, though there's a spark of curiosity hidden beneath it.

you let out a soft chuckle, your fingers completing another exaggerated circle in the air before you deadpan, “it looks just like your whitehead—” you flick your gaze to gojo with a teasing smirk, “—and his bitch face.” your eyes dart to sukuna, your giggle bubbling up as you savor their reactions.

gojo’s smirk falters, his eyes narrowing at your unexpected retort. sukuna, however, erupts into a fit of roaring laughter, unable to stifle his amusement. he even gives you a playful pat on the ass as he laughs louder.

“oh, damn, doll,” sukuna chuckles, clearly entertained. “you're so out of it that you're talking out of your ass right now, huh? that's the funniest thing you've said all night,” sukuna laughs, his hand tightening its grip around your waist as if to keep you from slipping away.

gojo scoffs, feigning offense as he rolls his eyes. “oh, yeah? well, your orbit in this universe looks like a bunch of fuzzy, incoherent nonsense, doll.” you roll your eyes, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you mutter under your breath, “talking about nonsense… rich coming from someone who’s always obnoxiously nonsense.”

you didn’t think they’d hear you, but both sukuna and gojo freeze for a moment, exchanging knowing looks before their eyes snap back to you. “oh, really?” gojo drawls, leaning in closer, his smirk sharpening into something far more challenging. “care to elaborate on what kind of ‘nonsense’ i’m spouting, doll?”

sukuna, still laughing, shakes his head, his grip on your waist tightening slightly, as if to keep you from slipping away. “nah, let her keep going,” he says, clearly relishing in the unfolding drama. “i wanna hear this too.”

you blink, realizing you’ve been caught. your cheeks flush—not from embarrassment, but from the combination of the weed haze and the realization you’ve just made a verbal slip-up. you let out a soft laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “nothing.”

gojo and sukuna exchange a knowing glance, their amusement growing as they watch you try to backtrack. sukuna lets out another chuckle, his hand still resting possessively on your waist as he grins. “oh, hell no, doll,” he says with a smirk. “you don’t get to back out now.”

gojo tilts his head, the devilish gleam in his eyes growing sharper as he leans closer to you. “yeah, doll, spill it. what did you mean when you called me obnoxious nonsense?”

you let out a soft laugh, the sound hazy and almost dreamlike as you shake your head. “nothing,” you murmur dismissively, waving a hand in the air before leaning forward and pressing your cheek against sukuna’s chest. his warmth is grounding, and you let yourself sink into the feeling as your body relaxes completely against him.

you hum softly, your eyes fluttering closed as you mutter, “damn, my head is spinning.” your words are barely audible, almost lost in the soft fabric of sukuna’s shirt. sukuna’s arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low laugh as he notices how your body practically melts into his. he leans in, his voice soft but steady.

“you’re so out of it right now,” he murmurs, his hand gently running through your hair.

meanwhile, gojo chuckles, clearly entertained by the whole scene. “yeah, doll, you’re orbiting pretty hard up there in space right now,” he teases, reclining on his hands as he watches the situation unfold with glittering amusement.

you let out a heavy sigh, your entire body going limp as you allow yourself to sink further into sukuna’s chest. your weight presses against him completely, your arms falling limply to the floor on either side of his waist, your fingers brushing the carpet as though they’ve forgotten how to move.

your eyes remain closed, your face nuzzled into the fabric of sukuna’s shirt, his warmth wrapping around you like a heavy, comforting blanket. “mmm,” you mumble, your voice muffled, but content. sukuna’s soft chuckle vibrates through his chest, his gaze softening as he looks down at you. he continues gently running his fingers through your hair, grounding you with his steady touch.

gojo watches the scene with a smirk, his eyes flickering with a playful glint. “you’re practically a ragdoll right now, doll,” he teases, a hint of affection threading through his words. “looks like you’re gonna pass out any second.”

you mumble softly, your voice barely audible, “i might be...” your words trail off as your head sinks further into sukuna’s chest, your body lax in his embrace, just as gojo had jokingly predicted.

sukuna hums in acknowledgment, the vibrations from his chest soothing against your cheek. he leans down, pressing a firm kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment as if sealing an unspoken promise. “listen, doll,” he says, his voice low and serious, though the playful undertone still lingers. “you better never smoke without me or gojo around. i don’t want anyone trying to take advantage of you like this— useless and unaware.”

gojo nods in agreement with sukuna’s statement, his expression hardening for a moment as he contemplates the possibility. the idea of someone taking advantage of you, defenseless and lost in your high, clearly doesn't sit well with either of them.

“yeah, baby,” gojo adds, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “we don’t want anyone messing with you when you can’t even process what's going on. you're off limits when you’re like this, got it?”

gojo moves closer, shifting onto his side next to you. he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing gently against your skin. his voice is barely above a whisper as he murmurs, “do you hear us, baby?”

you softly nod, your eyes still closed, the haze of the high clouding your senses. the steady warmth of sukuna’s body beneath you and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest provide a sense of security that lulls you into a deep sense of contentment. their words wrap around you like a protective cocoon, keeping you safe in their embrace.

sukuna lets out a low hum, feeling your nod, the knowledge that you understand their words settles over him like a heavy blanket. his fingers continue to stroke through your hair, the motion almost methodical, as he speaks again.

“good,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “you’re always off limits to anyone except us, but even more so when you’re in this state.” sukuna and gojo exchange a glance, a silent connection passing between them as they both watch you, boneless and disoriented on top of sukuna. it’s a sight that is both intriguing and worrisome, to witness you so completely undone by a mere drug.

sukuna’s hand continues to gently tangle in your hair, his touch soft yet firm, as if seeking to keep you grounded amidst the haze. gojo, meanwhile, leans forward and brushes his fingertips against your cheek, the touch barely a whisper. “baby,” he murmurs, his voice tender and concerned, “do you even know where you are right now?”

you let out a long, heavy sigh, the weight of everything pressing down on you like an insurmountable burden. the dizziness is overwhelming, a fog settling in your mind, clouding your thoughts and stealing your clarity. your eyelids flutter, but you fight the urge to succumb to the haze. instead of responding, you tighten your eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the spiraling confusion swirling inside your head. you try to cling to something solid, to anchor yourself amidst the storm of disorienting sensations.

yet, even through the thick fog, you can feel sukuna’s fingers gently carding through your hair, his touch steady and grounding. and gojo’s hand, warm and reassuring, rests lightly on your cheek, a subtle presence that brings you some semblance of comfort. still, the haze is suffocating, and focusing feels like an impossible task.

your body, like lead, refuses to obey your commands, sinking deeper into the disorienting daze. but in the midst of the confusion, the warmth of sukuna and gojo’s presence feels like a lighthouse in a storm, their proximity offering you a safe harbor, even if the world around you feels too far away. with your eyes closed, drifting between the fog of your mind and the warmth of their touch, you sense the soft exchange of glances between them. their faces, usually brimming with confidence and amusement, now carry a trace of concern, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

sukuna’s hand, still in your hair, moves with the same rhythmic precision, massaging your scalp with a soothing pressure that, against the weight of your dizzying thoughts, brings a small measure of clarity. the steady movement lulls you, pulling you from the disorienting fog, but it’s still hard to grasp onto anything concrete.

“doll,” sukuna’s voice cuts through the haze, deep and low, a soothing lullaby in the chaos of your mind. “open your eyes for us, will you? we need to see those beautiful eyes of yours.”

you try to comply, but it takes longer than expected. your response is sluggish, a slow nod that feels like an eternity to produce. finally, after what seems like a small eternity, your eyes crack open, just slightly, the world around you blurry, unfocused. you blink up at them, barely registering their expressions, the room around you spinning in a slow circle.

sukuna’s gaze softens when he sees you struggling to stay grounded, though his grip on you remains firm, a protective presence keeping you from slipping away. gojo lets out a breath, a soft sigh of relief escaping his lips as he watches your eyes flutter open, still glazed with the remnants of the fog in your mind.

“there you are,” gojo murmurs, his voice a gentle caress as his fingers trace the contours of your face, his touch light but deliberate, as if committing every feature to memory. his expression softens with a rare tenderness, but there’s still that playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, as if trying to lighten the atmosphere despite the obvious concern in his eyes.

sukuna continues his slow, steady motion through your hair, his touch almost tender now, his large hand providing a comforting pressure against your scalp. it’s as though he’s trying to pull you back to the surface, to anchor you to the present, but even his steady presence can’t erase the fog lingering in your mind.

“doll,” sukuna’s voice takes on a more serious tone now, yet still carries a certain warmth, “we need you to answer a question for us. just a simple question. think you can do that for us?” his words are firm, but there’s an undercurrent of reassurance in his voice, as though he's giving you the space to collect yourself.

you hum softly, the sound barely audible, but enough for them to hear. your response is slow, your thoughts clouded, but you’re still trying. you’re still there.

gojo and sukuna exchange another look, this one laced with an unspoken agreement. sukuna’s hand continues to glide through your hair, but now it’s even more deliberate, grounding you further, a steadying force in the midst of your dazed state.

“good,” gojo says, his tone carrying a touch of approval. “now, doll, listen closely. we’re going to ask you something, alright? it’s really simple, just one word, nothing complicated.” his voice is calm, though a faint hint of something more serious lingers beneath the playfulness. sukuna’s hand doesn’t falter, its rhythm steady as ever, anchoring you as gojo prepares to ask the question.

gojo takes a moment, a slight smirk playing at his lips, but his eyes reveal something deeper—a rare sincerity that surfaces when it’s just the three of you, alone in this moment.

“do you know where you are right now?” he asks, his voice still teasing, yet there’s a thread of concern woven in. his gaze never leaves you, as if watching for the smallest sign that you’re beginning to find your bearings again.

their eyes meet once more, their gazes a mixture of protectiveness and tenderness, but there's no mistaking the underlying urgency—wanting to be sure that you’re truly okay, that you’re not lost in the fog.

you scoff, the sound barely audible as you shift slightly, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. if you were fully sober, you’d probably curse them out and smack them for treating you like you couldn't function on your own.

instead, you mutter, “fuck off,” your voice weak and hoarse, as you weakly push gojo’s shoulder with little force, too tired to even put any real effort into it. your body still feels like it’s floating, but the familiarity of their touch and their concern lingers, and for now, it’s enough to make you feel safe.

sukuna and gojo burst into laughter at your attempt to sass them, amused by your weak, half-hearted response. despite being under the influence, your sharp tongue and fiery attitude refuse to fade, a testament to your usual feistiness.

“oh, there’s our spitfire doll,” gojo chuckles, his voice full of affection and amusement, the sparkle in his eyes betraying his enjoyment. “even in the middle of a high, you can't seem to help yourself, can you?” leaning down with that characteristic grin, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, the warmth of his touch a gentle contrast to the tension in the room.

sukuna, still tenderly running his fingers through your hair, lets out a low chuckle. his touch, though playful, holds a subtle trace of affection as he murmurs, “i suppose that answers the question, though.” you let out a soft sigh, the exhaustion from the drug coursing through your body, making everything feel heavier. still cradled against sukuna, you fold your arms tighter around yourself, your body seeking the warmth and comfort that he offers. your eyes, still heavy with the haze of the high, close again as you murmur, “can we move to the bed now?” the soft pleading in your voice is clear, even though the comfort of sukuna’s arms makes it hard to summon the energy to move.

sukuna and gojo share a knowing look—unspoken communication passes between them, the depth of their concern evident in their eyes. the fog of your drugged state is apparent, and they both recognize that it’s time to move you to the bed.

“yeah, baby,” sukuna responds, his voice a soft mix of authority and care, “we’ll move you. just hold on for a second, alright?” with deliberate care, he shifts, lifting you gently as he rises from the floor. gojo trails behind, his gaze never leaving you, his fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that speaks volumes. he watches your every move, filled with a mix of concern and deep affection as he follows sukuna’s lead.

once at the bed, sukuna lays you down on the soft sheets, adjusting the pillows beneath your head to ensure you’re comfortable. gojo settles at the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning your face, lingering on the softness of your features, still filled with a quiet intensity.

sukuna chuckles again, this time low and with a hint of amusement, as he undresses, slipping off his clothes until only his boxers remain. his gaze lingers on you, watching the way your face has softened, relaxed in the aftermath of the high. a wry smirk plays at his lips as he mutters under his breath, “dumbass,” with affectionate exasperation. “look at her, completely out of it… such a brat.” his words carry both humor and a layer of fondness, his teasing only highlighting his affection.

gojo, on the other hand, takes a moment to watch sukuna, a low whistle escaping his lips as his eyes roam over sukuna’s form before his attention snaps back to you. he leans in, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch light and delicate as though you might shatter if he wasn’t careful.

“she’s quite the dumbass right now, isn’t she?” gojo muses, his voice filled with playful amusement as a smirk tugs at his lips. he proceeds to gently remove the jewelry from your wrists and neck, placing each piece carefully on the nightstand before tenderly taking off your clothes, ensuring he’s gentle with every motion. his hands move with deliberate care, and once you’re only in your underwear, he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulls the blanket up around you. his movements are tender and deliberate, as though trying to cocoon you in warmth and safety.

glancing toward the window, gojo observes the relentless rain, the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. a quiet sigh escapes him as he watches the storm rage outside, his voice barely a whisper, “hell of a storm.” the low hum of rain becomes a background to the otherwise still room as he slowly undresses, ready to settle beside you.

meanwhile, sukuna reaches over to switch off the lights, plunging the room into darkness, save for the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the window. the room feels peaceful in contrast to the chaos outside, the distant thunder muffled by the closed windows and thick curtains. the silver moonlight casts a calming glow, the only source of light as they prepare to settle in.

with the room now dark, sukuna climbs into bed beside you, his warm body pressing gently against your side, his hand finding yours under the blanket. his fingers brush over your palm, tracing the lines of your hand as though trying to steady you, grounding you in the present.

gojo, having finished undressing, slides into the bed on your other side. the two of them sandwich you between them, their bodies close, limbs intertwined in an intimate, protective embrace. it’s a cocoon of warmth, of security, a stark contrast to the vulnerability you’re feeling from the high. despite your state, they’re hyper-aware of your every breath, your every movement.

sukuna, still holding your hand, presses his head gently against your shoulder, his voice low and soothing as he mutters, “there we go, all nice and comfortable, doll.” his words are a lullaby, grounding you further in the moment.

gojo, propped up on his elbow, studies your face intently, the faintest trace of concern mingling with the amusement still in his eyes. his touch is careful as he brushes another strand of hair from your face, a tenderness that speaks volumes in its simplicity.

“you’re gonna be one hell of a headache tomorrow,” he muses with a soft chuckle, a playful hint to his voice. “such a little idiot, letting yourself get so out of it.” sukuna’s chuckle rumbles against your back, the vibrations reverberating through your skin. “yeah, doll,” he agrees, his voice a deep rumble. “you’ll be feeling it tomorrow. but for now... we’ll just keep you right here, safe and sound.”

both sukuna and gojo tighten their hold on you, their arms encircling you like a protective barrier, refusing to let you slip out of reach even an inch. they’re both hyper-aware that you have no control over your body right now, and they’re fiercely protective over your vulnerability.

#sukuna x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #gojo satoru x reader #gojo fluff #sukuna fluff #gojo satoru #ryomen sukuna #jjk fluff

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thinemoonshine · 9 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓈 ୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

enhypen 8th fem!member x enhypen ot7 genre: fluff, slight angst (the members get upset and protective) type: oneshot word count: 1.3k

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ synopsis: in which (y/n) is given a clothing much too revealing and restrictive that it evokes the members’ protectiveness and heroic sense to win her justice ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

“Alright, idols! Please head into the dressing room for your fittings!! Stylists, please pay close attention to the new sets we brought in— check all their details and sizes and make sure nothing is wrong!” The head stylist reminds as she walks across the room and out into the corridor to grab some other stuff required for Enhypen’s stage.

Heeseung and the boys howl and sing in deep bass voices as they march into the makeup room in a messy line, all dressed in their new stage fits as they still need to check their practicability during dance.

"I nEEd tHe lIGh—" Heeseung freezes entirely at the doorway, causing Jake, Jay and Ni-ki as well as the other members behind to collide with one another's back.

Jay furrows as he flips his hair back before tidying them again with his fingers while Jake who's in front of him stares at the back of a frozen Hee's head.

"Why'd you stop?" He asks their oldest but when he follows the shocked gaze of the wide-eyed bambi, he too mimics his expression— jaw falling and eyes growing twice in size. "(y/n)?? Wha...what are you wearing?"

(y/n) lifts her head to them and instinctively crosses her arms, a feeble smile on her clearly strained expression. "Hey... It's my new set."

The sound of discomfort in her voice breaks their line as the members pour into the room like pool balls scattering across the board.

And as if witnessing a scene right out of a horror film playing right in front of their eyes, they express different forms of fright.

Sunoo with his hand flying to his mouth as a large gasp escapes, Jay and Ni-ki who are completely petrified with the former expressing evident displeasure and the latter just looking onto his shoes before the walls then, at (y/n) before back to his shoes; Sunghoon whose thick brows are scrunched and knitted yet lips tightly pressed and finally, Jungwon with a similar expression but jaw tightened.

In front of the standing mirror in the makeup room is (y/n) who's wearing a pink camisole top with frilly black trims and a thin satin ribbon in the centre of the sweetheart neck line. The fabric around the chest is elastic, hugging her tightly while the cloth that runs below it that reaches just slightly above her hip is sheer.

Her stomach can be seen faintly, blanketed by the translucent material and to make matters worse, it's paired with a low-rise pleated, black miniskirt that seems too short to even be called a miniskirt. Is there such thing as a mini miniskirt? Because that's how it looks to them. It looks more alike a frilly swimsuit than it is a stage outfit, at least where they're from.

It's tiny to the point that her safety shorts seem like normal shorts and at that moment, the Enhypen members are beginning to question the rationality of their staff— and the whole company.

"..W…Wow! Such a cute combo...!" Jake exclaims, trying to be supportive as to not offend or discourage their lone female teammate as he approaches her with an awkward grin. "Where's the jacket? Or a cardigan, maybe?"

(y/n)'s crossed arms lower to her abdomen, trying to conceal it as the sheerness of her camisole isn't doing much. "This is the whole fit, actually..."

"What?" Heeseung blurts as his expression falls and Jay walks over to (y/n), draping his leather jacket over her shoulders to which she quickly slips her sleeves in. "They expect you to perform in this?"

"This isn't practical," Jay comments, now left in his sleeveless shirt as he glares at whatever is in front but his stare softens when he looks at (y/n). "They said this is your new fit? Is there nothing else?"

She shakes her head and both him and Sunghoon emit a heavy sigh of frustration, the latter resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"This is impossible! You can't perform in this!" Sunoo loudly expresses his disagreement to her ensemble as he tightens the jacket around her, angrily fixing the zip together with an evident scowl. "Can't even give you some tights? Or a cardigan? It's not like they can't afford it!"

Jungwon steps forward and runs his solicitous gaze on the features of her face, reading her expression. "You want to wear something else? You should wear something else. You can't dance in this."

He doesn't even give her the opportunity to reply before he looks around the room, searching for any known stylists and keenly spots one blending in with the makeup artists. "Excuse me! Stylist-nim!"

The said staff turns and she walks over to the crowd of 7 that encircle the subject of their worry. "Yes?"

Jungwon gestures to (y/n) who stands uncomfortably. Being one of the youngest with no significant team role and the only female, she always has to tread more carefully than the others. Her position is after all, more vulnerable and she doesn’t want anything to risk it. Jungwon knows that. "She can't wear this."

The stylist turns to her before her lips form an 'O.' "Ah, this? Yes, this jacket is Jay's so this isn't supposed to—"

She's stopped by both Sunghoon's and Jay's hand that rest on her arm and shoulder respectively, directly preventing her from removing the jacket. Her head lifts, meeting eyes with the two and instantly feeling small at their stern gazes despite their lips that remain closed.

"We know that's Jay's jacket. We put it on her because her outfit doesn't seem appropriate for the stage. She can't perform in that," Heeseung interjects as his eyes travel from her head to toe. "Look, she's getting cold already."

"It's the company's decision so we can't—"

"So, you expect her to go out like this?" Jungwon interrupts and the frigid air around them melts from the fire burning in his usually gentle eyes and unmoving, defensive stance but it doesn’t make things better at the slightest. In fact, it feels worse.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"We can’t change her set without prior notice to the company…” The stylist nervously says and Jay nods understandingly although, his soft frown and tightened lips suggest otherwise.

“Then, she can wear my jacket,” he says and the members give subtle nods, showing their unanimous approval.

Ni-ki stands closer to (y/n) and offers a small smile, sharp eyes gazing down at her before at the jacket. “Yeah, it looks nice like this too.”

“But—”

7 pairs of daunting eyes slice daggers onto her, unnerving her very being and she takes a small, subservient step backwards. They speak no words, not wanting to appear rude and demanding yet the grim aura that emanates and overpowers from the group is enough to stifle the whole room, enough to perturb, rid one of air with a tension so thick, you can cut.

“Um… I’ll see what I can do.”

She scurries away and after what seems like a frantic discussion, they decide to change her outfit. They keep the top, but pairs it with a matching black sweater knit shrug to cover her bare arms and shoulders, and replaces her miniskirt for a pair of high-waisted bootcut jeans that cover up to her waist.

It’s clear how happy (y/n) is after the alterations so it’s almost comedic and yet, heartwarming to see the boys even happier at seeing her twirl and grin in front of the standing mirror.

“Can’t believe they made her wear that,” Heeseung comments bitterly. “How is she supposed to dance?”

“Can’t believe the company even agreed on it,” Jay adds and Jungwon shakes his head with disbelief.

The sound of giddy chuckles fill the room and the older ones watch as Ni-ki and (y/n) have a hand-slapping match, both having too great of a balance to actually fall so they end up looking like those inflatable dummies.

𝜗𝜚 hi, it’s romi here!! thank you so much for reading to the end!! if you enjoyed it, don’t forget to leave a heart and reblog—they give me some motivation, ya know? but please, do not spam like!! X♡X♡, romi ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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roosterforme · 1 year ago

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Playing From the Rough | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley agrees to play in a charitable golf tournament as long as you tag along. When he tells off a professional golfer for being rude and then beats him at his own game, Bradley braces himself for the consequences. But it's you the professional decides to take it out on. Guess he didn't get the memo: don't mess with the Bradshaws.

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, mentions of smut, mentions of blood, non consensual touching

Length: 3800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Beautiful banner by @mak-32

"Come on, Rooster. We need a fourth golfer," Bob coaxed, handing Bradley another beer at the Hard Deck. "It's a foursome, not a threesome. And it's for charity."

Bradley sipped the drink and thought about how he'd have to spend a whole weekend day away from you, and he really just wasn't feeling it. The two of you were enjoying that newlywed bubble you'd been living in. Recently, Saturdays had been reserved for sleeping in late, walking the dog, and fucking.

"Wow, I guess Bradshaw just hates charitable events for children's hospitals," Jake drawled, sipping on his glass of bourbon. "Come on. Be a sport. Payback and Fanboy are deployed. We need one more to make a team."

Bradley sighed. "Let me check with my wife."

"Bring her," Coyote said, lining up a shot at the pool table. "We get two extra tickets. She can drive a golf cart and drink beers all day if she wants."

Bradley cocked his head to the side before he turned to look at you and Nat taking shots up at the bar. "Who else would come?" he asked the guys. "With the other extra ticket?"

But Coyote had followed his gaze. "Give it to Nat. They'd have fun."

"They can be our cheerleaders," Jake said with a smirk.

Bradley snorted. "Don't hold your breath. I think drinking, heckling, and hitting us with the golf carts would be more their speed."

------------------------

"Roo."

Bradley woke up to you pushing your fingers back through his hair, and he groaned. It was just before six in the morning, and you were rubbing yourself against his leg and kissing his neck. He realized he had an erection before he could even remember what day it was, and then he groaned louder.

You and he had to be at the gold course for the charitable fundraiser in about an hour. Bradley wrapped his hands around your waist. "We need to get up, Baby Girl."

"No," you whispered. "You need to fuck me. I'm so horny."

"Shit," he sighed, glancing at the time on his phone. "We can't. We'll be late."

"Roo!" you whined, thoroughly unaccustomed to being told no when it came to anything, but especially when it was something you wanted in bed. Bradley was weak for you in that way.

"I'll make it up to you later, after I'm all sweaty and you've had even more time to get wound up," he promised, squeezing your ass.

You moaned softly next to his ear. "You better. I want it twice."

"Three times," he replied with a smirk as he got out of bed. He watched you get dressed in a little tropical print pleated skirt and a sleeveless white golf shirt. And nothing else. "Are you planning on wearing any underwear?" he asked, following you into the bathroom.

"No," you told him casually, bending over at the sink to wash your face. He could see your bare pussy. You were doing this intentionally to mess with him. This is what he got for telling you no sex. "Fuck."

When he came up behind you, clearly having a change of heart, you stepped away from him and said, "We don't want to be late." He watched you walk back into the bedroom with your chin in the air. Oh, he'd get you good later.

Once you were holding two travel mugs of coffee and Bradley had his golf bag, he followed you out to the Bronco. He tossed his clubs in the back and then buckled your seatbelt. He let his palm rest on your thigh as he leaned in to kiss you.

"You're going to look so pretty sitting in the golf cart and cheering for me," he said, trying not to laugh.

"If anything, you're my trophy husband," you replied with a laugh as you kissed his scarred cheek.

"I love you," he promised before closing the passenger door and heading out.

The weather was perfect, the sky was blue, and when you and Bradley arrived at the golf course, the others were already there. The four of them were wearing matching golf shirts emblazoned with Top Gun on the back along with white pants. Bradley wasn't the best golfer by any stretch of the imagination. He usually just tagged along because it was fun, and today was no different. They were raising money for a local children's hospital, and some of the kids were present.

Bradley smiled at the children who were waving to them after they got checked in. "They'd probably love some pictures with you guys," you whispered, running your hand up Bradley's bicep.

"Nah," Bradley replied. "There are some TV stars and musicians here. I don't think they care about us."

But you pushed him and Jake toward the kids, and their little faces lit up. Soon Bob was handing out some pins with wings that said Top Gun, and you took pictures while the kids asked questions about aviation.

Bradley ended up sitting with a little girl named Abigail who asked him a million questions about his Super Hornet, but he didn't mind. He loved kids. But it was almost time to get started, so he stood and gave her a high five. And he posed for one more photo that you took before he headed to one of the golf carts.

"That was sweet of you to pose for pictures with the kids," you told him as you slipped into the driver's seat.

"It was sweet of you to take all the photos," he replied, sitting next to you and kissing your cheek.

"Ready?" Coyote asked, taking a seat in the back. Bradley watched Nat tear off in the other cart with Bob and Jake barely hanging on. You followed them to the first tee at a much slower pace, and Bradley was happy to see that there were more kids among the spectators.

He played the first few holes pretty well. Surprisingly, he was keeping up with Javy and Jake. You and Nat were half watching and half laughing with some drinks in your hands, but Bradley just wanted you to have a good time.

And you were definitely making sure he was having a good time. Whenever he met your gaze, you ran your fingers up your bare thigh or licked your lips. He was probably playing so well because he knew what was in store for him later. Probably a blowjob to start, but you'd definitely let him finish in your pussy. When he checked the time on his phone, he saw a text from you.

Baby Girl Bradshaw: I'm really horny.

He groaned. You were hot for him and texting him from twenty feet away. He texted you back before tucking his phone away so he could tee off.

Behave, or I'll spank you.

Bradley thought he could hear you moan from the golf cart. But that sweet sound was soon drowned out by someone else.

"Jesus Christ. I told him to fuck off! He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. And his golf swing looks like a piece of shit, too."

It was a guy about his age, swearing up a storm in front of all the kids. Bradley clenched and unclenched his fist in his glove. Sure, he could appreciate the subtle art of the f-word, but not in front of families with kids representing the charity! There was a time and a place. Like bullshitting at the bar or whispering dirty stuff in your wife's ear.

"Rooster, you're up," Javy called, and Bradley rolled his shoulders and walked away.

But this prick was still running his mouth at the next hole. Bradley didn't know how he got unlucky enough to have to play next to this idiot, but he couldn't take much more. And when he looked up and saw Abigail and her parents, he decided that was enough.

"Hey man, do you mind?" Bradley asked him, and then he was met with cold, gray eyes.

"I'm sorry, but who the fuck are you?" the prick responded, sizing Bradley up.

"Someone who's sick of listening to your mouth," Bradley replied without hesitation. This guy was handsome and smug, and Bradley couldn't stand him. "This is an event for children. There are kids everywhere. Cut it out with the foul language."

Bradley turned and walked back toward the golf cart where you were laughing with Nat when Jake jogged up next to him. "Dude, what did you just say to Hunter King?"

"Who?"

"You were just talking to Hunter King. He's a super famous pro golfer!"

Bradley turned back to see that he was still being glared at. "I told him to shut his mouth and stop swearing in front of all the kids," he told Jake.

"But that's Hunter King," Jake insisted with wide eyes.

Bradley shrugged and said, "I don't care who he is. He's being rude." Then he took a quick sip of the beer you were holding before handing it back to you with a kiss to your forehead.

"Ready to go to the next hole?" you asked, brushing the hem of your skirt a little higher.

"I'm ready to take you home," Bradley replied, squeezing your perfect thigh.

"Gross," Nat complained, climbing out of the cart and heading to the other one. You and she drove the four of them to the next hole, and Bradley saw that Hunter King was right there as well.

"Go get a hole in one, Roo," you told him, rubbing high up on his thigh and brushing his cock.

"Baby Girl, I'm gonna teach you a lesson later."

"Ohh," you crooned. "Will you teach me how to hold your club?"

"If you're good," he replied, climbing out of the cart with a shake of his head. Bradley watched Hunter King play par on the hole, and then it was his turn. Bradley drove the ball with a nearly perfect swing, and the ball landed on the green.

You and Nat were both cheering for him, and the kids in the area all looked delighted as well. Nat drove Bradley over to the green to putt while you waited with Bob and Jake. And to Bradley's surprise, he came in at one stroke under par for the hole. He just did better than a professional golfer. And now Hunter King looked even more pissed off.

"Good," Bradley muttered to himself, bending to get his ball out of the hole. "That's what you get."

And then Bradley beat him on the next hole. And the one after that.

"Wow, Rooster," Nat said, rubbing his shoulder. "I had no idea you'd be this good. Jake tells everyone how terrible you are."

Bradley rolled his eyes as you walked over and wrapped your arms around his waist. "You're doing better than Javy, Bob and Jake," you informed him, clearly impressed.

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "It's just for charity." But he was still shocked when he finished in third place overall. Hunter King finished in fourth.

Bradley went over to congratulate the first and second place finishers, but he was cut off by Hunter. "Good game," Bradley managed through clenched teeth, holding out his hand. But the other man didn't shake it. Instead he smiled in such a way that made Bradley feel very uneasy.

"Are you married?" Hunter asked him.

Bradley's brow scrunched up. "Yeah," he replied.

"Which one's your wife?" Hunter was nodding to where you and Nat were standing in the sunlight. You looked beautiful, the golden glow illuminating your skin as you shifted weight from one foot to the other. With one hand planted on your hip you tossed your head back and laughed. You were his wife. His perfect wife.

"You know what?" Hunter replied. "It doesn't matter. I'll take real good care of both of them."

"What?" Bradley asked, but as soon as Hunter headed your way, someone was trying to pull him aside for a photo with the other winners. When he turned back, all he saw was you and Nat being led away with Hunter's hand on your lower back.

---------------------------

"Ladies."

You looked up into a pair of soft, gray eyes and were met with a brilliant smile. "My name's Hunter, and I'd love to take you on a tour of the VIP tent."

"Sounds swanky," Nat replied, smiling at him.

"Oh. It is. I promise," he said with another charming smile. "Let's go."

You looked back to see that Bradley was absorbed with a photography crew and some of the kids associated with the charity. You tried to wave to get his attention, but you supposed it didn't really matter. You wouldn't be gone long enough to even need to grab you phone from the golf cart.

Then Hunter's hand came to rest just above the swell of your butt, and you thought your eyes were going to bug out. As he nodded at the security guard watching the entrance to the VIP tent, you slipped out of his grasp.

"Welcome, Mr. King," the guard said with a smirk. "Two guests with you?"

"That's right," he replied with a laugh. He was annoying, but the inside of the tent was incredible. It looked more like a small arena inside. There were people checking out golf simulators and waiters walking around with drinks. You watched Hunter grab two bottles of champagne from a large ice bucket.

"This way, ladies," he said, and you took Nat by the hand before she could wander over to the simulators. Hunter looked at your joined hands as you both followed him, and he muttered, "That works for me, too."

You pulled Nat a little closer as the three of you ended up in a secluded area. After he popped the first bottle of champagne, he handed it to Nat. "A whole bottle?" she asked. "Thanks, Hunter."

Then he popped the second one and gave it to you. "Drink up."

His fingers lingered on yours as you said, "I love pink champagne. My husband buys it for me all the time."

Hunter's eyes appraised you, lingering on your lips and chest. You were suddenly very aware of your lack of underwear and peaked nipples. "Oh, you're married?" he asked casually. "Was he the one who finished in the top three?"

"Yes! He placed third," you told him before taking a sip of the expensive champagne. It was delicious, and Nat had already finished half of her bottle. You kind of wanted to share your bottle with Bradley, but you also kind of wanted to ditch it and leave.

"You like to play golf?" Hunter asked, completely focused on you now.

You shrugged. "I haven't played much. I usually just hang out in the golf cart when I go."

"Your husband won't let you play?"

You rolled your eyes. "I can assure you that I do whatever I want."

"I love to hear that," he laughed with a smile. "And I think you want to try out one of the simulators."

You noticed that Nat had already wandered away to one of the booths. "Just for a minute," you agreed.

Then you listened to him explain how the simulator worked. It was a small booth, and you would wear a virtual reality mask. It looked just like you were really on a golf course.

"Let me close the door for you," Hunter murmured next to your ear. "So you can get started."

He closed the booth, and it took you a few seconds to realize he was still in there with you. Because when you bent a little at the waist, you bumped into him with your butt.

"You need a little help with your posture?" he asked, wrapping his hands around your hips from behind. In an instant, you knew you were rubbing against the zipper of his pants, and his left hand was skimming over your skirt right where your little rooster tattoo was covered by the thin fabric.

You gasped when his hands slid a little lower. You had no underwear on, because your main goal of the day had been to tease Bradley. But now Hunter was the one almost touching your bare skin.

"What the hell?" you shouted in the small space, whipping off the mask covering your eyes and spinning around. "What the hell is your problem?" You watched his face as you pulled your right hand back. He looked alarmed, eyes wide and hands held up in surrender as your palm made contact with his face.

"Ow! Fuck!" he screamed. Somehow you managed to slap his cheek and also hit his nose with the heel of your hand at the same time. It started gushing blood onto his pale blue shirt, and he tried to pinch the bridge of his nose to get it to slow down.

"I'm married, and you're creepy!" you informed him loudly, shoving past him to get out of the simulation booth. "Come on, Nat," you called, taking her hand again.

"Why are we leaving? I didn't finish my champagne!" she complained. So when you walked back past the ice bucket, you gabbed a new bottle for her and a second one for yourself.

"Hunter is a creep," you informed her as you made your way to the tent exit. But Hunter was hot on your heels and reaching out for you.

----------------------------

Bradley saw you go inside the VIP area, but he got pulled aside for some group photos. He knew the kids, including Abigail, were waiting for more photos as well, but he quickly excused himself to head after you.

"That son of a bitch," he muttered to himself as he approached the security guard. Hunter King was mad that he told him to shut his mouth, and beating a professional at his own game really hadn't helped Bradley's cause. And he just knew Hunter was going to try to take it out on you and Nat.

He started sweating. You were all horny and wound up, and you had skipped underwear to mess with him. And now the guy who was pissed off at Bradley was probably inside pawing at you. And you weren't answering your phone.

"Whoa, hang on," the guard said, sliding into place in front of the entrance just as Bradley got there. "This area is off limits for you."

Bradley grunted. "My wife is in there."

"Good for her," he replied with a shrug of his enormous shoulders.

"You don't understand. She's with Hunter King."

The guard had the audacity to smirk at him. "One of those two attractive women? I'm sure she's having a great time with Mr. King."

What was that supposed to mean? Bradley had to close his eyes and silently count to ten. "I just need to pop in there, and then I'll be right back out."

"Absolutely not."

Bradley ground his molars together before he managed a very insincere sounding, "Please?"

Then the security guard laughed at him, and Bradley contemplated trying to shove this guy out of his way. He had about a hundred pounds and four inches on Bradley, but it would be worth the pounding to make sure you and Nat were okay. Just as he was working himself up to do it, he caught sight of you heading his way, dragging Nat along. You emerged from the tent looking unscathed.

"Hi, Roo," you said sweetly, gripping a bottle of pink champagne for some reason. You wrapped your arms around him, the cold condensation from the bottle pressing to the back of his neck.

"What's going on, Baby Girl?" he asked, still completely bewildered as you kissed him. "Where's Hunter King?" He was pulling you a little closer, waiting for some sort of explanation.

But Nat started laughing. "You don't need to worry about your wife. Cheers," she said, holding up a second bottle of champagne before popping the cork.

You whispered, "I love you," against Bradley's lips just as he saw Hunter come storming to the tent entrance with blood all over his shirt.

Bradley took your face in his hands. "What happened? Why is he covered in blood? Did he try to hurt you? Or Nat? This is all my fault for telling him to stop swearing and then beating his score." Bradley could feel his pulse quicken, feel his brow crease in concern, but you were smiling.

"He's a creep. I told him I was married, and he still tried to touch me, but I'm pretty sure I broke his nose."

Bradley shoved you gently away from him, ready to beat the ever living shit out of both the security guard and Hunter King. He watched Hunter's eye grow wide as he clenched both hands into fists, but then you were in front of him again.

"Roo! It's okay!" you promised, pressing the champagne bottle to his chest and pushing him back.

"It is not okay," he growled, letting you push him a little further away from the tent. "I'll rip him in half."

"Roo! Right before I saw you, he tried to grab me again. I told him I'd call the cops if he didn't match the donation that was being made to the children's hospital."

"Match the donation? That's like four hundred thousand dollars," he replied, looking at you with surprise. "You just got Hunter King to make a personal donation of four hundred thousand dollars?"

"Yep!" you replied, pressing yourself to the front of him. "I sure did. And I got him to say it in front of one of the charity's coordinators. I also insinuated to that coordinator that perhaps Mr. King shouldn't be allowed to spend any time alone with women in the VIP tents in the future. And that maybe he should be removed from the circuit. Now let's go home, pop this delicious bottle of pink champagne, and celebrate your third place victory!"

Bradley was still gaping at you before he scooped you up into his arms. He was careful to keep your butt covered with one big hand as you kissed his face while he glared past you at Hunter King until the other man slinked back into the shadows where he belonged.

"You're such a badass," he told you suddenly. "I'm so impressed by you all the time, Sweetheart. You don't even need me."

"No, I don't," you agreed with him, kissing his cheek and trailing your lips back to his ear. "But I really, really want you."

"Let's go home," he grunted, carrying you to one of the golf carts. "I just want my bed, my wife, and the expensive champagne she stole from the VIP tent."

-----------------------------

Don't mess with the Bradshaws! Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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beansprean · 1 year ago

Text

Except they all look good, damn.

(ID in alt and under cut, ref under cut)

ID: 1. Colin, Nandor, Laszlo, and Guillermo standing in a line against a wall with patterned wallpaper, wearing drag. Colin has on a drab 70s businesswoman look, with a plaid knee length skirt, beige blazer with shoulder pads, a cream silk blouse with a neck bow, a single string of pearls, a flat cap with a feather, cat eye glasses, subtle makeup, and a shoulder length brown feathered wig. He is holding a brown leather clutch in one hand and standing up straight, staring. Nandor has on a sleeveless brick-colored turtleneck with a heart shaped cutout at the chest, a thick brown belt, leather miniskirt, dark gray stockings helps up with garters, two gold bracelets, and gold hoop earrings. His hair is down, curled into big waves, and he has dark dramatic eye makeup on with dark red lipstick. He is grinning seductively at the viewer, hands clasped in front of him demurely with his butt angled out. He didn't bother shaving his legs or chest for this, as a treat. Laszlo is dressed in a pale pink silk nightie with a bit of ruffle at the neckline making up both thin shoulder straps. He has a long string of pearls and glittery dangly earrings, his hair is swept back from his forehead, and he is wearing soft dusky pink eyeshadow with baby pink lipstick. He smiles at the viewer like they're his good lady wife come to ravish him, strap falling off one shoulder, that hand gliding up his opposite arm demurely as his free hand clutches the material of his nightie to pull it up his angled thigh. Guillermo stands with arms crossed, looking self conscious, wearing a green v neck sweater over a collared shirt and pleated miniskirt. He is wearing his normal glasses and pantyhose but no visible jewelry, and has on a dark wig with shoulder length curls and bangs. His makeup is not overly heavy but well done: a shimmering brown over his eyes and a dusky reddish-pink on his lips, expertly lined to bring out their shape. Overlaid on the image, each man's face is circled in red. Text pointing to Colin and Laszlo reads "doing it for the bit (world's dullest drag show and secksy roleplay, respectively)". Text pointing to Nandor reads "doing it for the bit but looks good doing it (discovering things about himself)". Text pointing to Guillermo reads "that is a woman. (guy who's good at everything)"

2. Original version of this image; a photo from the 80s of the band Queen wearing similar drag, with text overlaid pointing to john deacon and bryan may saying "doing it for the bit", pointing to freddie mercury and saying "doing it for the bit but looks good doing it", and pointing to roger taylor and saying "that is a woman" /end ID

#wwdits #colin robinson #nandor the relentless #laszlo cravensworth #guillermo de la cruz #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described #tumblr if you transmisogynistically flag this as mature im stealing shit from your house

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radioactiveparker · 10 months ago

Text

The Breakfast Club - Eddie Munson X F!Cheerleader!Reader

Part One - These Children That You Spit On

Chapter Summary - We meet five unlikely teenagers who have to spend the next eight hours in detention together. (A retelling of The Breakfast Club, written and directed by John Hughes.)

Chapter Warnings - Characters are all 18+ / Strong Language / Illusions to Abuse/ Abusive Relationship / Dysfunctional Families / Kleptomania / References to Demonianism and Satanism / References to Religious Beliefs / Sexual References / Stereotyping / Angst

Word Count - 6.6k

(Series Masterlist) (Masterlist)

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five)

-----

Saturday.

October 25th, 1984.

Hargrove Residence.

6:30am.

~~~~~

"Billy, c'mon, I have to go."

You reluctantly pulled away from the warm embrace of the covers, or at least attempted to. Billy kept the dead weight of his arm slung heavily around your waist, trapping you to the mattress. He released a groan of annoyance as he curled it around you and pulled you into him. You spared a few minutes to stay in his warmth and shed the sleep from your brain. The grey hues of wintry light cascaded onto the room through the gap in the curtain. The room was otherwise obscured from light, making it effortless to close your eyes and fall back asleep. You refrained, deciding to focus your ears instead. The familiar chirping of birds and the quiet hum of unfortunate morning commuters on their way to work on a Saturday morning had you sinking back into your pillow. The smell of brewing coffee reminded you to stay awake. Your eyes blinked open again, and you shuffled from underneath Billy's grasp. He groaned again, this time burying himself into your neck. You giggled, planted a kiss to his cheek, and rolled him off you.

You quickly jumped in the shower, saying good morning to Billy's little sister Max, who was making her way into the kitchen, along the way. You dressed in the bathroom, checking your watch before heading back into Billy's bedroom to say goodbye.

He lay on his front, eyes still closed, but his breathing told you that he was awake. You placed a gentle hand on his arm, leaning in to kiss his cheek again.

"Billy, I'm going now, but I'll see you on Monday, yeah?"

He said nothing. You couldn't suppress the disappointment that swept through you. You turned to leave when he softly grabbed your wrist. You smiled, thinking he was going to ask you to stay, or to give you a goodbye kiss, but his gripped tightened. Your heart dropped.

"Billy, you're hurting me."

"Where do you think you're going?" He stared you dead in the eyes.

You tried to pull away. "I told you yesterday, Billy. Mrs O'Donnell gave me a Saturday detention."

"No, where do you think you're going dressed like that."

You looked at your outfit. You wore the signature green and white of the Hawkins High cheerleading squad. A sleeveless modest style vest, worn with a turtleneck layer underneath, and a green pleated skirt with yellow striping around the hem. It rested just above your mid thigh, so you pulled your socks all the way up to your knees to keep warm. "I told my parents I had cheerleading practice, so they didn't think I had detention. You know this, Billy."

"Do I? Or are you going to see your precious King Steve again?" His grip tightened even further.

He had that crazy look in his eyes that made your entire body freeze. You stopped struggling. Your chest went tight, and suddenly, it was like trying to breathe in a sauna room.

Billy Hargrove was not fond of Steve Harrington, and last Thursday night, you had snook out to go to a party as his house. You had cancelled your plans with Billy last minute after Carol begged you to go with her (not that it took much convincing). It turned out that Billy had been invited to the party by one of his other friends, unbeknownst to you. And you made the mistake of lying to Billy and told him that you were sick.

The biggest mistake of your life.

He saw you there and started an argument that had the entire rooms eyes on the two of you. He had the same wild look in his eyes as he had now. He ended up punching Steve when he had come over to ask if everything was alright.

"I only went to that party for Carol. I didn't even speak to Steve."

"No? Because he seemed real friendly with you."

"He wasn't! Billy, please, I don't want anything to do with Steve. Just please let me go."

He released you harshly, and you immediately brought your wrist to your chest, rubbing the sore skin.

"Get out of my sight."

You scurried out the door with tears in your eyes.

Your first steps outside felt as though you were walking into the worlds largest refrigerator, though you were thankful it wasn't raining. You could do without the frozen shrapnel soaking you to the bone this morning. It had already started bad enough.

The sun had only just begun to rise, not having a chance to warm up the earth yet. Not that it would do much good. The temperature had been dropping more and more as the days went on, this morning being the worst yet. It had turned tomb-like silent outside with the exception of the crunching salt under your feet that had been newly laid to stop people from slipping on the first of winter's ice. A storm had come and gone the previous night, but the sky still hung sadly as a woollen grey shawl, bringing threat of another. The cold, however, was enough to calm you down. It felt refreshing after feeling suffocated in Billy's room.

You checked your watch again. You had twenty minutes to sneak back home and pretend that you had just woken up and got dressed for cheerleading practice.

You started running.

~~~~~

Saturday.

October 25th, 1984.

Hawkins High.

7:55am.

~~~~~

You had made it home just in time before your parents woke up. You explained you were doing stretches in your room, which was why you were red-faced and slightly out of breath. They didn't seem to buy it, but the alternative presumption was far too embarrassing for them not to take your word for it.

Your father offered you a ride to school, but after that rather awkward first encounter with them this morning, you thought it best to walk. And you were glad you did because it didn't take long before they were arguing. Your mother red-faced and clutched onto the cross around her neck while your father rolled his eyes. To the outside world, it would seem that you had the perfect family, but that couldn't be father from the truth. A lot of the times when they argued, it would be over something petty, but all of a sudden, your name would be roped in, and the entire point of the argument seemed to vanish. You see, to them, you were leverage. As soon as you got a mention, they got the upper hand. They used you to get back at each other: a means to an end. Not intentionally, of course, but that didn't make it any less frustrating. It was nothing uncommon in your household, but that didn't mean you could stand to listen to it. You grabbed your coat and left as quickly as you could, neither of your parents noticing that you were gone as they continued to scream in each others faces.

By the time you made it to the schools entrance, you wished you had brought a change of clothes as ice shot through your veins and goose-pimpled your skin. You drew your coat closer to your chest, clenching and unclenching your gloveless fingers to keep the feeling in their tips.

As you bound up the schools steps like a heat-seeking rocket, the rubber tyres of a coffee brown BMW screeched to a stop. The sudden sound echoing across the empty school premises caused you to turn quickly. Through the windshield, you saw a man in a business suit at the wheel. Beside him was his eighteen-year-old son, Steve Harrington. Your heart raced when you saw him. You weren't expecting to see him here.

Billy isn't here. You told yourself in an attempt to calm your jangled nerves.

His hands gestured animatedly as he argued with his father. Their words were suppressed by the metal walls of the car, but you could surmise their level of volume by the thick vein protruding from Steve's neck. Then, their words exploded like a bullet from the barrel of a gun, piercing through the stillness of the morning as the door opened and Steve stomped out. Something along the lines of "No school's gonna give a scholarship to a discipline case!". And just like that, their poor version of a conversation seized to exist by the single slam of a car door. Almost immediately, the car sped off, swerving around the parking lot like a maniac before disappearing. You stood in shock as Steve held his two middle fingers up at the abandoning vehicle. It was not a home life you would have pictured for King Steve. It was a rather unexpected display you had witnessed, but to Steve, it seemed like any other day. He jogged up the stairs, hands in his jacket pockets and sporting a healing split lip, looking so unaffected by the argument that you almost convinced yourself that you had imagined it.

He paused on the step behind you, finally noticing that you were there, but only for a split second, barely sparing you a glance before moving straight past you and through the doors. You felt heaviness in your chest. No "hello." Even a simple smile would have done. But you supposed they were reserved for his real friends. Sure, you and Steve knew each other - you had friends from the same group, and you had been to a few of his parties, but you hadn't even held a proper conversation with the guy - just dribs and drabs of small talk here and there, but he was nice.

Thoughts of Billy flashed through your mind. It seems as though Billy's appearance at his party the other day had left him wanting nothing to do with you. You understood why, Billy had caused quite the scene over nothing. But there was no reason why you should be punished for his actions. You shook the thoughts out of your head. It was nothing that you should dwell on, so you continued on into the school.

The halls looked strange without their usual morning bustle. The squeak of your sneakers against the freshly waxed floor echoed as you made your way to the school library. You could hear Steve's fast pace ahead of you. His blue, straight-legged jeans and pristine Nike sneakers strode out of your sight until you were left in silence. The silence felt so loud that it rumbled from the high ceiling. You were so sure it was the cause of the last light flickering at the end of the hall. Continuing forward, you took the first left and proceeded straight until you reached the double doors at the end. A flimsy banner hung from the tiled ceiling, "HAWKINS TIGERS ALL THE WAY," with a decent enough illustration of the school mascot, threatened to fall. You treaded lightly as you moved beneath it, holding your breath in fear that any sudden movement would cause it to fall down on you. You released it when you made it safely to the other side.

Your fingers traced along the lockers as you walked, reading the bits and pieces of graffiti as you went; 'Fuck this shit, I'm out' in scrawled handwriting, 'I hate Mondays' with drips of black paint streaking down some of the letters, and a cartoonish depiction of a weed leaf smoking a blunt which made you chuckle. You walked past a trophy case, eyeing the splendid totems of athletic and academic prestige alike. A picture of the basketball team in all their glory on the top shelf, another of the cheerleading squad, yourself included, and a grainy image of the physics club haphazardly chucked on the bottom. Your white sneakers squeaked once more as you pivoted to the right before making a final left to the pine doors of the library.

Before you were six tables placed into two rows of three, with three chairs sitting snugly behind each one. You were surprised to see Nancy 'goodie two shoes' wheeler sat at the front table, with her perfectly permed hair and fur-lined jacket still on her shoulders. You didn't think it was possible for Nancy Wheeler to get detention, but then again, the same could've been said about you. Steve had strangely enough sat on the same table as her, despite every other seat being completely free, leaving an empty chair between them so as not to make it weird. Neither of them spoke to each other and instead opted to sit in silence, fiddling with their finger nails or a loose thread on their jumper. As you took your first foot in, a tall, lanky girl with short, dirty blonde hair sped past you, mumbling a quick sorry when she nearly knocked you off your feet. This unorthodox first impression of the girl, who you had only ever seen around the school halls, had commenced quite the distaste for her already. She was red-faced and sweaty, carrying her thick winter coat over her elbow, undeterred by the chilly weather. The whites of her eyes almost blended with her rosy cheeks, bloodshot like she was holding back tears. She had been in a rush to get here and away from whatever had made her upset. You imagined that's what you must have looked like this morning, and you almost started to feel a little sorry for her. She took the middle table on the left side, dumping her coat on one chair before hiding her face in her arms. If you hadn't known any better, it looked as though she was trying to fall asleep on the table.

You made your way to the table to the right of hers, taking the seat on the furthest side. You kept your coat on for now but dumped your bag on the chair beside you. With a huff, you rested your head in the palm of your hands, watching the back of Nancy and Steve's heads.

The heavy weight of the library door forced its hinges to fold and close impulsively, and Eddie slipped through the crack before it closed all the way, because god forbid he wasted his energy on something as measly as opening a door. The pride in his face when he reached the other side was as if beating the door was life or death. Like he was Indiana Jones rolling under a trap door to avoid being impaled by spikes. All he needed was a wide-brimmed fedora.

You tensed at the sight of him. You had heard rumours that he was a Satan worshiper and that he would do casual rituals on the weekends. You didn't believe it, of course, Eddie was all bark and no bite, but that didn't make you feel any easier around him. Eddie was not a good person. He had been caught one too many times trying to sell weed to freshman because they were 'naïve and easy to upsell' or trying to get them to join his little Hellfire Cult. He would spit and hiss at the teachers, setting up traps in unsuspecting students' lockers, or even straight up stealing their locks so their personal belongings were out for anyone to see. He was like a snake. Once he caught his prey, he was coiling around it, pulling himself into it. Constricting, suffocating, waiting to ascertain it was truly dead before taking a bite. His scales came in the form of clinking enamel badges, and his words were the venom dripping from his tongue. To put it lightly, he was one big bully - a miscreant.

His kleptomaniac fingers touched practically everything he walked by: picking up flyers and not even bothering to read them before dropping them to the floor, unhooking the phone from the receiver so it dangled limply from the checkout desk, and pocketing a few pencils that are no doubt going to end up missing because Eddie Munson has never brought a pencil to school a day in his life. He walked slowly, confidently, giving everyone in the room time to become aware of his presence. You could feel him eyeing you up when he walked by. You met his stare like an owl, following until you couldn't turn your head any further. You weren't going to let him intimidate you and you wanted him to know it. It was the first time you had seen him wearing something other than his usual hellfire shirt and leather jacket. He had the same dark, denim jeans with the holes in the knees and once white reeboks, only this time he wore a black t-shirt with a thick winter coat in a matching colour. Red, plaid fabric peaked out from the confines of his coat. Sensibly, he had worn a shirt over top as an extra layer to keep warm. His footsteps were wide and languid as he moved to his seat, dumping himself on the table behind you and untangling his scarf from around his neck.

Just as everyone settled in, Principal Richard Higgins strode in, stopping dead centre in the mouth of the passageway between the two rows of tables. You tried not to laugh. Principal Higgins was a sight to behold, swapping his usual grey suit and tie for flamboyantly bright pink t-shirt a size too small for his pot belly, a casual white blazer, a pair of jeans and bold coloured sneakers. You didn't notice until now that he had the figure of a lollipop, round on top, but stick thin on the bottom. You understood now why he always wore a suit; it evened him out a bit. Though he did confirm the rumour that teachers were definitely not normal.

He glanced at his fancy watch. "I would first like to congratulate you all for being on time." Though it sounded more sarcastic than sincere.

He seemed to be looking straight at Eddie as he said that. Eddie only responded by kicking his feet up on the desk.

"Now, it is 8:02am. You have exactly eight uneventful hours to spend in each others company." He began pacing up and down the aisle with his chest puffed out in intimidation (well, as intimidating as a lollipop shaped man could be), slapping Eddies feet down as he did.

"You many not talk, you may not move from your seats -" He stopped at the weird girl who had nearly knocked you over and slapped a hand on the desk. She shot up with a gasp. "And you may not sleep."

"Today," He continued, marching to the front, "we're going to try something different. I want all of you to - uh?"

Principal Higgins dropped a stack of notebook paper on the nearest table and then made his way for the pot of pencils on the checkout desk. He paused in confusion when he saw the pot was empty; every pencil hiding snuggly in Eddie's pocket. You rolled your eyes as Eddie snickered behind you. There was a long pause of awkward silence as Principal Higgins made his way around the desk in search of more pencils. There were a few quiet grunts of effort and then a "Ah ha" before he appeared back in front.

"Right, I want all of you to write me an essay of no less than one thousand words describing to me who you think you are." He began handing out paper and pencils to everyone. "And when I say essay, I mean essay. Not a single word repeated a thousand times. Do you understand, Mr. Munson?"

"Mr. Munson understands, Principal Higgins." Eddie said.

Higgins ignored him. "Maybe you'll learn something about why you're here, and perhaps you'll decide whether or not you care to return."

Silence.

"I'll be across the hall in my office. Any monkey business is ill-advised. Questions?"

You saw Steve shake his head and catch Nancy shaking hers like she couldn't believe this was happening to her.

Principal Higgins gave one solid nod to confirm that question and answer time was over before making his way towards the library doors.

"Yeah, I got a question."

He took a pause, hand clenched firmly on the door handle as he twisted around. He raised his brow at Eddie, already sick and tired of his antics.

"Does Don Johnson know that you raided his wardrobe?"

There were a few snickers, including you, trying to discreetly cover your mouth to hide your smile. Principal Higgins was undisturbed. There wasn't a thing Eddie could do or say that would insult him. At least, that's what he wanted him to think.

"You'll find out the answer to that next Saturday. Mr. Munson. Do you have anything else you'd like to say to impress these people?"

Eddie smirked, leaning across the table and clasping his hands. He accepted the challenge, staring the Principal dead in the eye. "You got any naked pictures of your wife?"

The Principal's face turned red, and he referred to him with a hateful look in his eyes. "You've just earned yourself another Saturday detention, Mister." He pointed.

His eyes scoured the room, looking for anybody else who would challenge him. "Does anybody else want to join him?

The laughing stopped.

"Didn't think so."

And with that, he left, leaving the door wide open to give him a straight view of the library through his office window. Eddie chuckled, resting his feet back on the table, clearly proud of the reaction he had gotten.

Then silence.

A lot of silence.

Eddie placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes like he was going to sleep. Nancy began fiddling with her pencil, thinking about how she was going to start her essay. Steve cracked his knuckles, and the other girl (who you had yet to learn the name of) just stared at her paper. You simply sighed, took off your coat, and began daydreaming about all the other ways you could've chosen to spend your Saturday.

The library was by no means modern, but the faculty seemed to have no appreciation for the sort of library they've been given and ungraciously added touches of their own. There was an ugly mix of deep mahogany and grey sheet-metal bookcases, a couple of fake plants collecting dust, and old academic trophies that probably haven't been touched since the sixties. There were posters, some painted, some printed, but most were horrifically Halloween themed, and a rather provocative David Hasselhoff calendar behind the front desk, which the librarian thought no one could see.

Those few times that you had actually stepped foot in the library, you noticed it was never truly quiet. There were always whisperings of students, the whirring of printers, and the clicking of keyboards and typewriters.

But today, a Saturday, with only five students bored out of their minds, it was truly silent.

The library was so quiet that you could practically hear the books ageing. The books consumed the noise, leaving you all in a suffocatingly awkward space of ineloquent glances. Broad daylight struggled to reach the room. Not that the sun was trying to, but the blinds sought out to fight against it anyway. Instead, it was the hanging lights above that lit the maze of a room. The soft lights were enough to put you to sleep. Your eyes were fluttering softly, your head drooping--

"Master of puppets, I'm pulling your strings

Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams

Blinded by me, you can't see a thing

Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream

Master, master!"

Your peaceful almost-slumber was rudely interrupted when Eddie opened his big mouth to sing that god-awful song. You had never listened to it in your life, but would gladly never listen to it again if it meant that Eddie would shut the hell up. You turned around to give him a glare of annoyance, and when you turned back, you noticed that the others had done the same. He peeked out through one eye, smirking at the look on everyone's faces, before continuing, only this time he was humming instead. Thank god.

"Shit!" Eddie sprang up, feet down, sitting up straight and alert. He startled you, and you turned again. "What are we supposed to do if we gotta take a leak?"

He pretended to undo his zipper, the childish act making you roll your eyes. "If you gotta go, you gotta go."

"Oh my god." Nancy looked like she was going to throw up. She turned and shielded her eyes.

"Try it, and you're dead before the first drop hits the floor." Steve threatened.

Eddie laughed, accomplishing his mission of upsetting the others. "You know, you're pretty sexy when you're angry, big boy."

He turned his attention to the quiet girl sat adjacent to him. She shifted under his gaze.

"Hey Buckley," She turned with a look of boredom, like she was used to his antics, "why don't you go and close that door so I can get our little cheerleader here naked?"

You almost gave yourself whiplash with how quickly you turned to glare at him. "Don't even think about it asshole."

"Why you a virgin?"

"Fuck you."

"You're disgusting." Nancy added.

"Awe, I'm sorry, you feeling left out, Princess? There's plenty of me to go around. But I suppose if you don't want to wait your turn, I wouldn't say no to a three-way."

"Ugh, you're such a creep!"

"Listen, man, if you piss me off, you're totalled." Steve defended the two of you, though you felt it was more for Nancy's sake than yours.

"Totalled?"

"Totally."

"Just ignore him, Steve. Maybe he'll go away." Nancy suggested, placing a hand on his shoulder to turn him to face the front.

There was a pause. Their shoulders relaxed when they had thought Eddie had given up.

"Oh, so are you two like boyfriend/girlfriend?" Eddie teased.

No reply.

"Steady dates?"

Silence.

"Lovers?"

Nancy continued to ignore him, but Steve smouldered with anger.

"Tell me, Princess, have you two played hide the sausage yet?"

"GO TO HELL!"

"Hey, keep it down in there!" Higgins called from across the hall.

He rolled backwards on his office chair until the five of them came into view. They were all seated exactly how he left them. He rolled back out of sight.

Everybody visibly relaxed.

Eddie hid the shock of Nancy's outburst behind another annoying smirk.

"Just ignore him, guys." You advised. "He's only doing it to get a rise out of you."

"Sweetheart, you couldn't ignore me if you tried." He gave you a confident wink.

You hated that it made your cheeks flush with heat. You quickly turned before you gave him something else to tease you over.

"We gotta close them doors. How are we supposed to party with the old pinhead checking us out every two seconds?" Eddie stood from his seat and moved towards the doors.

"I don't think that's a good idea. The doors are supposed to stay open." This 'Buckley' opened her mouth for the first time since she's got here. Everybody looked at her bewildered.

It was only Eddie who didn't seem phased by this, but he still paused. "What do you mean 'supposed to'?"

"Vernon said, Dingus, and I really don't want to get on his bad side. I mean, Mrs. Clickety Clackety is already threatening me with suspension, and I can't afford that. How am I supposed to get accepted into any sort of college if I get suspended. They'll think I'm a horrible student, and I'll be one big massive reject and--"

"Whoa, Robin, slow down." Steve interrupted her breathless rambling. You were struggling to keep up with each word. She was talking so fast. Just total word vomit, like she'd been trying to keep it down since she got here and suddenly just projectiled everywhere. It didn't even occur to you then that Steve knew her name.

"So?" Was Eddie's only blunt reply.

"So, why don't you just shut up." Steve scowled. "There's four other people in here, you know? Stop thinking about yourself for once."

"Wow, you're a math wiz, Sporto. I bet you know your ABCs, too. See, I knew you were smart. You hide it well, Harrington." Steve grimaced at that. "I mean, let's face it, you gotta be smart to play basketball."

"Who are you to judge?" Steve challenged. "You don't even count. If you disappeared forever, it wouldn't make any difference. You may as well not even exist at this school."

There was a twitch in Eddie's eye. He hated how that got to him, but he recovered swiftly. "Oh? Well, maybe I'll join the basketball team or the wrestling team? Or better yet, the student council, I think you'd like some of the ideas I have in mind for this place."

He moved slowly, intimidatingly to Steve's table, stopping in front of it before leaning down so he towered over Steve. He reminded you of an adult reprimanding a little boy. But Steve wasn't a little boy. He could hold his own.

"You could try, but they'd never take you."

"Damn, I'm hurt. truly." Eddie was definitely not hurt.

"Will you just stop? If you keep this up, Higgins is gonna come storming in here. I've got a game next Saturday, and I'm not gonna miss it because of you."

"Wouldn't that be a bite? Missing a whole game." Eddie feigned sympathy.

"You wouldn't know anything about it, Freak. You've never competed in your life."

"I know, and I feel all empty inside because of it." Eddie puffed his chest as if his heart was swelling with pride. "I have such a deep admiration for guys who toss balls into laundry baskets."

"Whatever, man. You don't have any goals."

"See, that's where you're wrong, I do have goals." Eddie paused in suspense, and Steve perked up a little in his seat. "My goal is to be exactly like you."

Steve slumped back and rolled his eyes. "You're worthless."

"I compete." Robin added after a beat. All eyes turned to her. You could tell she didn't like that much, but she continued anyway. "I'm in band, and I'm on the debate team, and I'm in the Latin club and chess team. This one time, with the debate team, we had this big banquet at the Hilton and we had to get dressed up. And, uh, I didn't have any shoes so I had to wear my mom's shoes. It was kind of weird because my Nana doesn't like when I wear other people's shoes. But, yeah. It's not athletic, but I compete in a lot of stuff."

"That's not the same, Rob." Steve sighed.

"You have to be a jock to compete?" Eddie confronted.

"I was talking about athletic competition."

"What's the difference?" You questioned. Everyone turned to you this time, but you kept your attention on Steve. You could see the proud smile on Eddie's face out of the corner of your eye.

"What do you mean?"

"What I said."

Eddie's eyebrow raised in amusement, enjoying someone else putting Steve in his place for a change. If he was being totally honest, Eddie didn't really have anything against Steve. Steve's friends, on the other hand, were a different story. Eddie found himself being hounded by Steve's friends more often than not, but Steve didn't actually do anything. But he didn't stop it either. Of all of them, he was the easiest to rile up, and Eddie couldn't help but cease the moment whenever he could.

Steve scoffed but bowed out of the conversation. "You're all fucked."

"Hey man, watch your mouth. There's ladies here remember? They don't appreciate you using a word like FUCK! in front of them." Eddie gestured to you. "I don't know if you know this, big boy, but her mother is a nun!"

It was true that your mother was a religious person, but she was certainly not a nun. "No she isn't."

"Sorry," He turned back to Steve. "Her father is a nun!"

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped your lips. The sound caused a mischievous glint in Eddie's eyes. You hated it.

"Higgins is leaving." Nancy proclaimed suddenly.

Eddie paused with wide eyes like a deer in headlights, not wanting to get caught out of his seat. Everyone looked down the hall in time to see Principle Higgins exit his office, not even sparing them a glance. Eddie proceeded to the doors, peeking his head out to watch Higgins drink from the water fountain at the other end of the hall.

Eddie came back in the room. "We gotta move fast, the scumbag's just filling his tank."

Steve sent Nancy an annoyed look that said 'why did you have to tell him that?', causing her to shy away. She was already thinking the same thing herself. Eddie pulled a chair to the door, stood on it and took a guitar pick out of his pocket. With the guitar pick, he removed a screw from the door spring assembly. He jumped off the chair and the door closed behind him.

"That's not funny, man. Fix it."

"Please fix it." Robin pleaded.

"Am I a genius?" Eddie asked, though it was more of a brag than a question, as he quickly pushed the chair back to its rightful spot.

"No, you're an asshole."

There was a muffled "Hey!" from behind the door and everyone rushed to act as casual as possible. Eddie quickly took his seat, only this time he sat next to you. You tensed uncomfortably, smelling the faint cigarette smoke on his coat. You wanted to smack him for being so stupid. You just prayed that Higgins wouldn't notice he swapped seats.

The door busted open.

"Why is this door closed?" There was fury in his eyes.

Everyone remained silent, avoiding meeting his eyes. Steve turned to look at Eddie as if deciding the best way to rat him out.

Eddie jumped in before he could say anything. "How should we know, we're not supposed to move, right?"

Higgins singled out Steve, obviously noticing how he had looked at Eddie. "Why is that door closed?"

Steve looked to Eddie once again. You were cringing at how obvious he made it. You could feel Eddie shaking his leg under the desk. A nervous habit? Perhaps Eddie was afraid to get caught. Or he was just furious at Steve for even thinking about being a snitch. He lowered his eyes at Steve, a glare that said, 'Go on, I dare you'. Steve backed down.

"We were just sitting here. Like we're supposed to." Nancy answered for Steve, who was taking a suspicious amount of time to reply.

"The wind must've blew it." Robin added.

"It just... closed, Sir." Steve reluctantly agreed.

Principal Higgins eyed Eddie anyway and pointed a thick sausage finger. "This looks like the mindless sort of crap you'd find amusing, Munson."

"I think a screw fell out of it. I heard something that sounded like a screw falling out." Eddie tried to persuade.

"Yeah, right. Give me the screw."

"I don't have it."

"Am I going to have to turn you upside down and shake you?"

"I don't have it, Sir. Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place."

"Give it to me, Munson."

He smiled suggestively. "Where do you want it?"

"With all due respect, Principal Higgins," you interrupted before he made things worse for himself. "Why would somebody steal a screw?"

Eddie looked at you in surprise, but you made it clear to him that you didn't do it because you liked him. Higgins walked back to the door.

"How do your parents put up with you, Munson?"

"They gave up on me a long time ago, Sir." He said it with such sincerity that your heart actually ached for him.

Higgins opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. He realised how pointless it was to go after him. Instead, he went to the door, trying his luck at opening it and hoping it stayed that way. It didn't. He tried again, this time grabbing a chair to hold it open.

"That won't work. The door is way too heavy."

Higgins ignored Eddie. He pushed the chair against the door and let go. It threw the chair across the room, and the door slammed with an echoing bang. There were a few gasps of surprise and snorts of laughter.

Higgins fumed, eyeing the room for a solution. "Harrington, get up."

Steve unwillingly got up from his seat as the Principal directed him to grab one end of a bookcase.

"How come he gets to get up? If he gets up, we'll all get up. It'll be anarchy!"

You elbowed Eddie's side to shut him up. He wasn't making this better for himself, which would no doubt end up with all of you getting punished. The two of them heaved together, and Steve actually ended up doing most of the work. The odd book fell to the floor, nearly tripping them up as they hefted it along slowly. They struggled for a few more minutes to slide the bookcase over to the door. Only when they finally got it in place did Eddie open his mouth again.

"That's very clever, Sir. But what if there's a fire?"

Higgins hadn't thought of that, but he didn't let it show.

"I think violating fire codes and endangering the lives of children is unwise at this juncture in your career, Sir." Robin chimed in and then sunk back in her seat under the Principal's stare.

Higgins turned back to Steve. "Alright, what are you doing with this? Get this outta here, for God's sake! What's the matter with you? Come on!"

Steve wanted to kill Eddie for opening his big mouth and then Robin for supporting him. The two of them struggled again to move it back to its original place. Once done, Steve sat back down with bated breaths.

Principal Higgins started towards Eddie, sweat dripping from his forehead, despite barely lifting a finger. "You're not fooling anybody, Munson. The next screw that falls out will be you."

Eddie muttered under his breath. "Eat my shorts."

"What was that?" Higgins barked.

"Eat. My. Shorts."

"You've just bought yourself another detention, Mister."

"Ugh, I'm crushed." Eddie faked a wince.

"You just bought yourself another."

"Well, I'm free the Saturday after that."

"Another."

"Hmm, beyond that, I'm gonna have to check my calendar."

"Another."

You looked at Eddie fearfully. He was getting absolutely slaughtered by Principal Higgins. Although, no matter how much you dislike him, you couldn't help but be moved by his defiance.

"Cut it out." You whispered to him.

He ignored your plea, keeping up his front. He wasn't going to let this scumbag of a Principal break him. Not in front of the others, and, for reasons Eddie didn't quite understand yet, certainly not in front of you. He dared Higgins to give him another.

"Okay, Munson, your ass is mine for the next two months."

"I'm thrilled."

"You sure would like everybody to think that, wouldn't you? Maybe if you spent more time trying to do something with yourself and less time trying to impress people, you might be better off." Higgins brought his attention back to everyone else. "I'm not gonna put up with any more crap from any of you. Next time I have to come in here, I'll be coming to crack skulls."

He set his threat with a hard, angry glare and finally left the room.

The silence set in once again.

~~~~~

<<<Masterlist // Next>>>

~~~~~

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